The walk to Dumbledore's office was strangely silent. The murmurs from the Great Hall had faded behind them, yet Oliver could still feel their weight pressing at his back like a hundred eyes tracking him. Nyx padded along beside him, her talons clicking softly against the stone floor. From time to time, her luminous blue eyes flicked toward him, calm and steady, as though to remind him that he wasn't alone.
Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel walked just a step ahead, their posture regal and unflinching, with Madame Maxime towering behind like an unspoken declaration of legitimacy. Even Filch, who trailed reluctantly behind after guiding them in, seemed subdued in the wake of their arrival. For Oliver, the entire procession felt more like a trial than a meeting.
When they reached the griffin statue, Dumbledore murmured the password, and the spiral staircase carried them upward. Inside, the office glowed in the warm light of floating candles and crackling fire, though the atmosphere was thick with unease. The staff followed them in—McGonagall sharp-eyed, Snape unreadable, Flitwick almost twitching with curiosity, and Sprout watchful and firm.
Two Phoenixes waited in the office. Fawkes sat serenely on his golden perch, feathers gleaming like living fire. Nyx padded forward, leapt, and settled on the armrest of Oliver's chair, brushing her wing against his shoulder as if claiming the space for her own. The soft hum that vibrated from her chest was immediately answered by Fawkes with a mellow note, and the resonance of both birds filled the chamber, carrying a solemn authority that quieted even Snape's habitual sneer.
Dumbledore gestured for everyone to sit. "It seems," he said gently, "that tonight will require clarity above all else."
Nicholas Flamel did not waste time. From his cloak, he withdrew a neat stack of parchment bound with a silvery ribbon that glowed faintly. He laid it on the desk between himself and Dumbledore. "We did not come here to stir gossip, Albus," he began, his voice calm but edged with formality. "We came to resolve an uncertainty—one that affects the boy sitting beside us."
Perenelle leaned forward, her eyes soft when they rested on Oliver but steel when they flicked to Dumbledore. "This is no simple visit. These are documents prepared and recognized by the French Ministry of Magic. They declare Oliver D. Night our heir and place him under our guardianship."
Gasps rippled among the staff. Flitwick squeaked out something like, "Merlin's beard!" before catching himself. McGonagall's brows arched, though her composure didn't break. Sprout looked both baffled and intrigued. Only Snape scoffed under his breath, muttering something about "interference from abroad."
Dumbledore's fingers steepled beneath his chin. His expression remained composed, but his eyes glimmered with something restless—frustration, perhaps, or resignation. "Guardianship is not a matter usually settled without discussion," he said, his tone light yet firm. "You bring papers, yes, but they hold meaning only if the boy himself accepts what they represent."
At this, Nicholas nodded gravely. "Precisely. Which is why we are not here merely to inform you, Albus, but to ask Oliver."
Every eye turned toward him. Oliver felt his throat tighten. He'd grown used to attention in recent months, but this was different—the sort of scrutiny that weighed down like chains. His hands curled into fists on his knees until Nyx leaned into him, her wing pressing more firmly against his side.
Perenelle reached across the table, her hand gentle as she set it near Oliver's trembling one. "Oliver," she said softly, though her words carried across the room with unmistakable authority. "Nothing is binding until you give your word. But we ask you now, before your teachers, before your headmaster—would you accept us as your family? As your grandparents, in name and in truth?"
The question landed with such force that Oliver almost stopped breathing.
He had imagined family before—dreamt of parents who'd never come, of guardians who would whisk him away from the cold walls of the orphanage. But to hear it asked aloud, sincerely, as though the choice were his alone… it shattered something inside him. His chest burned. His throat clenched. And then, before he could stop himself, tears blurred his vision.
"Yes," he whispered. Then louder, with a choked sob that startled even Snape into silence: "Yes! I want that!"
Nyx trilled, a sound as bright as bells, and brushed her beak into his hair. Perenelle rose and wrapped him in her arms, pressing his head against her shoulder like a true grandmother. Nicholas placed a steady hand on his back, silent but solid.
For the first time in his life, Oliver felt wholly claimed.
The teachers looked on, a spectrum of reactions across their faces. McGonagall's lips pressed together tightly, but her eyes glistened faintly. Sprout dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. Flitwick beamed outright, muttering, "Marvelous… absolutely marvelous." Snape alone kept his sneer, though it faltered beneath the presence of both Phoenixes filling the room with their hums.
Dumbledore finally stirred. His face, normally so inscrutable, showed the barest crack—sorrow, regret, and something Oliver could not name. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, stripped of its usual whimsical cadence. "I had hoped," he admitted, "to stand as family to you myself. Perhaps… perhaps even as a fatherly figure. But I see the choice was made before I dared to act."
The words stung. Yet Dumbledore did not let the silence linger. He leaned forward, his blue eyes locking with Oliver's tear-bright ones. "Might there still be room," he asked softly, "for an uncle?"
Oliver sniffed, wiping at his cheeks with his sleeve. The rawness in his chest still ached, but something steadied in him. "Yes," he said firmly. "Family forgives. And… I'd like that."
A flicker of relief passed over Dumbledore's face, though it was tempered with melancholy. For a moment, he seemed less the grand headmaster and more an old man grateful not to be left behind.
Nicholas cleared his throat, shifting the moment back into formality. "Then let it be understood," he said, his voice carrying like a gavel's strike, "that Oliver D. Night is no longer alone. He is our heir, our grandson, and under the protection of the Flamel legacy."
Perenelle added firmly: "And the French Ministry has recognized this. Any attempt to interfere with him now would be seen as an international insult."
Maxime, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, her deep voice echoing. "Beauxbatons itself stands as witness. France will not allow Britain's Ministry to meddle further with this child."
The weight of her declaration settled heavily in the room. McGonagall inclined her head slightly in respect. Sprout nodded with approval. Flitwick nearly bounced in his chair, muttering about protections and precedents. Even Snape, though scowling, said nothing—a rare concession.
Oliver sat straighter, Nyx perched proudly at his side, her feathers shimmering like a piece of the night sky. For the first time, he didn't feel like an outcast or an orphan. He felt like someone worth protecting.
And yet, in the corner of his eye, he saw Dumbledore watching with quiet sorrow, as though the victory of Oliver's new family was also his own quiet defeat.
Oliver wiped the last of his tears as the room settled again. The hum of Nyx and Fawkes had faded into a calm silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire. Nicholas squeezed his shoulder once more before pulling back.
Dumbledore cleared his throat softly. "Oliver," he said, his voice warm again but with an edge of formality. "We are grateful for your honesty tonight. But there are matters yet to be discussed that do not concern you directly. For now, I ask that you and Nyx return to your common room."
Oliver blinked, startled. He wasn't used to being told to leave when things were just getting interesting. But the steady looks from both Perenelle and Nicholas reassured him. Perenelle smoothed his hair back like a grandmother might, murmuring, "We'll be with you shortly. Go on, little one. Rest. You've done more than enough for today."
Reluctantly, Oliver rose. Nyx fluttered from her perch and landed neatly on his shoulder. He gave one last glance at the Flamels, then at Dumbledore—whose eyes softened, even if something heavy lingered behind them—before he slipped out the door.
The office door shut quietly, and the moment it did, the air inside shifted. The Phoenix song had been soothing, but now what remained was the crackle of fire and the sharp weight of unspoken thoughts.
McGonagall was the first to speak. "Albus," she said tightly, "what, precisely, have we just witnessed? Guardianship by the Flamels is no trivial matter. They've tied their legacy to a boy who—by your own silence—clearly carries secrets none of us have been told."
Flitwick adjusted his spectacles, his voice unusually sharp. "Indeed. International guardianship, adoption into their line… Do you realize what this means? He's untouchable now, at least politically. The Ministry won't dare cross them."
Sprout folded her arms. "And that's for the best, isn't it? The Ministry has done nothing but hound the child. Perhaps it's time someone put a stop to it."
Snape let out a low, disdainful hiss. "You're all blind. A boy with powers awakening at this rate, tied to creatures we don't understand, and now adopted by the most infamous alchemists of our age. If you think that doesn't set the Ministry on edge, you're fools."
Dumbledore raised a hand, silencing the room. His gaze was steady, though shadowed by fatigue. "Severus is not wrong. Oliver is now both shielded and scrutinized more than ever before. Which is why you must understand what lies beneath all this."
He leaned back, folding his hands. His eyes, normally twinkling with warmth, carried only sorrow now. "You all suspect it. I will confirm it: Oliver carries Dumbledore blood. He also carries Grindelwald's."
The silence was absolute.
McGonagall's lips thinned to a white line. "Impossible," she whispered.
Flitwick's mouth fell open, and for once, no words followed.
Sprout shook her head as if to dispel the thought. "But… how?"
Snape's eyes narrowed, cold and calculating. "Explain."
Dumbledore's face was pale. His voice, however, remained steady. "Years ago, after my sister Ariana had already passed, Gellert Grindelwald performed a ritual. A foolish, reckless experiment, one I never knew he attempted until too late. He used her blood, her essence, in a desperate act… and combined it with his own."
McGonagall looked stricken. "Albus… tell me you—"
"I did not participate," Dumbledore cut in firmly, though guilt weighed his tone. "But I learned of it. And I have carried the burden of that knowledge for weeks." He paused, breathing heavily for a moment before continuing. "Oliver is the result of that ritual—though how the magic sustained and carried itself across time, I cannot yet say."
Snape's sneer returned, though fainter. "So the boy is not merely a curiosity. He is proof of Grindelwald's folly given form."
"And of Ariana's bloodline," Dumbledore added softly. "He is… my nephew, in a way. However twisted the path that brought him here."
The staff exchanged uneasy glances. McGonagall closed her eyes briefly, then said, "Does he know?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "Not yet. And he cannot—not until I am certain it is safe. For now, let him believe in the family he has chosen. He deserves at least that."
Nicholas and Perenelle, who had been silent through this exchange, finally spoke. Nicholas' voice was calm but sharp. "We are aware of the weight Oliver carries. That is why we claimed him. Not only for his sake, but because Britain will not protect him as he deserves. France will. We will."
Perenelle added, her gaze icy as she looked around the staff: "And if any here think otherwise, they may remember that he is ours now. And we will not allow him to be treated as a pawn."
The fire cracked loudly in the silence that followed.
Dumbledore finally nodded, as though conceding the point. "Very well. But you must all understand: this changes everything. Hogwarts has not merely gained a student under guardianship. It has gained the heir to two legacies thought ended. And the world will not ignore that for long."
The meeting dissolved into hushed conversation, the teachers wrestling with implications, some fearful, others calculating, while the Phoenixes sang faintly in the background—two ancient voices acknowledging a future none of them could yet see.