The chamber was too still. Firelight flickered across the towering mirror, throwing strange shadows against the walls. In those reflections Oliver could see himself, Harry hunched and pale, Nyx coiled with her star-flecked wings half spread—and Quirrell, stiff as a puppet, his face gaunt, but his eyes carrying a sharp, merciless glint that was not his own.
Then the voice came. Smooth, commanding, older than the professor's trembling frame.
"So… this is the boy."
Quirrell's lips moved, but the words were not his. The chamber thickened with an unseen pressure, and Oliver felt the hairs on his arms rise as if the stones themselves bristled at the sound. Voldemort.
Harry tried to answer, but his voice broke before he could form words. He looked small, smaller than Oliver had ever seen him. Yet he still stepped forward, fists tightening at his sides.
"I won't let you take it," Harry rasped, his voice stronger than his knees.
Quirrell's smile was chilling. "Won't let me?" He raised his wand with a flick as if brushing away dust. "Child, you won't even stand."
The curse came too fast for Oliver to see. A streak of sickly green light hissed across the room. Harry barely managed to duck, but the rebound of magic knocked his wand free. Another spell followed immediately—this one like a hammer of force. It slammed into Harry's chest and hurled him backward. He landed hard against the stone floor, gasping and clutching his ribs.
"Harry!" Oliver shouted, but the boy wheezed in reply, still conscious, but the fight had been torn from him in two strikes.
Quirrell—no, Voldemort—turned his full attention now. His gaze slid past Harry and fixed on Oliver with unnerving focus.
"And you," the dark voice murmured, "the one who keeps meddling. The phoenix's child. The blood of two houses tangled together. I felt it the moment you walked in." His lips curled. "Delicious."
Oliver felt Nyx shift beside him. She hissed low in her throat, wings shuddering with sparks of blue fire. The bond between them thrummed sharp and urgent, like a drumbeat at the base of his skull. He steadied his breath, his hand tightening on the wand that felt heavier than ever.
"You'll have to get through me," Oliver said. His voice didn't waver, though his heart thundered so loud it hurt.
Voldemort laughed. A hollow, cruel echo. "Then you will die first."
The first volley came hard. Red and violet curses shot like whips, cracking through the chamber. Oliver rolled aside, the blasts scorching the stone where he'd stood. He retaliated on instinct—"Expelliarmus!"—but Voldemort flicked it aside with a shield like batting away a child's toy.
More spells rained down. Each was sharper, faster, heavier. Oliver blocked one, ducked another, then was slammed to his knees by the concussion of a third. Nyx shrieked in rage, disappearing in a burst of flame and reappearing behind Voldemort with a sonic cry so piercing that dust shook loose from the ceiling. The echo rattled Oliver's teeth, but it shattered Voldemort's spell mid-cast, forcing him to shield himself with a snarl.
"Impudent beast!" Voldemort hissed.
Oliver staggered back to his feet, panting. He had seconds. His hands shook from the shockwave still buzzing in his bones, but he forced his magic forward. Not enough. He couldn't keep dodging like this. He needed more.
His eyes burned.
He blinked hard, then pushed. Magic surged into his sight, and the familiar pain lanced behind his temples. The chamber warped, and suddenly he saw it—the world revealed not as stone and firelight but as threads of raw power. Voldemort's spells carved jagged red streaks across the air before they even left his wand. The walls of the room hummed faintly with old wards. Nyx glowed like a miniature constellation, threads of magic curling from her like strands of starlight.
And Voldemort—Voldemort was a storm. His aura was a jagged tempest, seething black and red, twisting violently with every breath. His presence was so sharp Oliver nearly gagged on it.
But he could see. He could see where the magic moved, the lines of force before they struck.
The next spell—a crackling lash of green—he sidestepped a heartbeat before it left Voldemort's wand. The stone floor behind him split apart in an explosion of dust. Another curse spiraled toward his chest, but Oliver raised his wand and deflected it with a blast of raw magic, the recoil burning his palm.
"Better," Voldemort sneered, advancing. "But not enough."
Oliver tried to answer, but the dark wizard pressed harder. Bolts of flame, whips of shadow, curses that howled like wolves—all tearing through the chamber. Oliver blocked, dodged, parried, his vision spinning with the intensity of the magical sight. Nyx dove again and again, her sonic cries breaking Voldemort's rhythm, buying Oliver precious seconds.
One strike came too close—an arc of searing purple that grazed Oliver's side. Pain exploded across his ribs. He stumbled, gasped, and nearly lost his wand.
"Oliver!" Harry's voice croaked from the floor. He was crawling toward them, face pale, trying to reach for his wand though it lay far out of reach.
Oliver gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright. "Stay down, Harry!" he barked. His eyes flared again, locking on Voldemort's aura.
The man moved like a shadow, each spell a dagger aimed to kill. Oliver countered one, barely dodged another, and screamed with effort as he sent a blasting curse roaring across the chamber. Voldemort swatted it aside as though brushing ash from his cloak.
"You fight with spirit," Voldemort said, his voice almost amused. "But spirit is nothing without power." He raised his wand again. "Avada—"
Nyx's cry ripped through the chamber like thunder, shattering the incantation. Flames burst as she reappeared above his head, slamming her talons against his shield. For a moment, the storm of his aura wavered.
Oliver lunged forward, firing spell after spell—stunning curses, disarms, even a cutting charm sharpened with desperation. Voldemort dodged with infuriating ease, but Oliver's barrage kept him moving, kept him from focusing.
Then the dark wizard grew impatient. He snapped his wand out, unleashing a wall of force that crashed through Oliver's defense. The boy was hurled backward, slamming into the stone. His wand nearly flew from his hand. He coughed, gasping, spots bursting in his magical vision.
Voldemort advanced slowly, savoring the struggle. "You have talent, boy. You see what others cannot. You burn with potential. But against me…" He raised his wand, eyes blazing. "You are nothing."
Oliver dragged himself to his knees, chest burning, vision still aflame with the swirl of magic. Nyx landed beside him, feathers crackling with faint blue sparks. He rested his hand briefly on her back. The bond thrummed again—strong, alive, steady.
"I'm not nothing," Oliver whispered, his teeth clenched. "Not with her."
Voldemort's smile twisted, mocking. "Then die with her."
Spells flared once more, the chamber filling with fire and thunder. Oliver's breath came ragged, but his eyes stayed lit, his wand raised, every nerve screaming to hold just one more second.
The fight was only just beginning.
Oliver's lungs burned. Each breath felt like fire scraping his throat, but he refused to let the wand fall from his grip. His eyes, still blazing with that sharp, sky-blue glow, traced every jagged ripple of Voldemort's aura. The man was relentless—a whirlwind of curses and counters, each one meant to crush or maim.
Oliver blocked one spell, ducked another, and nearly lost his footing on the third. The wall behind him cracked under the pressure of the blast, showering him with fragments of stone.
"Exhausting, isn't it?" Voldemort's voice dripped with cruel delight as he advanced, each step deliberate. "The more you resist, the sooner you burn out. But I could spare you that pain, child. Power doesn't have to drain you. Power could be yours, if you only—"
"Save it!" Oliver spat, teeth clenched. He fired back a stunning spell, the blue bolt flashing across the chamber. Voldemort deflected it with a lazy flick, the air around him pulsing like a shockwave.
Oliver's knees buckled. He couldn't keep this pace. His vision swam, the magical currents around him twisting tighter, heavier. The aura was starting to blur, as though his eyes couldn't hold the weight of so much magic pressing into them.
Nyx screeched, reappearing in a burst of starfire above Voldemort's head. She dove, her talons raking across his shield in a spray of sparks. The disruption was enough—just enough—for Oliver to stagger upright again. He knew he had one chance. One desperate move.
He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat, then forced the thought into reality.
His body split.
A crackling sensation surged through him, like his magic fracturing and refracting through a prism. His vision doubled—then tripled. When he opened his eyes again, he was staring at himself. Two perfect copies stood at either side, both gripping identical wands, both breathing in sync with his own.
The clones.
They had always been just that—shadows, echoes to distract or confuse. But now, facing death, Oliver felt something different. The clones didn't just mirror him. They pulsed with his magic. They hummed with potential.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed, his smile fading slightly. "Interesting."
Oliver's heart pounded. His mind split into three streams at once, his control stretched razor-thin, but he refused to falter. He raised his wand. His clones raised theirs.
"Now," he whispered.
They struck.
One clone fired a blasting curse—raw, concussive force, bright as lightning.
The other clone unleashed an overcharged cutting charm, sharpened beyond safety, a blade of silver light.
Oliver himself sent out a disarming spell, fueled by every ounce of determination he had left.
Three spells. Three directions. One heartbeat.
Voldemort reacted, but even his reflexes had limits. He swept his wand in a vicious arc, deflecting the cutting charm with a crack of energy—but he couldn't stop the others.
The blasting curse slammed into his chest, hurling him backward with a sickening crack. At the same moment, the disarming spell ripped his wand from his grasp. The dark lord's puppet form hit the floor hard, dust and shards of stone erupting from the impact.
The clones flickered once, twice—and dissolved into smoke.
Oliver screamed as the backlash hit him. Magic tore out of his veins like fire leaving his body. He collapsed to his knees, gasping, his wand trembling in his grip. Sweat poured down his face, his entire body shaking from the drain. The chamber tilted, his magical sight flickering out in bursts of static.
But he had done it.
Voldemort lay sprawled across the floor, momentarily stunned. His wand clattered uselessly against the stone. For the first time in the fight, silence stretched in the chamber, broken only by Oliver's ragged breathing.
Nyx landed beside him, her feathers singed, her glow dimmer than before. She lowered her head, brushing her beak gently against his shoulder, steadying him.
Oliver coughed, then spat blood onto the floor. He wanted to collapse, to let unconsciousness take him, but he forced his head up. He couldn't look weak now. Not in front of Voldemort.
The silence broke.
A laugh.
Low, raspy, echoing through Quirrell's throat yet undeniably Voldemort's. Slowly, impossibly, the man rose to his feet, brushing dust from his robes as though nothing had happened. His eyes burned red, his face twisted in fury—but behind it all was a smile, cold and sharp.
"Impressive," he said softly. "So very impressive. No first-year should wield such power. No child should split himself so… creatively." His head tilted. "But then, you are no ordinary child, are you?"
Oliver's grip tightened on his wand, though his hand shook violently.
Voldemort stepped closer, his aura seething with restrained violence. "You are wasted here. Wasted, scraping for points in a petty school, wasted bowing to weaklings who will never understand what you are. You are the blood of greatness. Dumbledore's legacy in your veins, Grindelwald's brilliance burning behind your eyes. And you dare stand against me?"
His smile widened, almost tender, though it made Oliver's skin crawl. "Join me. I will teach you. I will show you what real magic feels like. With me, you would not be hiding in shadows or cowering before professors. With me, you would rule."
Oliver swallowed hard. Every word sank like poison, digging into the doubts he carried. He could almost see it—power, respect, never again being the orphan with nothing. A place where no one mocked him, no one called him a mistake.
Nyx growled low beside him, her feathers sparking faintly blue. The bond between them pulsed, a firm reminder. He wasn't alone. He never would be again.
Oliver spat blood onto the floor, lifting his wand as high as his shaking arm allowed. "I'd rather burn out my magic than follow you."
The words came rough, but they carried every ounce of truth inside him.
Voldemort's smile thinned. "So be it."
The chamber crackled again, spells lighting up the darkness. The fight was far from over.
The words hung in the air like sparks.
"I'd rather burn out my magic than follow you."
For a fraction of a second, Voldemort's red eyes softened, not with mercy, but with recognition. He had heard defiance before, but there was something different in this boy's voice—something that wasn't bluster or bravado. It was conviction.
And Voldemort despised conviction.
"Then die clinging to your pride," he hissed.
He lashed out, wandless but not powerless, his hand slicing through the air. A wave of black energy surged toward Oliver, faster than a striking snake.
Oliver barely raised his wand in time. A shimmering shield spell formed, but it cracked on impact, splintering like glass. The force hurled him backward into the cold stone floor. His shoulder flared with pain, but he scrambled back to his feet, teeth bared.
Nyx screeched, her feathers igniting with streaks of blue fire. She dove again, sonic waves rippling outward. The blast hit Voldemort square in the chest, staggering him for the first time since he'd risen. The sound reverberated through the chamber, rattling the stone walls.
Oliver felt the echo in his bones. His wand pulsed, and something inside him—what little magic he had left—flared.
He launched another cutting charm, raw and jagged. Voldemort sidestepped, the spell carving a groove into the floor where he'd been.
"You're spent," Voldemort mocked. "Each spell brings you closer to collapse. And yet…" He tilted his head, eyeing Nyx with something like hunger. "That bird. That creature. If you will not join me, then perhaps she will."
Oliver's blood turned to ice. "Don't you dare—"
Voldemort moved faster than Oliver could track, his hand glowing with a curse aimed directly at Nyx.
But Nyx vanished in a burst of flame, reappearing behind him, her screech rattling the chamber. The curse backfired, cracking against Voldemort's own arm, sending a ripple of pain across his face. His fury deepened.
Oliver's chest heaved. He couldn't keep pace with this. Every spell felt like pulling threads from a tapestry already fraying. His vision blurred, and he tasted iron on his tongue.
Then, a voice. Weak, but insistent.
"Oliver!"
Harry.
Oliver turned. Harry was pushing himself upright, clutching his ribs, his face pale but determined. His glasses were cracked, his wand missing, but his eyes burned with the same stubbornness Oliver recognized in himself.
"Don't stop," Harry wheezed. "We—we can finish this."
Voldemort sneered. "The boy lives. How quaint." He advanced, raising both arms. "You think you can stand against me together? Foolish children."
Oliver clenched his wand tighter. He couldn't let Voldemort win—not here, not now.
His thoughts blurred, his body screamed, but then instinct took over. The clones.
He forced the split again. Magic tore through him, shredding what little strength remained. Two more Olivers shimmered into existence, each pale and shaking but real. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it.
"Together," Oliver muttered, the word carrying through all three mouths.
The clones raised their wands.
They struck.
This time, it wasn't random. It was coordinated. One clone unleashed another blasting curse, the second clone fired a chain of stunners, and Oliver himself let loose with every ounce of cutting precision he could summon.
The chamber lit with blue, red, and silver.
Voldemort snarled, conjuring a shield of black flame. The spells slammed into it, sparks exploding outward. The shield held—barely. He staggered, his form flickering, the strain of his half-existence showing.
But Oliver's magic snapped. His clones dissolved in bursts of smoke. He collapsed to one knee, vision tunneling. His chest felt hollow, as though someone had scooped the magic from him with a ladle.
Voldemort laughed again, though his tone was strained. "Impressive… but futile."
He strode forward, towering over Oliver, his aura pressing down like a suffocating weight. "I offer you one last chance. Kneel to me. Accept what you are destined for. You are blood of power. You were born to lead. Join me, and I will raise you above them all. Refuse…"
Oliver spat blood onto the stone. His voice rasped, broken, but steady. "I'll never… follow you."
A flicker of true rage crossed Voldemort's face. He raised his hand, dark energy swirling. "Then perish!"
But before he could strike—
Harry moved.
Quiet, almost forgotten, Harry crept behind Voldemort, his small hands shaking. He reached out, his skin brushing against Quirrell's exposed face.
The reaction was immediate.
Smoke hissed, Voldemort's borrowed body jerking violently. His skin blistered, burning where Harry touched. Voldemort screamed, a sound torn from the depths of rage and agony.
Oliver's eyes widened. The sight was surreal, horrifying—and an opportunity.
He forced himself upright, dragging on the last ember of magic inside him. His wand felt like lead, but he raised it, every ounce of will funneling into one spell.
A cutting charm. Clean, precise, final.
"Diffindo!"
The silver light burst from his wand, slicing through the air with deadly accuracy. Voldemort twisted, but too late. The charm struck across his neck.
For an instant, silence.
Then his head jerked back, his body collapsing, unraveling as the wraith inside tore free.
Oliver staggered, falling to his knees again. His wand clattered beside him. His chest heaved, every muscle trembling.
The wraith—dark, twisted, screeching—rose from Quirrell's ruined body, eyes glowing with malice. It lunged for Oliver, a final desperate strike.
Oliver had no strength left. He could only watch as the shadow descended.
But Nyx was faster.
With a scream that shook the chamber, she launched upward, her wings igniting in galaxies of blue flame. She dove, mouth wide, and swallowed the wraith whole.
The darkness vanished into her, the flames flaring so bright Oliver had to shield his eyes. Her cry echoed, a mix of victory and agony, the sound tearing through Oliver's chest.
And then—silence.
The flames sputtered. Nyx crumpled midair, crashing to the ground. Her body lay still, feathers dulled, glow extinguished.
"No."
Oliver's voice cracked. He crawled forward, dragging himself across the floor. His fingers trembled as he reached for her. "No, no, no—Nyx, get up. Please."
She didn't move.
Tears blurred his vision. His chest convulsed, a sob tearing loose. He gathered her limp form in his arms, rocking back and forth. She was warm, but too still. Too quiet.
"You can't leave me," Oliver whispered, voice breaking. "You're my—my only—"
The words dissolved into choking sobs.
Harry staggered closer, his own face pale and horrified. "Oliver…" he whispered, but the word felt empty.
The chamber smelled of ash and blood. The silence pressed in, suffocating.
Oliver held Nyx tighter, his tears soaking her feathers. His chest ached, not from magic, but from grief sharp enough to split him apart.
His best friend. His bond. Gone.
And in that silence, the chapter ended.