The sky outside the castle was only just beginning to pale when Oliver slipped into the hospital wing. The silence was broken only by the steady tick of Pomfrey's wall clock and the faint rustle of sheets as patients shifted in their sleep. He kept his steps light, breath shallow, Nyx's faint cheeps punctuating the quiet as she nestled on his head.
He darted down the row, slid beneath his own blankets, and pulled them up just as the door creaked open. Madam Pomfrey swept in, tray in hand, sharp-eyed even at dawn.
"Well," she said after a long moment of staring down at him, "aren't you the picture of innocence."
Oliver cracked a sheepish smile, though his heart thumped. "I was just… resting."
"Resting," Pomfrey repeated, wand flicking over him. The diagnostic shimmer came back spotless: no bruises, no cracked ribs, no lingering curses. Too spotless. She arched a brow. "Phoenix tears. You've drained yourself of them, haven't you?"
Oliver hesitated, then nodded. "I couldn't risk being half-healed. Nyx didn't mind."
Nyx trilled softly from the bedpost, feathers flickering faintly in agreement.
Pomfrey sighed, torn between scolding and grudging admiration. "Reckless, Mr. Night. But effective. You'll stay put until I say otherwise."
Oliver leaned back against the pillows, only now noticing Harry in the next bed over, half propped up on one elbow. His friend's hair stuck up at odd angles, his shirt rumpled, but the grin on his face was unmistakable.
"Came in late, did you?" Harry teased.
Oliver smirked. "Don't tell."
Hermione appeared soon after, arms crossed as if she'd been rehearsing her lecture the whole way down. "Both of you should be resting. Do you have any idea how close—"
Oliver cut her off by holding up a small vial, its contents shimmering pale blue. Nyx gave a faint cheep as though to punctuate his intent. "Phoenix tears. Just a few drops, Harry."
Harry blinked as Oliver tilted the vial and let three drops fall onto his chest. The glow spread quickly, knitting bruises and easing the tightness in his breathing. Harry's eyes widened. "I feel—Merlin, Oliver, I feel fine."
Pomfrey, who had been watching like a hawk, finally sighed and set down her tray. "Well, there's no point chaining either of you to the bed if you're going to make a mockery of medical progress. If the Phoenix approves…" She gestured toward Nyx, who fluffed her feathers proudly. "Then you're free to leave. Breakfast. Then classes tomorrow. No excuses."
Harry grinned, swinging his legs out of bed. "Thanks, Madam Pomfrey."
Oliver followed, Nyx hopping back to his shoulder as if claiming her perch. Hermione muttered something about reckless boys as she fell in step behind them, though her relieved smile betrayed her worry.
The Great Hall was already alive with chatter when they walked in. The enchanted ceiling gleamed with a bright spring sky, but the students below whispered like a brewing storm. Everyone had heard pieces of what happened, and though the details varied, Oliver's name carried through the murmurs more than once.
Oliver sat at the Gryffindor table with Harry and Hermione. Ron's absence was like a hole in the trio—one that Oliver felt but didn't mourn. His suspension had spread quickly, and though some whispered in his defense, most agreed he had gone too far.
Oliver focused on his plate until a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see Madam Hooch, arms crossed but eyes alight.
"Mr. Night," she said crisply. "Step aside with me, if you would."
The hall hushed as Oliver rose, Nyx fluttering to his shoulder. Hooch looked him over, nodding once at his steady frame.
"I've spoken with the Headmaster and your guardians," she said. "Given your… remarkable aptitude on a broom earlier this year, I've arranged for you to attend professional tryouts this weekend."
Oliver blinked. "Professional? Already? For what team?"
Her lips twitched into a faint smile. "The Chudley Cannons."
For a heartbeat, the hall was silent. Then Fred and George leapt to their feet with deafening whoops, pounding the table as if Oliver had just scored a winning goal. Harry's jaw dropped, Hermione clapped, and even a few Ravenclaws leaned in with curiosity.
Oliver's heart thudded with pride. A real team. A real chance. Something not tied to prophecies or Phoenixes or bloodlines—something purely his.
For the first time in weeks, he allowed himself a grin. Wide, unguarded, endearing.
Nyx trilled on his shoulder, and the sound seemed to echo through him, steadying his pride with a spark of determination.
The hall still buzzed with excitement long after Madam Hooch departed. Fred and George drummed the table in rhythm, chanting "Cannons, Cannons, Cannons!" until McGonagall silenced them with a stern glare. But the echo of it followed Oliver through the rest of breakfast, leaving him restless.
That evening, Harry cornered him outside the common room. "If you're really trying out," Harry said, holding his broom with a mix of excitement and seriousness, "you'll need to practice. Properly."
Which was how Oliver found himself on the Quidditch pitch after dinner, not just with Harry but with the entire Gryffindor team. Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, Katie Bell, Fred, George, and even Wood gathered, curiosity alight in their eyes.
"Let's see what you've got," Wood said, tossing him a Quaffle. "Every position. No excuses."
Oliver nodded, gripping his broom. Nyx gave a low chirp from the stands, Nick and Penny sitting beside her like proud parents at a school recital. Their eyes followed his every move, Nick occasionally leaning over to Penny with a murmured, "Did you see that turn?" while Penny clapped outright whenever he soared past.
They began with Chaser drills. Oliver surprised them all by weaving seamlessly between defenders, passing cleanly, and scoring with accuracy that belied his short time on the pitch. His small frame worked in his favor, slipping through gaps that larger players would never attempt.
Then came Beater practice. Fred handed him a bat with a grin. "Try not to hit your teammates—unless it's Ron."
Oliver swung at the first Bludger and sent it careening with such force that even George whistled. He wasn't as naturally built for power, but his timing was uncanny, reading the Bludger's path as if he could see its intentions before it struck.
Keeper was next. Wood tested him mercilessly, sending shot after shot toward the hoops. To everyone's shock, Oliver blocked more than he missed, darting back and forth with sharp reflexes that left Wood grinning despite himself.
But it was when they moved to Seeker drills that Oliver's true gift shone. Harry released the Snitch with a mischievous smirk, but Oliver had barely leaned into his broom before he was streaking after the golden glimmer. His speed was breathtaking, his instincts razor sharp. Twice Harry thought he had the Snitch only to blink and find Oliver's hand already closing around it, Nyx's triumphant trill echoing across the pitch.
By the end of the night, the team was exhausted—but Oliver was still alight with energy, hair wind-tossed, eyes blazing.
"You're ridiculous," Harry panted, grinning. "No wonder they want you."
Fred slung an arm over Oliver's shoulders. "Seeker, Chaser, Beater, Keeper—you're a one-man team!"
Nick and Penny descended from the stands, their faces glowing with pride. Penny cupped Oliver's cheek, brushing a strand of hair back. "Every time we watch you, you surprise us again."
Nick chuckled. "Surprise? No, Penny. This is destiny."
Oliver flushed, grinning despite himself. The pride wasn't arrogant—it was the kind of quiet certainty that told him he was exactly where he belonged.
The practices continued over the next few days. Each evening after lessons, the Gryffindor team returned to the pitch, Oliver rotating through every role. Nyx watched faithfully, sometimes swooping low to trill encouragement, sometimes perching on Nick's shoulder as if sharing commentary. The more he trained, the more he realized how naturally Quidditch came to him—not just as a game, but as an art of motion and instinct.
When Saturday morning arrived, Madam Hooch approached him in the Entrance Hall. She was dressed in her official referee robes, sharp and commanding. Nick and Penny stood nearby, cloaks fastened, and Dumbledore joined them with his usual serene smile, though his eyes gleamed with interest.
"Ready, Mr. Night?" Hooch asked.
Oliver tightened his grip on his broom. Nyx trilled from his shoulder, feathers catching the morning light.
"As ready as I'll ever be," Oliver said.
The group strode out together, the murmurs of the castle following them like a tide. Beyond the walls, the official training ground of the Chudley Cannons awaited—Oliver's first step into the professional world.
And with Nick, Penny, Hooch, and even Dumbledore at his side, he felt unstoppable.