The Gryffindor common room door had barely swung shut behind Professor McGonagall when the whispers started. The group of Gryffindors she had marched back from the Great Hall was still simmering with the aftershock of Oliver's punch, and Ron trudged behind them, red-faced, clutching his chin where blood had stained the collar of his robes.
The room's firelight cast warm hues across the students' faces, but none of them looked particularly kind when their eyes darted toward Ron.
"Honestly, Ronald," Hermione burst out first, unable to contain herself as she rounded on him. Her curls shook with the ferocity of her glare. "What on earth were you thinking? You've gone too far this time. Calling him that—how could you?"
Harry stood stiffly beside her, his face pale with anger, his fists still balled. "He's supposed to be our friend," Harry said. "You didn't just insult him, you tried to tear him down in front of everyone. And for what? Because he's had it rougher than us and is finally finding his place?"
Ron's ears went crimson. He shifted his weight awkwardly, muttering, "I just said what everyone else is thinking. He—he's dangerous. You heard the article—"
"You shut it, Ron," Fred cut in, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. He and George stood together at the back, arms folded in mirror images. Neither was grinning now. "We saw the whole thing. You pushed and pushed until he snapped. You're lucky all you got was a fist in the jaw."
"Too right," George added. "And don't think for a second Mum won't be hearing about this. We're writing her tonight."
The words hit Ron harder than Oliver's punch had. He turned to them, horrified. "You wouldn't—"
"We would," Fred said grimly. "We don't stand for this kind of behavior. Oliver's our mate, and you treated him like dirt. Even if he wasn't, even if he was just some Slytherin across the hall, we'd still call you out. You embarrassed us, Ron."
Hermione's lips pressed into a thin line of agreement. "Fred and George are right. It's one thing to argue, but what you said… you can't take that back. You don't even understand what kind of wound you dug into."
Ron looked from one face to another, desperate for someone to defend him. But all he saw were cold stares and disgusted frowns. The younger Gryffindors whispered in the corner; even Seamus and Dean, who had often joked around with Ron, avoided his gaze.
He tried to laugh it off, a hollow, bitter sound. "So that's it then? You're all taking his side over your own housemate? Over your own family?" His eyes snapped to the twins again, wild with disbelief. "You're supposed to be my brothers."
George's expression softened for only a fraction of a second, then hardened again. "Brothers or not, Ron, there are lines you don't cross. You crossed them tonight. You called someone a mistake, and you did it to a bloke who's already had to live through worse than you could imagine. We won't stand for it."
Ron's chest heaved. He opened his mouth to retort, but no words came. He felt cornered, betrayed. With every angry glare directed his way, the pit in his stomach grew heavier. They're all bewitched. They must be. Oliver's already gotten to them.
That thought alone kept him from shattering completely. As Hermione huffed and turned away, muttering about writing to her parents as soon as she could, Ron muttered darkly under his breath, "It's him. He's twisting you all. You'll see. You'll see soon enough."
No one answered him. The silence that followed was louder than any argument could have been.
McGonagall, standing with her arms tightly crossed, finally spoke up. Her tone was like steel. "Enough." She looked at Ron, disappointment etched deep into her features. "You will serve detention for your behavior, Mr. Weasley. And if I hear even a whisper of further insults or antagonism, I will not hesitate to recommend suspension of certain privileges. Am I understood?"
Ron swallowed hard, nodding stiffly.
"Good," McGonagall clipped out. "Now, the rest of you—bed. We've all had enough drama for one night."
The Gryffindors dispersed reluctantly, the fire crackling loudly in the heavy silence that remained. Ron lingered by the stairs, watching the twins and Harry move away from him without a backward glance, feeling more alone than he had ever felt in his life.
It's his fault, he told himself. All of it. Oliver's fault.
Meanwhile, across the castle, Oliver sat in Dumbledore's office.
The silence between them was thick, oppressive. The soft ticking of the headmaster's peculiar silver instruments filled the room, punctuated only by the occasional flicker of the fire.
On a golden perch near the desk, Fawkes preened calmly, while Nyx sat nearby, her sky-blue eyes glowing faintly in the dim candlelight. The two phoenixes occasionally glanced at one another, as though communicating in ways neither wizard could understand.
Oliver sat stiff-backed in his chair, his fists clenched against his knees. He was still buzzing with the heat of his anger, but now that he was here, alone with the headmaster, a new emotion tangled with it—confusion.
Dumbledore, on the other hand, looked older than Oliver had ever seen him. His half-moon spectacles slid low on his nose as he rubbed his temple wearily.
At last, the headmaster broke the silence. His voice was low, carrying none of its usual whimsical lilt. "Oliver," he said softly, "there are matters I must confess to you. Matters I had hoped to introduce under gentler circumstances."
Oliver lifted his eyes, wary. "This about the Prophet?" His voice was tight.
"In part," Dumbledore admitted. "But the article was… premature. It revealed truths that I had only recently confirmed, truths that I ought to have shared with you myself." He looked toward the phoenixes, then back at the boy. "You see, when you summoned Nyx, I began to suspect something extraordinary. The bond between a wizard and a phoenix is rare. In all recorded history, such bonds have only formed within my own family."
Oliver's breath caught. He remembered the sneers, the whispers, the Prophet's words blaring in black ink: heir of Dumbledore and Grindelwald.
"You mean you already thought I was—"
"Yes," Dumbledore interrupted gently, his voice filled with regret. "I suspected. But suspicions are not truths. So I did what I thought necessary. I went to Gringotts. I conducted an inheritance test."
Oliver sat frozen. The words hung in the air like a storm cloud ready to break.
"You… you went without me?" he asked finally, his voice trembling with a mixture of shock and anger.
Dumbledore's shoulders sagged. "As the guardian appointed to oversee the welfare of children such as yourself—those without families—I am granted certain authorities. I believed it was my duty to know, for your safety."
Oliver's fists clenched tighter. "For my safety?" His voice cracked as his anger broke through. "You could've told me. You could've asked me to come with you. Do you have any idea what it's like—wondering, every day of your life, who your parents were? If they even cared? And now I find out you already knew, and you didn't even think I deserved to be there when you learned the truth?"
The words echoed in the office, raw and unfiltered.
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly. "You are right," he admitted. "I should have involved you. My caution blinded me."
Oliver blinked hard, his throat tight. He leaned back in his chair, staring at Nyx's glowing feathers as though they might anchor him. "You had no right," he whispered. "No right to take that moment away from me."
The silence returned, heavier than before.
At last, Dumbledore said softly, "I thought… perhaps… that in Nick and Penny you had found the family you sought. They care for you deeply."
Oliver's lips trembled. His voice broke when he spoke again. "I don't deny that. They're amazing. They've given me more than anyone else ever has. But… but it's not the same. I've always wanted to know what it was like to talk to a parent. To know why I was abandoned. To understand." His eyes brimmed with tears, and he blinked them away furiously.
"They'll always have a place in my heart. Maybe someday they'll even call me family, and I'll call them the same. But right now… right now they're my mentors. My guardians. And I love them for that. But it's not the same."
Nyx let out a soft hum, leaning her head toward Oliver as though in comfort.
Dumbledore watched, the weight of Oliver's words pressing down on him like a mountain.
The fire snapped in the grate, its flickers the only sound between them. Oliver sat rigid in his chair, Nyx shifting gently behind him, the faint brush of her feathers against his shoulder a reminder that he was not alone, even here.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, studied him quietly. Behind the half-moon glasses, his eyes carried layers of regret and something else—an emotion Oliver couldn't quite name, though it pressed into the silence between them like a presence of its own.
At last, Dumbledore leaned forward, resting his long hands on the desk. "Oliver," he said softly, "there is no excuse for the choice I made. In my attempt to act as protector, I stole from you something precious. The knowledge of your own heritage should never have come to you through gossip, nor the press, nor even through me alone. It should have been yours to discover in your own time."
Oliver's jaw tightened, but he kept his gaze steady. "Then why didn't you let it be mine?"
"Because," Dumbledore admitted, his voice heavy, "I was afraid. You are awakening gifts most wizards can scarcely dream of. Nyx herself is proof of that. And when such power rises in one so young, the world often responds with fear before understanding. I wanted to be ready—ready to shield you from those who would twist your origins into a weapon against you."
Oliver let out a bitter laugh. "Funny, because that's exactly what happened. And I had to hear it with everyone else staring at me like I'm cursed."
The headmaster winced. For once, his words seemed to falter. "Yes," he murmured. "I failed you there. I underestimated how quickly secrets spread when gold and power are involved. It seems the goblins could not resist temptation, no matter the oaths sworn."
Oliver turned away, staring into the fire. His throat ached, and he bit down hard to keep his voice steady. "You keep talking about protecting me, but you don't even trust me. You treat me like I'm too fragile to handle the truth. I'm not. I've lived in that orphanage long enough to know I'm not fragile. I just wanted… one thing to be mine. One answer that wasn't ripped out of my hands before I could hold it."
Nyx hummed again, a low, vibrating note that filled the office with a resonance more felt than heard. Across from her, Fawkes ruffled his crimson-gold wings and trilled softly, the two phoenixes weaving a quiet harmony that seemed to underline Oliver's words.
Dumbledore watched them for a moment, then spoke with a gravity that softened his tone. "You are right. I did not trust you as I should have. And in doing so, I hurt you. For that, I am deeply sorry."
Oliver blinked, surprised at the simplicity of the apology. He had expected justification, excuses, more riddles. Instead, the headmaster's words came plain and unadorned.
The boy shifted in his chair, discomfort and anger still simmering, but now tangled with something else. "Sorry doesn't change anything," he muttered. "You can't take it back."
"No," Dumbledore agreed. "I cannot. But I can listen now. If you wish to know more—about the test, about what I found, about what it means—I will tell you. Not as headmaster. Not as guardian. Simply as someone who owes you the truth."
Oliver hesitated. His fists unclenched slowly. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it, not yet, not when his heart still burned with betrayal. But he forced himself to nod, just once.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Tell me."
Dumbledore inclined his head. "The test at Gringotts confirmed your lineage, as you already know. Blood of my family. Blood of another line as well—one steeped in shadows and history alike. But blood is not destiny, Oliver. It is merely a thread. You are not defined by the deeds of those who came before you. Only by the choices you make."
Oliver's eyes flashed. "Easy for you to say. You've always had choices. I've had nothing but other people deciding things for me."
The old wizard flinched again, though he masked it quickly. "Then perhaps it is time," he said softly, "to let you decide for yourself."
Oliver frowned, suspicion cutting through his hurt. "Decide what?"
"Who you will be," Dumbledore said simply. "Not who others believe you are destined to become. Not what the Prophet writes, nor what your classmates whisper. Who you, Oliver, choose to be. That is your inheritance, greater than any bloodline."
For a moment, Oliver had no words. He looked at Nyx, at her glowing eyes that seemed to hold entire galaxies, and felt a flicker of strength ripple through him. The anger inside him shifted, tempered by the reminder of everything he had already chosen: to make music, to write stories, to build friendships, to keep fighting even when the world told him he was nothing.
He sat straighter. His voice steadied. "Then stop keeping things from me. If you really think I get to choose, then let me do it with everything on the table."
A small smile tugged at Dumbledore's lips, faint but real. "That is fair," he said. "And I will honor it."
The two phoenixes sang again, a soft duet that filled the office with warmth. For the first time all evening, Oliver let his shoulders drop, the firelight catching the trace of moisture in his eyes.
Silence lingered once more, but it was different now—less like a wall, more like a fragile bridge just beginning to take shape between them.
When Oliver finally rose to his feet, Nyx unfurled her wings in unison with Fawkes, the two phoenixes glowing side by side in quiet solidarity.
Dumbledore stood as well, watching him closely. He wanted to say more, to promise more, but he held his tongue. Instead, he offered a nod, gentle and resolute. "Thank you, Oliver. For your honesty. And for your courage in facing me with it."
Oliver met his gaze one last time. His voice was low, but steady. "Just don't lie to me again."
Then he turned and left, Nyx trailing behind him, her feathers brushing softly against the frame of the great oak door as it closed.
Dumbledore remained still in the quiet office, Fawkes humming a low, thoughtful note. His heart ached with the weight of truths yet unspoken, but for the first time in many years, he felt a fragile ember of hope stirring.