Dinner in the Great Hall had never felt so loud, and yet so suffocating. The enchanted ceiling glowed with a dusky winter sky, speckled with stars, but no one seemed to notice the beauty overhead. Whispers swarmed the long tables like restless bees, carrying fragments of the Daily Prophet article from one mouth to another. Heads turned, voices dropped, and Oliver felt the weight of it all pressing down on him.
He sat at the Gryffindor table, shoulders squared though his fork barely touched the roast on his plate. He could feel the stares as sharply as needles—some hostile, some curious, all unrelenting. Across from him, Hermione shot a glare at anyone who lingered too long, while Harry muttered darkly under his breath about how people should mind their own business.
Ron, for his part, sat several seats down, his jaw tight and his ears red. His silence did not come from shame but from smoldering resentment, the kind that had been brewing since their clash earlier. He looked everywhere but Oliver's way.
"Let them stare," Hermione whispered firmly, stabbing her fork into a baked potato. "It'll pass."
Oliver gave the barest shrug. He wasn't so sure it would. Rumors had a way of sticking, like ink spilled across parchment—never fully fading, no matter how much you tried to blot them out.
The buzz of the hall dipped for only a moment when the sound of wings filled the rafters—owls swooping in with the evening post. Most of the deliveries were the usual: letters from home, packages wrapped in paper. But one owl descended with a flash of scarlet clamped in its beak, swooping low over the Gryffindor table.
The second the letter hit the table in front of Ron, the Great Hall froze. Everyone recognized that shade of red.
Hermione's eyes widened. "Oh no…"
Ron's face blanched. His hand hovered over the envelope as if it were a bomb about to explode.
The envelope burst open with a sharp rip, and Molly Weasley's furious voice erupted, magnified so that every person in the hall could hear.
"RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!"
Ron flinched so hard he nearly toppled off the bench.
"I HAVE JUST HEARD FROM YOUR BROTHERS WHAT YOU SAID TO THAT POOR BOY, AND LET ME TELL YOU, I AM APPALLED! APPALLED!"
Every head in the hall turned, all eyes fixed on Ron, who had sunk halfway under the table. His freckles stood out stark against his scarlet face.
"IS THIS HOW I RAISED YOU? TO INSULT SOMEONE WHO HAS ALREADY SUFFERED SO MUCH? TO BULLY INSTEAD OF SHOWING KINDNESS? FRED AND GEORGE WERE QUITE CLEAR ABOUT WHAT YOU DID, AND I CAN PROMISE YOU, YOUNG MAN, YOU WILL BE DEALT WITH WHEN YOU COME HOME FOR THE SUMMER!"
The twins sat a few seats down, looking insufferably pleased with themselves, arms folded in identical smugness.
Molly's voice thundered on, rattling the silverware. "I EXPECT BETTER OF YOU, RONALD! YOU HAVE BROUGHT SHAME ON THIS FAMILY TONIGHT. SHAME!"
The letter ended with a loud, sharp snap before curling into smoke.
Silence reigned for a heartbeat. Then, the hall erupted—laughter, whispers, gasps. Ron buried his face in his hands, wishing the floor would swallow him whole.
Hermione muttered something about Molly being right, though her voice softened with sympathy. Harry winced, but his eyes flicked toward Oliver, who sat motionless, lips pressed in a thin line. He didn't gloat, didn't smirk—though part of him, buried deep, felt vindicated.
Before anyone could recover from the drama, the great doors to the hall groaned open. The creak echoed across the stone chamber, halting the laughter mid-breath. Students twisted in their seats to see who would dare interrupt dinner so theatrically.
Filch, looking paler and more rigid than usual, shuffled in. But no one cared about him. Behind him stepped Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel, Madame Maxime sweeping gracefully at their side, and Nyx, her sky-blue eyes glowing like captured stars.
The hall gasped. A ripple of murmurs surged like a wave.
At the Gryffindor table, Oliver finally moved, his lips quirking into a smirk as his eyes found Nyx. He leaned slightly back, voice low but edged with wry amusement.
"So that's where you went," he murmured.
Nyx gave a soft, resonant trill, as though answering him directly.
The Great Hall exploded with noise
The Great Hall had never been so alive with murmurs, gasps, and whispers. It felt as though every enchanted candlelight flickered in time with the mounting anticipation. Students leaned across benches, teachers stiffened at the staff table, and even the ghosts drifted closer as if compelled to witness.
Filch, clearly uncomfortable at being overshadowed, hovered by the doors, wringing his hands. But he wasn't the spectacle. Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel, world-renowned alchemists, swept forward with regal calm. Madame Maxime, towering and composed, moved beside them like a silent shield. And behind them, Nyx glided with deliberate grace, her star-tipped wings glowing faintly as she cast a look over the assembled crowd.
The hall buzzed. Why are they here? The Flamels? At Hogwarts? What does this mean for Night?
At the Gryffindor table, Oliver straightened his back, his smirk fading into something steadier—an acknowledgment that this moment mattered more than any rumor or whisper. Nyx moved to his side, perching elegantly behind him, her presence silencing even the boldest students.
At the head table, Dumbledore rose with a measured calm. His eyes, though twinkling, held gravity. "Nicholas. Perenelle. Olympe. Your presence here is… unexpected."
His words, though polite, carried the tension of one blindsided. The staff shifted uneasily, their surprise unmasked. McGonagall's lips tightened, Flitwick's brow furrowed, and even Sprout looked bewildered.
Nicholas Flamel inclined his head, his voice steady but carrying across the hall with remarkable clarity. "Albus. Forgive the intrusion. But our presence tonight is not one of idle visit. We come with purpose—and it is important that all hear it."
The whispers rose again, students clutching each other's sleeves, teachers exchanging looks.
Perenelle stepped forward, her poise graceful, her tone unwavering. "For months, we have been close to young Oliver. We have watched him grow, mentored him, and cared for him. And now, we are here to make plain what should be beyond question: he is no longer without family."
The hall erupted. Gasps. Shouts. Questions overlapping until the room became a sea of noise.
Dumbledore raised his hand, and silence fell reluctantly. "Perenelle…" His tone was softer now, almost cautious. "What are you saying?"
She lifted her chin. "We are saying, Albus, that as of today, guardianship of Oliver Night is being transferred from Hogwarts to ourselves. The papers are already moving through the proper channels. The Ministry of France has recognized our claim, and as such, we stand here not as visitors, but as his family."
The words struck like lightning.
The Gryffindor table burst with exclamations—Fred and George pounding the table in approval, Hermione gasping, Harry's mouth falling open. Even Ron, still pink from his mother's Howler, gawked. The Slytherin table hissed with disbelief, a few sneering while others muttered uneasily. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws whispered furiously, unable to decide if this was scandal or miracle.
Oliver felt the breath catch in his throat. Though he'd known the Flamels cared, hearing it declared aloud in front of the entire school sent warmth flooding through him. For the first time in his life, the word "family" wasn't something distant or theoretical. It was real.
Dumbledore, however, kept his composure, though his hands clasped tightly at his front. "That is… quite the announcement," he said gravely. "But such matters are not usually discussed in public. Perhaps you would join me, along with Oliver, in my office—where we might settle this in private?"
Nicholas inclined his head. "Of course. Privacy will serve us all well. But it was necessary that the children and the staff know, so that there is no mistake about where Oliver stands."
Madame Maxime gave a single nod, her deep voice following, "And so there is no mistake about where we stand, too."
The words were heavy, deliberate, and they left ripples of tension rolling across the room.
Dumbledore gestured toward the staff table, his voice carrying above the whispers that swelled once more. "Very well. Let us adjourn. Oliver, you will come with us."
Oliver rose, feeling every eye in the hall burn into him. Nyx trilled softly, brushing his shoulder with a wingtip as if to remind him he wasn't walking alone.
As the Flamels, Maxime, and Oliver followed Dumbledore toward the doors, the hall buzzed with a thousand new questions. The whispers followed them like shadows, but Oliver walked straighter than he ever had before.
For once, the name they whispered—his name—did not feel like a burden. It felt like the beginning of something greater.