Hermione's voice shook before the staff even cleared the threshold of Dumbledore's office.
"I–it wasn't Oliver's fault! Ron—Ron dragged us! He said we needed to prove it, that we needed to go down there and stop Quirrell ourselves. Harry tried to stop him, and I—I tried too, but he wouldn't listen. Please, Headmaster, you have to believe me!"
Ron's face went red, his mouth snapping shut under McGonagall's glare. The professor's lips were drawn so tightly they looked bloodless. She did not speak, not yet, but her eyes said enough.
"Merlin's beard," Flitwick muttered. "Children, meddling where they should not—"
"Children," Madam Maxime interrupted, her great frame trembling with alarm, "or no children, zis is no time for scolding. If Quirrell is after what I zink 'e is after, every second counts."
Dumbledore was already moving. His expression, lined and severe, left no room for hesitation. He swept past the gaggle of students and teachers, his robes billowing like storm clouds. "Come," he commanded. "There will be time for punishment later. Now, there is only prevention."
The hall erupted into motion. McGonagall shepherded the pale and trembling Hermione to the rear of the group. Snape's stride was clipped, his eyes glittering with fury not just at Quirrell, but at the utter recklessness of children. Maxime kept close behind Dumbledore, her wand drawn, her presence filling the corridor. And trailing with dignified urgency were Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel, their faces masks of steel, though Oliver caught the way Perenelle's hand clenched white around her wand.
They descended into the bowels of Hogwarts swiftly, bypassing wards . What had been a trial of cleverness and fear for children was, to the professors, nothing more than an inconvenience.
Fluffy still slumbered in the antechamber, bewitched into docility by Dumbledore's murmured spell. "Stay," the headmaster intoned, and the monstrous heads obeyed, their jaws slackening into snores.
The Devil's Snare writhed in agitation when the group dropped down into its waiting embrace, but Sprout's voice was sharp and commanding: "Enough of this foolishness." The tendrils froze, then retreated into the soil, leaving the way open.
Keys clattered angrily against the stone walls when they entered the chamber of winged locks, but Flitwick lifted his wand, whispered a string of sharp syllables, and the enchanted flock fell still, suspended like insects in amber.
The chessboard loomed, its black and white armies shifting ominously. McGonagall herself stepped forward, her voice low, her wand tracing runes Oliver didn't recognize. The massive figures froze mid-step, their weapons falling harmlessly to the floor. The path cleared.
And at last, they reached the chamber of flames. Violet and emerald fire licked the archways, pulsing hungrily. Ron gave a small, strangled sound, though he tried to mask it with a cough. Hermione pressed her lips together, fists white at her sides.
Dumbledore raised his hand. "Finite."
The flames died instantly, the chamber yawning open like the throat of some beast.
Every adult lifted their wand. Every child held their breath.
Ashes. A pile of them, scattered across the flagstones as though someone had upended an urn. And beside them, kneeling, clutching at nothing, was Oliver himself.
"Coward! You think this makes you strong? You think breaking a child's bond proves you're powerful?" His voice cracked, but he forced it louder, spitting the words. "She was worth more than you'll ever be, Voldemort! Do you hear me? More than you!"
Each word echoed against the chamber walls. His small shoulders shook with fury, with grief too raw to conceal. His fists dug into the stone until his nails split. The ashes did not stir.
Oliver screamed again, ragged and guttural, not magic, not music, only pain.
The adults froze. The Flamels moved first, Perenelle darting forward, Nicholas close behind, their faces pale as death. McGonagall raised a trembling hand to her mouth. Even Maxime, towering and composed, looked stricken, as if she had been forced to witness the breaking of something sacred.
Dumbledore's expression was unreadable. Ancient grief flickered behind his eyes, but his voice did not waver. He gestured silently, halting the others. He would not let them crowd the boy, not yet.
Oliver rocked forward, his forehead nearly touching the ground, tears dropping into the ashes. His words faltered, softening into a whisper, but they were no less bitter.
"You were my light," he choked, "and he took you away. You—you trusted me, and I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry, Nyx. I'm so sorry."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
That was when Dumbledore finally spoke. His voice was soft, but it carried to every corner of the chamber.
"There is beauty in life," he said, "but also sorrow in death. Yet in that sorrow, sometimes, lies a miracle."
The chamber held its breath.
And Oliver, broken and trembling, lifted his head, tears blurring his vision, not yet understanding what the headmaster meant.
Dumbledore's eyes glimmered as if they carried both sorrow and hope. His hands folded neatly on his wand, and when he spoke, his voice carried the timbre of something more than words—it was the weight of knowledge borne from a lifetime of grief and rare grace.
"Phoenixes," he said softly, "are among the most mysterious creatures in our world. Their flames warm, but they also purify. Their song heals, but it also carries judgment. And their lives… their lives are not linear, as ours are. When a phoenix meets the end of one cycle, it does not end. It transforms."
Oliver stared up at him, tears trembling on his lashes. "You mean…?" His voice cracked with disbelief, as if he feared hope more than despair.
Dumbledore inclined his head. "Yes. Death, for a phoenix, is not final. It is a prelude."
McGonagall exhaled sharply, a sound between a sob and relief. Flitwick wiped at his spectacles, his hands shaking. Sprout clutched her robes as though steadying herself against the truth.
Nicholas Flamel reached for Oliver, laying a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. "Listen to him, lad," he said quietly. "Phoenixes are fire and starlight. They rise when all else falls."
But Oliver's eyes were fixed on the ashes. His throat worked. "And if she doesn't come back?" His voice was small, terrified, the plea of someone who had already lost too much.
Dumbledore's gaze softened. "Then she would be the first of her kind not to do so. But I do not believe Nyx intends to make history in such a way."
The silence stretched. And then—
A sound pierced it.
Not loud, not overwhelming, but piercing enough to silence every breath in the chamber: a low, quivering note, halfway between a hum and a screech. It carried sorrow, but not defeat. Grief, but not despair. It was the sound of an answer.
Oliver's head snapped up. "Nyx?" His voice cracked on the name.
The ashes stirred. A faint shimmer of blue-white light trembled above them, like heat haze on a summer road. Then—like fabric tearing in the air itself—a crack split open above the pile, jagged and luminous. Inside that fissure, starlight shimmered, galaxies blooming in miniature, a window into infinity itself.
The teachers gasped. Maxime's massive frame actually stumbled backward a step. Perenelle pressed her hands to her lips, her eyes wide with wonder and dread. Nicholas's grip on Oliver's shoulder tightened as though to anchor him.
From the crack spilled flame—not red or gold, but dark blue, like midnight itself had ignited, glittering with flecks of silver like stars. The ashes rose, caught in the current, and swirled upward as though drawn into the void. The crack snapped closed with a sound like a sigh, leaving silence in its wake.
For a terrible heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then—
A smaller crack shimmered into being, just above Oliver's head. And from it tumbled a tiny, feathered shape, barely larger than a fist. Its downy feathers glowed faintly with blue fire, constellations winking in and out as though struggling to anchor themselves.
The chick gave a soft, indignant chirp—then promptly settled onto Oliver's unruly hair, curling up as though it had always belonged there.
The chamber erupted in gasps.
"By the stars…" Sprout whispered.
Flitwick clapped his hands to his mouth, tears springing unbidden to his eyes. McGonagall pressed a hand to her chest, her face stricken and softened all at once.
Perenelle openly wept, tears streaking down her cheeks, while Nicholas's stoic face cracked into something radiant, a smile so wide it seemed to shave years off him. "Rebirth," he breathed, almost reverently. "She has come back to him."
Oliver's body trembled, his hands rising as though in a dream. The chick chirped again, rubbing its tiny head against his temple. He choked on a sob, laughter breaking through the tears. "Nyx," he whispered, "you came back. You really came back."
The chick blinked at him with those sky-blue eyes, already bearing the faint trace of infinity within them. For the first time since she had died, Oliver felt warmth flood his chest—not the fragile warmth of hope, but the steady blaze of truth.
The chamber filled with voices, overlapping relief and awe. Maxime muttered in French, half prayer, half praise. Sprout spoke of miracles. Flitwick babbled about recorded cases of phoenix rebirth, none of them anything like this.
Only Dumbledore remained silent, his eyes fixed not on the chick, but on Oliver himself. His expression was unreadable, but in his silence was the kind of weight that came with realization. Perhaps Grindelwald had been right, he thought fleetingly, in that strange conversation: perhaps there was something in Oliver's blood that bound him to flames eternal.
Still, when Oliver looked up at him, tears streaking his cheeks but a fragile smile trembling on his lips, Dumbledore only inclined his head. "She chose to return to you," he said softly. "Never forget that."
As the murmurs quieted, Oliver cradled Nyx in his palms, staring at her as though she might vanish again if he blinked. He leaned down, pressing his forehead gently to her tiny head. "I thought I lost you," he whispered. "But you weren't gone. You were just… waiting."
Nyx chirped, soft and melodious, and Oliver swore he heard her voice not in his ears but in his heart: Always.
His throat tightened. He smiled through the tears.
The teachers began herding the students out, their voices subdued with awe. The Flamels lingered close, unwilling to leave Oliver's side until they were certain the boy believed his miracle. McGonagall muttered something about never having seen anything like it in all her years.
Only Snape remained apart.
He stood near the back of the chamber, his face shadowed, his black eyes unreadable. As the others fussed and consoled and celebrated, his gaze was fixed on the boy and the tiny bird nestled in his hands.
A phoenix reborn. Life from ashes. Fire refusing to fade.
Snape's throat tightened. Against his will, against the armor he wore so carefully, his mind pulled him backward. To a girl with green eyes. To laughter that had once filled his heart. To a death that had been final, irrevocable, without rebirth or second chances.
Lily.
There was no rising for her. No ashes from which she would return. Only the memory, only the grief that had hollowed him out for decades.
Snape exhaled, sharp and bitter. His eyes flicked to Oliver again—the boy who had brought back a creature thought lost forever, who had defied even death for a moment.
He turned away, his robes billowing behind him. His face betrayed nothing, but inside, the echo lingered.
Life and death. Rebirth for some. Eternal loss for others.
And for Severus Snape, the wound that would never heal.