The Chudley Cannons' training ground loomed like a shrine to faded glory. The once-bright banners were dulled by years of defeat, their orange fabric fluttering weakly in the morning wind. The players—robes crisp, faces set with skepticism—stood in a cluster near the center of the pitch, brooms in hand, their expressions a mix of boredom and disbelief.
"Another child?" one muttered, his voice carrying easily across the empty seats of the stands.
"We're the laughingstock of the league as it is," another scoffed. "Now we're supposed to humor some boy who hasn't even finished his first year at Hogwarts?"
Their captain, a grizzled wizard with streaks of silver in his hair, simply folded his arms, lips pressed tight. He didn't need to speak—the mood was obvious. They were desperate for change, but not desperate enough to entertain a child. Not yet.
That mood faltered when Oliver appeared at the far tunnel. He walked with his broom slung over his shoulder, his posture calm but confident, Nyx in chick form perched on Penny's arm like a glittering flame of starlight. Behind him came Madam Hooch, stern as ever, followed by Nick and Penny, their presence radiating quiet authority. And at the rear—Albus Dumbledore himself, eyes twinkling with that maddening calm that unsettled even the most jaded wizards.
A ripple of unease swept through the Cannons.
"That's Nicholas and Perenelle Flamel," one Beater whispered hoarsely.
"And Dumbledore…" another added, his skepticism wavering.
The captain's eyes narrowed, sharp enough to cut steel. Whatever irritation he'd had at being asked to host a child vanished in the weight of the company that walked beside him. The Cannons straightened their backs, masks of professionalism snapping into place. They couldn't laugh now. Not with the Flamels here. Not with him here.
Oliver didn't bask in the effect. He merely tightened his grip on his broom, his heart hammering in his chest. This was it. A chance to prove that he wasn't just another boy with a famous book or an unusual phoenix. He wanted to prove that he belonged in the sky.
"Let's see what you can do," the captain finally said, his tone clipped but less dismissive than before.
The Cannons spread out, taking their positions. Oliver mounted his broom and kicked off, the wind rushing past him as the pitch opened beneath his feet. Nyx chirped once from Penny's arm, her tiny wings fluttering as if to lend him strength.
The first drill was Beater practice. A Bludger shot upward, iron wings thrumming. Oliver caught the bat Fred had slipped him during practice and swung, the impact reverberating through his arms. The Bludger didn't just redirect—it screamed through the air like a cannonball, striking the far post with such force that the wood cracked.
The Cannons flinched.
Another Bludger launched, and Oliver turned sharply, timing his swing with perfect precision. The iron ball shot across the pitch, grazing the captain's shoulder before burying itself into the ground with a thunk.
One of the Beaters muttered, "That… that's impossible."
The captain only stared, lips parting in disbelief.
The next drill shifted to Keeper. Oliver swapped positions, circling the hoops with hawk-like focus. The Cannons' Chasers tested him mercilessly, weaving passes, feints, and sudden shots. But Oliver moved like lightning, darting left, right, up, and down, his reflexes sharper than any of them had anticipated. Not a single Quaffle passed his guard. The crowd of professionals—once skeptical, now murmuring with disbelief—watched as attempt after attempt was blocked, deflected, or snatched clean from the air.
The captain raised a hand. "Enough." His voice cracked ever so slightly. "Let's… let's see him as Seeker."
The Snitch released, golden wings buzzing in the sunlight.
Oliver's eyes locked onto the shimmer, his instincts firing like sparks in his chest. He leaned forward, his broom responding as if it were an extension of his body. The Cannons barely had time to register the chase before Oliver's hand snapped out, closing around the Snitch.
Ten seconds.
The pitch fell silent.
Oliver hovered midair, Snitch glinting in his palm, chest heaving with exhilaration. For a moment, he thought he'd failed—that surely, no tryout could end this quickly. Then he heard it: a shout from one of the Chasers, followed by another, and another.
The Cannons swarmed him, disbelief giving way to pure desperation.
"Join us."
"We need you on the team."
"You're wasted at Hogwarts!"
Even the captain, who had remained composed through decades of defeat, looked shaken. His gaze burned with the dawning recognition of something rare: a player who could change everything.
Oliver barely had time to glance back at Penny, Nick, and Madam Hooch. They were smiling—proud, steady, unwavering. Nyx trilled on Penny's arm, as if to remind him that no matter what happened, he was never alone.
By then, the Cannons had forgotten the Flamels, forgotten Dumbledore, forgotten everything but the boy who had just shattered their doubts.
Oliver Night. Their salvation.
The roaring cheers of the Cannons' players still echoed faintly in Oliver's ears as he landed back on the turf, broom in hand, hair wind-swept and face flushed with exhilaration. His chest rose and fell heavily, though not from exhaustion—it was the exhilaration of something he had only ever dreamed of.
For a brief moment, Oliver allowed himself a smile. He wasn't smiling at the adulation of the players or the murmurs of astonishment running through the training ground stands. He smiled because for the first time in a long while, he felt whole. The air, the broom, the speed—all of it came together in a way that made him think: maybe this really is where I belong too.
But he caught himself quickly. He wasn't one to revel in glory. His humility—the one thing he clung to amidst the chaos of his strange life—tempered the bubbling pride that threatened to spill over. His grip on the broom tightened, grounding him, reminding him that there was still so much ahead, so much to balance.
Nick and Penny hurried forward from the sidelines, their faces alight with joy. Nyx, still a small chick, chirped loudly from Penny's lap, flapping tiny wings as if she herself had won the match.
"You were brilliant," Penny breathed, nearly tripping over herself in her excitement as she rushed toward Oliver. "Did you see their faces? They've never seen anyone fly like that!"
Oliver blushed, ducking his head a little as he set his broom carefully against the grass. "I just… tried my best," he said quietly, voice soft but steady. "It was fun. Really fun."
"Fun?" Penny exclaimed, her hands fluttering to her chest as though the word was too small for what she'd just witnessed. "You've singlehandedly given the Cannons a reason to hope again, and you call it fun?"
Nick chuckled, resting a steadying hand on her arm. "Let him breathe, Penny. He's not the sort to boast. That humility—that's what makes him stronger than he knows."
Oliver looked between them, cheeks heating. "I… I don't want to sound ungrateful. I loved every second up there. But I've got… other things too. Projects. Alchemy. My studies. I don't know if I could give everything to Quidditch the way they might want me to."
The Cannons' captain, a tall, broad-shouldered wizard with windburnt cheeks and eyes sharpened by years of losses, strode up with half the team trailing after him. His face carried the weariness of too many defeats—but now it gleamed with a flicker of excitement.
"Young man," he said, voice booming across the field, "that was unlike anything I've seen in decades. Quidditch is in your blood, I'd wager. If it were up to me, I'd have you on the team tonight."
The players behind him muttered in eager agreement.
Oliver shifted uncomfortably, his humility battling the growing warmth in his chest. "That's kind of you to say. Really. But… I can't be here every day. I don't want to say yes to something I can't give my all to."
The players blinked at him, clearly unused to a child turning down such an offer. Before the silence could stretch too long, Dumbledore, who had been standing quietly near the edge of the field, stepped forward with a thoughtful gleam in his eyes.
"If I may," Dumbledore said, his voice carrying the kind of gentle authority that made even the most seasoned athletes pause, "perhaps there is a way to balance both worlds. Young Oliver's talents extend beyond Quidditch, as I believe you now see. But Hogwarts has never been opposed to supporting its students in pursuits outside the castle."
The captain tilted his head, wary. "What are you suggesting, Headmaster?"
"That rather than requiring Oliver to make the journey here day after day," Dumbledore explained, "you might consider bringing your training to him. Hogwarts has grounds enough, and weekends might serve well for practices. In this way, his studies and his… extracurricular talents can flourish side by side."
The Cannons exchanged uncertain glances. It wasn't traditional, certainly not the usual way to handle training, but the way Oliver had flown—the sheer, raw potential—made them hesitate to say no.
Oliver's eyes widened slightly. "You'd… really allow that? At Hogwarts?"
Dumbledore's gaze softened. "You are, after all, one of our students. Hogwarts takes pride in helping its pupils grow. And… I daresay seeing you fly might inspire a generation of future players."
Before Oliver could answer, Nick cleared his throat. "And there's another option," he said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of centuries. "Oliver already has a space large enough for practice—a private space. I'll see to it myself that a Quidditch pitch is constructed within it. That way, there's no fear of spies, no concern of revealing tactics to rivals."
Penny, who had been clutching Nyx protectively in her arms, nodded firmly. "And I'll help. Oh, I'll help. He deserves the best training ground there is."
At that, Madam Hooch stepped forward, her sharp yellow eyes gleaming with excitement. "If you're building a pitch, then you'll need someone who knows how to lay it out properly. It would be my honor to help Oliver. He's a natural—better than natural, in fact. He could be a legend one day. If I can play even a small part in shaping that, I'll gladly do it."
Oliver's heart swelled. He didn't know what to say—all of them, gathered here, making plans for him, believing in him so fiercely. For a boy who once only dreamed of a guitar in an orphanage corner, this was almost too much to take in.
He smiled then, small but full of warmth. "Thank you," he said simply. "I… I don't know what the future will look like. But I want to keep flying. I want to see where it takes me."
The Cannons' captain clapped him on the shoulder, grinning broadly. "Then we'll see you again, Oliver. However it works, we'll make it happen."
The discussion seemed to reach its close when Oliver, almost shyly, raised his hand. "There's… one more thing."
All eyes turned to him.
He fiddled nervously with the strap of his broom. "I know Quidditch isn't about… performances. But I've never had a chance to play music in front of a big crowd. Do you think… maybe, someday, I could play a song at one of the matches? Just once?"
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then Penny practically leapt from her seat, nearly dropping Nyx in her excitement.
"Of course you can!" she declared, her voice carrying the kind of fiery determination that made even the Cannons' hardened veterans blink. "If anyone dares say no, they'll have to go through me first. And trust me—they won't win."
Her outburst earned a ripple of laughter from the team, and even Dumbledore's eyes twinkled with amusement.
Oliver flushed, but the grin on his face was genuine. He had never felt more seen, more supported, or more determined to keep moving forward.