The march to the hospital wing was a silent one. The corridors of Hogwarts had never seemed so long or so heavy with expectation. Every step echoed, not with the usual playful chatter of students, but with the weight of what had just happened beneath the school. Oliver kept his head bowed, Nyx's absence like a ghost against his shoulder. Harry walked close to him, pale but determined, his scar still faintly red from whatever presence had pressed against him in the chamber. Hermione clutched her robes tightly at her chest, her face streaked from tears she hadn't yet wiped away.
Ron lagged behind, dragging his feet as though the stones themselves wanted to hold him back. His eyes were narrowed and sulking, darting anywhere but toward Oliver.
When the hospital wing doors swung open, the usual sterile calm was shattered by Madame Pomfrey's shriek.
"Merlin's bones! What have you children done this time?"
The mediwitch swept toward them, her starched apron flaring like wings, her wand already flashing diagnostic charms. Her eyes roved over Harry first, gasping at the signs of magical backlash on his skin. She clucked disapprovingly.
"And you—look at you, pale as parchment! Nearly drained of magic, I can see it plain as day!" She jabbed her wand toward Oliver before he could protest. "What in the name of heaven were you doing?"
Oliver tried to speak, but she waved him off, already bustling toward Ron. Her eyes caught the faint shimmer on his lips—the trace of Nyx's tears. Pomfrey's sharp intake of breath was audible to the entire room.
"What is this? Phoenix tears?"
The question struck the assembled staff like lightning. McGonagall stiffened, her eyes darting toward Oliver. Dumbledore's brows furrowed ever so slightly, but he remained silent. Nicholas and Perenelle exchanged a knowing glance, their expressions unreadable.
Ron squirmed under Pomfrey's scrutiny. "It—it was the bird. She… she cried on me."
The mediwitch gaped. "Phoenix tears on a student—" Her voice was strangled with alarm and awe. She spun away, muttering something about medical records and urgent monitoring, before storming off toward her cupboards to fetch an armful of potions and instruments.
The hospital wing was momentarily still, save for the soft crackle of the hearth. The students were ushered into beds by the adults, who positioned themselves in a semi-circle like judges waiting to hear testimony. Oliver sat stiffly, his fingers twisting in his lap, the weight of every eye upon him.
It was McGonagall who broke the silence. Her voice was gentle, though no less sharp for it.
"Mr. Night… we need you to tell us everything."
Oliver swallowed hard. His throat felt raw, but he forced the words out. "It started with Quirrell." His voice wavered, but once the first sentence left his lips, the rest poured forth.
He described the enchanted harp he conjured from his guitar to lull Fluffy into slumber. The adults exchanged tense glances but did not interrupt.
He spoke of Devil's Snare, how Nyx had flared her flames to drive it back. Pomfrey, who had returned with armfuls of tinctures, froze mid-step. The word phoenix flames sent a ripple of awe through the room.
When he spoke of the keys, Harry leaned forward, chiming in quietly, "I flew for the right one. It… it wasn't too bad, honestly." His voice cracked a little, but the adults nodded, absorbing each detail.
Oliver's tone hardened as he recounted the chess chamber. He told them how Ron had insisted on leading the game, but how Oliver, impatient and unwilling to risk it, dismantled the enchanted pieces with transfiguration and alchemy combined. McGonagall's lips pursed, but Oliver pressed on.
It was when he reached the potion puzzle that the room grew utterly silent.
Oliver's voice trembled. "I told them we should stop there. I knew the answer—at least, I was sure of it—but I didn't want anyone else hurt. It was too dangerous." He glanced toward Harry, then Hermione. "I thought maybe if we stopped, we could wait for help. But Ron…"
Hermione burst in, her voice shaking. "He pushed Harry into the fire! He shoved the bottle into his hands and told him to trust him—he didn't even know if it was right!"
Harry looked down, ashamed, but nodded. "She's telling the truth. I didn't want to go. But Ron pushed me through, and… somehow, it worked. The potion resisted the fire. I made it through."
Gasps rippled across the room. McGonagall's hand went to her chest. Flitwick's eyes went wide. Even Perenelle Flamel pressed a hand to her lips, aghast.
Oliver's voice darkened. "He could've killed him. If it had been the wrong potion—" He cut himself off, shaking his head, fury and grief burning in his eyes. "We were lucky. That's all."
The professors didn't speak. Their silence was damning.
He pressed on.
The duel. Quirrell's trembling body, his faltering spells. The voice—Voldemort's voice—speaking through him. Harry's brief attempt to fight, quickly cut short. And then the spells—spells that Oliver hurled like his life depended on it, which it did.
When he described splitting into three versions of himself, each casting at once, Flitwick's tiny gasp filled the room. "Simultaneous spellcasting from multiple projections…" His voice was barely audible. "Impossible—or so we thought."
Oliver glossed over the exhaustion, the collapse, but his voice cracked when he spoke of Nyx.
"She fought with me. She screamed for me. And when he—when he tried to attack, she… she swallowed his curse whole. And then she—" His breath hitched. He stopped, choking on the memory of ashes. His fists clenched in the blanket, his nails biting into the fabric.
The silence stretched. Even Ron shifted uncomfortably, his guilt momentarily breaking through his sulk.
Harry finally whispered, "She came back."
Oliver looked up, blinking, his vision blurred by tears. Harry's voice steadied, even though he still looked pale and shaken. "We all saw it. The fire, the stars, and then the chick… she came back."
Nicholas Flamel's gaze softened, a mixture of relief and reverence. Perenelle squeezed her husband's hand.
Dumbledore leaned forward at last, his long fingers steepled. "Thank you, Oliver. You have given us much to consider."
His voice was measured, but there was no hiding the storm of thought behind his eyes.
Madame Pomfrey returned then, bustling between beds, pressing goblets of potion into their hands, muttering about reckless headmasters and suicidal children. She set to work with such intensity that it drowned out the heavy silence, if only for a moment.
But when she disappeared once more into her cupboards, the focus of the room shifted again.
Dumbledore rose. His eyes swept across the gathered children, then the adults. His presence filled the ward like a tide, commanding without raising his voice.
"I have heard your account. I have considered the risks taken, the bravery shown, and the dangers narrowly avoided. Now, as Headmaster, I must render judgment."
The words hung heavy in the air, and Oliver's stomach clenched. Harry sat straighter, Hermione bit her lip, and Ron shrank into his blankets, suddenly pale.
Dumbledore's words struck like a gavel.
"I must render judgment."
The weight in the room seemed to double. Even the fire in the hearth gave a low crackle and fell quiet. Oliver sat rigid, waiting. Harry clenched his fists at his knees. Hermione whispered something under her breath, perhaps a prayer, and Ron's face was clammy, his freckles standing stark against his pale skin.
Dumbledore folded his hands atop his desk-like lap and spoke with deliberate clarity.
"First, Ronald Weasley."
Ron's head jerked up. His eyes darted to McGonagall for help, but her expression was unreadable, her lips thin.
"You deliberately endangered the lives of your classmates. You forced Harry Potter through flames with a potion you did not truly understand. By sheer chance, the potion was correct, but your actions could easily have cost his life."
Ron stammered, "But—I—I thought it was right, I was—"
McGonagall cut him off sharply, her brogue ice-cold. "That is no excuse, Mr. Weasley. Thoughtless bravado is not bravery. It is recklessness."
Dumbledore inclined his head. "For this, you are hereby suspended from classes for one week. During this time, you will not attend lessons, you will not earn points, and you will reflect on the weight of your decisions. Further misbehavior of this scale will result in permanent expulsion. Do I make myself clear?"
Ron gaped, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. Finally, he muttered, "Yes, sir."
"Very well."
The headmaster's eyes shifted now toward Oliver, Harry, and Hermione. "As for the three of you… bravery was shown, yes. But also secrecy, disobedience, and reckless disregard for your safety and that of others. Ten points will be taken from Gryffindor, and ten from Slytherin, to account for your misjudgment."
Hermione's lips parted in protest, but Dumbledore raised a finger, silencing her.
"And yet…" His voice softened, but it carried even greater force. "Bravery is not the absence of fear, but the strength to face it. Wisdom is not the absence of mistakes, but the ability to learn from them. And loyalty… loyalty is what kept you from abandoning one another in the darkest hour."
He rose then, tall and terrible and kind all at once. His voice filled the ward like thunder softened by velvet.
"For the ingenuity of Oliver Night, who employed his gifts in alchemy, transfiguration, and sheer willpower to protect his classmates from certain death: sixty points to Slytherin.
For the courage of Harry Potter, who walked through flames not knowing if he would return: sixty points to Gryffindor.
And for the quick wit and presence of mind of Hermione Granger, who sought help when others would not: thirty points to Gryffindor."
The air rippled with shock. Harry's jaw dropped. Hermione gasped. Oliver blinked, stunned.
Ron turned scarlet, his eyes narrowing, but said nothing.
McGonagall, though stern, allowed herself the faintest flicker of pride in her expression. Flitwick clapped his hands together with delight. Sprout beamed. Even Madame Maxime inclined her head, approving.
Dumbledore concluded with the finality of a verdict:
"This leaves Gryffindor in second place for the House Cup. Slytherin remains in first. And so it shall stand, earned by courage, cleverness, and consequence alike."
The murmurs began immediately. Harry sat straighter, relief warring with amazement. Hermione tried to wipe her eyes discreetly, though her cheeks glowed pink. Oliver exhaled slowly, a weight lifting and yet another settling in its place.
But Ron… Ron's hands clenched into fists. His ears burned red. His brothers caught the expression and scowled.
"Don't even think about it," Fred warned, his tone low but sharp.
"Yeah," George added, "Oliver kept you from killing our best mate. If you can't see that, maybe Mum's Howler wasn't enough."
Ron's scowl deepened, but he said nothing. His eyes smoldered as he stared at Oliver, hatred curdling in his chest.
When the murmurs finally died down, Dumbledore straightened.
"There will be detentions, of course. Professor McGonagall will oversee those for Gryffindor. Professor Snape will oversee them for Slytherin."
Snape sneered but gave no protest. His eyes flicked toward Oliver, unreadable—contempt and grudging acknowledgment in equal measure.
"That will suffice for now." Dumbledore's tone brooked no argument. "You may all rest here tonight. Madame Pomfrey will monitor you closely. Tomorrow, classes resume."
Madame Pomfrey sniffed, muttering about foolish headmasters, but she busied herself tucking blankets tighter around them all, her face softer than her words.
It was Nicholas Flamel who finally stepped forward, his voice calm but carrying authority.
"If you are finished, Headmaster, we would like a word with Oliver. Privately."
Dumbledore hesitated only a moment before inclining his head. "Very well. You may use the boy's suitcase chamber if you prefer. I trust you will not keep him long."
Oliver's heart leapt. He nodded quickly, rising to his feet. Nyx chirped from her perch above him, tiny but insistent, as though she too understood the summons.
Perenelle smiled softly. "Come, child."
Madame Maxime swept her cloak as she moved to follow. The four of them slipped away, leaving behind the murmurs of students, the whispered shock of teachers, and the oppressive scent of antiseptic potions.
When the suitcase was unlatched and the small group descended into its hidden world, the atmosphere shifted. The air smelled of fresh earth and faint incense, the greenhouse glowing softly in the distance.
Oliver felt his shoulders loosen for the first time all evening.
Nicholas rested a hand on his shoulder. "You've done enough for one day, lad. More than most grown men would dare."
Perenelle added, her eyes shining, "And now, there are things we must discuss—things meant only for family."
Oliver's throat tightened at that word, family. He swallowed hard and followed them deeper into the chamber, Nyx settling back onto his shoulder.
Madame Maxime lingered at the entrance, her great frame still and solemn, guarding the door as though she already sensed the storm that was coming.
The chamber closed around them, shutting out the hospital wing, shutting out the school, shutting out the whispers of the world.
For now, it was just Oliver and the people who claimed him as their own.