The owls descended like a storm that morning. Hundreds of wings beat against the air as the Daily Prophet made its way into the Great Hall at Hogwarts and beyond, to every manor house, cottage, and flat across Britain. Wizards and witches unfolded their papers over steaming mugs of tea or goblets of pumpkin juice, only to nearly spill their drinks as their eyes fell upon the headline written in bold, dramatic ink:
"Heir of Two Legacies?
The Bloodlines of Dumbledore and Grindelwald Live On!"
The article beneath was unmistakable. A boy, a first-year student at Hogwarts, had been revealed by "trusted sources" at Gringotts to carry the blood of both Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald. His name was printed in large, elegant script: Oliver D. Night.
Within minutes of the Prophet's arrival, Britain was in an uproar. At Malfoy Manor, Lucius Malfoy's cup of black tea trembled in his hand. He read the words twice, three times, his pale eyes narrowing with every pass. Narcissa leaned over his shoulder, lips pursed
"Impossible," Lucius muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. "If this is true—"
"If?" Narcissa cut in sharply. "The Prophet would not risk such a claim without evidence. Look at the detail, Lucius. This is no rumor."
Lucius turned on his son with a snap of his cloak. "Do not speak of that bird outside these walls. Do you hear me? Not a word. If he truly carries those bloodlines, then Britain may not be safe for him—or for us."
Elsewhere, the Parkinson family held whispered discussions in their parlor. The Notts sent urgent letters by owl, summoning allies for late-night meetings. Even the Lestranges, still reeling from Azkaban's grip, managed to pass word through sympathetic cousins. Every pureblood house, whether loyal to the Ministry or skeptical of it, was suddenly caught in the same question: What does this mean?
Some feared a second Grindelwald, rising from the ashes of blood and power. Others wondered if Dumbledore himself had been hiding an heir, and what that would mean for Hogwarts and the Wizengamot. Still others began to speculate whether this boy could unite the two greatest magical lineages in living memory. If so, could alliances with him restore lost influence? By mid-morning, it wasn't just tea that was spilling in parlors across wizarding Britain—it was fear, envy, and desperate ambition.
But the shock did not end with bloodlines. Within hours of the Prophet's release, a second revelation swept through the wizarding public like wildfire. Someone—whether a clever bookseller or a quick-thinking reader—made the connection. Oliver D. Night, the child named in the Prophet, was the same Oliver D. Night who had just released a new book: Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief.
At Flourish and Blotts, the line stretched out the door. Witches clutched copies of the slim, half-galleon-priced book, some bought for children, others for themselves. "A story by the boy of two legacies!" they whispered excitedly. "Imagine what secrets are hidden between these pages—prophecies, perhaps, or visions disguised as fiction!" Within hours, every copy was gone. By evening, reprints were already in demand.
The publishers, gleeful at the sudden frenzy, sent owls to Oliver's guardians—though Oliver himself had no idea of the chaos brewing. By the day's end, the boy who only weeks ago had been mocked by his peers now stood, unknowingly, as Britain's newest literary sensation. One hundred thousand galleons richer overnight, and still the flood of sales showed no sign of slowing. Britain was already ablaze with speculation; the rest of the world had yet to find out.
Meanwhile, far from the chaos, Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel sat in their peaceful French home, oblivious to the storm across the Channel. Their evening was quiet, serene. Nicholas leaned back in his chair, sipping a cup of fragrant tea, while Perenelle set a small music box on the table. It opened with a soft chime, releasing a familiar melody—the recorded voice of Oliver, his young notes weaving into the air with a gentleness that made them both smile.
"He has such a gift," Perenelle murmured, resting her chin on her hand as she listened. "Not just for magic, but for this. For touching the heart."
Nicholas's eyes crinkled in agreement. "Indeed. The world may yet come to know him for more than one craft."
Their calm was suddenly broken by a heavy knock at the door. Before either could rise, the door swung open, and Madame Olympe Maxime filled the doorway, towering and formidable in her sweeping robes. In one massive hand, she clutched a rolled newspaper.
"Have you seen this?" she demanded, her deep voice carrying urgency. She unfurled the Prophet and slammed it down on their table. The bold headline stared up at them, the ink stark in the lamplight.
Nicholas blinked, his teacup slipping from his hand and crashing to the floor. Perenelle gasped, the music box silenced in the commotion. Both of them leaned over the page, their eyes widening at the words.
"Oliver…" Perenelle whispered, her voice trembling.
Maxime's sharp gaze flicked between them. "Britain is in uproar. The boy is being painted as a danger, a symbol, a weapon. If you do not act, the Ministry will. They will not see him as a child—they will see him as a threat."
For a long moment, silence reigned. Nicholas and Perenelle exchanged a grave look, their years of wisdom carrying the same conclusion. The world was already stirring, and Oliver's name was on every tongue. He could not face this storm alone.
Nicholas rose slowly, his expression hardened with resolve. He lifted his voice, clear and steady, calling into the still air of their home.
"Nyx!"
The air shimmered at once, dark blue flames bursting into being, rippling as though the stars themselves had been called down. The black phoenix appeared, her feathers flecked with light like galaxies, her eyes burning with their sky-blue glow. She lowered her head to them, her presence filling the room with quiet strength.
Madame Maxime straightened, her expression grave but respectful. Perenelle pressed a trembling hand to her chest, then stepped closer.
"Take us to him," Nicholas said firmly.
Nyx spread her wings, the faintest hum escaping her throat, a sound that resonated like the promise of flight. Light and shadow mingled across the walls as her feathers caught the lamplight.
The Flamels and Madame Maxime stepped forward, ready to leave their peaceful home behind and stand by Oliver's side.
The black-blue phoenix gave one final, echoing cry, and in a burst of starlit flame, the three figures vanished.
The starlit flames that had swallowed the Flamels and Madame Maxime collapsed inward with a soft rush, leaving nothing but the faint scent of ozone in their cozy French parlor. For a moment, the house stood quiet again, the music box overturned and the spilled tea staining the rug as if frozen in time. But the three who had stood within the phoenix's wings were already far away.
Nyx's cry echoed faintly as the starlight expanded again above the grounds of Hogwarts. The familiar silhouette of the ancient castle loomed against the night sky, its towers and turrets etched in pale silver by the moonlight.
Nicholas, Perenelle, and Maxime stepped forward, brushing off the faint glitter of starlight still clinging to their robes. The moment their feet touched the ground, Nyx vanished with a final shimmer, leaving behind a silence almost as heavy as the Prophet headlines that had driven them here.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. The castle windows glowed with warm light, children moving behind them unaware of the storm swirling outside their walls. Somewhere, owls carried more newspapers, more whispers, more fire to the frenzy.
It was Perenelle who finally broke the silence. "He will be frightened," she said softly, her gaze never leaving the great oak doors of the castle. "Or worse, he will pretend not to be. Either way, we must be here for him."
Nicholas nodded, though his expression was grim. "The boy has already carried too much on his shoulders. Now the whole of Britain has decided to lay its weight upon him as well."
Madame Maxime folded her arms, her towering figure casting long shadows across the lawn. "Britain will tear him apart if you do not act. Their Ministry is clumsy at the best of times. In the face of fear, they are ruthless." She paused, her dark eyes narrowing. "I do not believe they will wait long before making a move."
Nicholas glanced at her, then back toward the castle. His hand curled lightly into a fist. "Then we must ensure that any move they make will not be without consequence. If Britain believes it alone may decide his fate, then Britain is mistaken."
A soft rumble of agreement came from Perenelle, though her eyes shimmered with something gentler than resolve. "For him to be thrust into such a light at eleven years old… He will not see it now, but this moment could define his life. He must not be left thinking he is alone."
Nyx reappeared suddenly above them in a flash of dark flame, circling once before landing lightly on the grass. Her eyes glowed, the pale sky-blue gaze scanning each of them as if urging haste.
Perenelle reached out, her hand brushing along the sleek feathers of the phoenix's neck. "Yes," she whispered. "We are coming."
The bird let out a low hum, and Nicholas straightened his back, his gaze hardening with quiet determination. "We came as guardians once," he said, his voice carrying the calm gravity of centuries. "Perhaps now it is time to be family."
The castle doors creaked open in the distance, and the night wind carried with it the muffled chatter of students leaving the Great Hall. Somewhere inside, Oliver D. Night sat unaware of the shadow Britain had cast upon him, unaware of the storm gathering momentum in the wider world. But he would not be unprepared for long.
Nicholas adjusted his robes, Perenelle took a deep breath, and Madame Maxime loomed behind them like a wall of steel. Together, they began to walk toward the castle.
Above them, Nyx spread her wings, her feathers glimmering faintly with starlight, as if she too understood the gravity of what was to come.