The locker room hummed with nervous chatter and the sharp scent of broom polish. The orange and black of the Chudley Cannons' uniforms gleamed brighter than usual, the freshly pressed fabric seeming to vibrate with barely contained energy. Oliver stood by the corner bench, quietly watching his teammates as they tightened gloves and checked the balance of their brooms.
He was the youngest in the room by nearly a decade. Some of the players, grizzled veterans with streaks of grey in their hair, still couldn't believe the rumor—that a twelve-year-old boy had been signed on as their Seeker. But when they'd seen the way he handled a broom during training, doubts began to wither. When they saw him catch the Snitch during practice in ten seconds flat, disbelief had turned into awe.
Still, tension was thick today. The match against Bulgaria wasn't just any game; it was a chance to rewrite the Cannons' long, embarrassing history of losses. The newspapers had already mocked them for bringing a child onto the team, even if that "child" had the backing of the Flamels and Hogwarts itself.
Oliver adjusted the gloves that Penny had helped him fit before the match—lightweight dragonhide, a perfect blend of protection and flexibility. He ran his fingers over the polished handle of his broom. The wood pulsed faintly under his grip, the enchantments humming in sync with his heartbeat.
Then, as the noise in the room grew into anxious laughter and clipped conversation, Oliver set a small crate down on the bench beside him. "Alright, everyone," he said, his voice cutting through the room like a calm wind. "Before we go out, I want you all to try something."
The older Beater, Bronn McKinnon, raised an eyebrow. "What's this? Another one of your experimental potions, kid?"
Oliver grinned. "Not a potion. A drink."
He opened the crate, and the scent of something sweet filled the air—a bright, fruity fragrance that made the room feel suddenly lighter. Inside were neat rows of glass bottles, each filled with a luminous red liquid that shimmered faintly with golden flecks.
"What in Merlin's name is that?" one of the Chasers asked.
"Sunshine's Tears," Oliver said proudly. "I made it myself."
A ripple of amusement passed through the room. Someone chuckled. Another muttered, "Sounds like a fancy brand of perfume."
"Just try it," Oliver said with a shrug. "You'll see."
The players exchanged uncertain looks, but curiosity won out. Bronn was the first to pop the cork off a bottle. A soft fizz filled the air, followed by a subtle sparkle as he tipped it back. His eyes widened immediately.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, lowering the bottle. "It's—sweet. Like honey and berries—and—what's that feeling?"
Oliver tilted his head. "Refreshed?"
"It's like I just slept a week straight," Bronn said, his voice amazed. "My shoulders don't even ache anymore."
Now every hand in the room reached for a bottle. One by one, corks popped open, and the locker room filled with sounds of surprise, laughter, and disbelief.
"I can breathe again!" shouted the Keeper, shaking his head. "I didn't realize I was this stiff!"
"It's got to be magic," another player said, studying the faint shimmer that clung to the drink.
Oliver only smiled faintly. "It's all natural. Just some ingredients I found helpful. You could say the recipe came to me after a lot of trial and error."
He didn't mention the Sunberries, the unicorn horn, or Nyx's tear. Let them think it was just another miracle concoction from the "boy genius."
The laughter in the room softened into warmth. Shoulders relaxed. The nervous tension melted away. For the first time in years, the Chudley Cannons felt ready—not just to play, but to win.
Bronn grinned at Oliver, his burly hand clapping the boy's shoulder. "If this is what being on a team with you feels like, lad, I'll take it. You're our lucky charm."
Oliver laughed quietly. "Just trying to help."
Outside, the low roar of the crowd began to swell—a distant storm of excitement that echoed through the stadium walls. The announcer's voice boomed faintly over the noise, calling players by name, warming up the audience for the match ahead.
Oliver glanced to the side where Nyx sat on the bench beside Penny, her feathers still short and soft from her recent rebirth. She tilted her small head at him, eyes glimmering like stars.
"I guess this is it," Oliver whispered to her.
Nyx chirped softly, as if in agreement, and fluttered her wings once before tucking them neatly against her sides.
The door opened, and the manager poked his head in, his cheeks flushed with excitement. "Alright, team! Five minutes until formation. Let's make history today!"
One by one, the players stood and began heading toward the exit. Their brooms gleamed in the soft lamplight, and their orange robes rustled like the wings of phoenixes.
Oliver was the last to move. He fastened his goggles, adjusted his broom handle, and looked around the empty locker room for a moment, taking in the smell of polish and adrenaline.
He thought of all the training, all the early mornings, the mistakes, and the victories. He thought of Penny and Nick in the stands, Dumbledore sitting proudly near the other dignitaries, and how Grindelwald—unbeknownst to him—was somewhere in the crowd, watching from the shadows.
He thought of what it meant to be alive, to fly, to belong.
When he stepped out into the light, the roar of the crowd hit him like a tidal wave.
The stadium was enormous—thousands of fans from both sides filled the air with cheers and banners. The Chudley Cannons' colors burned bright across the stands, while the Bulgarian supporters beat drums and shouted chants that echoed like thunder.
The sunlight spilled across the pitch, golden and warm, and the wind carried the smell of grass and excitement.
Oliver mounted his broom, feeling the familiar hum of magic beneath his fingers. The announcer's voice echoed across the field, magnified by charm:
"And here they are, ladies and gentlemen! The CHUDLEY CANNONS!"
The crowd erupted. Fireworks burst in the sky, and orange sparks rained down like embers.
"And for the first time in Cannon history—introducing their new Seeker—Oliver Night!"
The noise reached a fever pitch. Even the Bulgarian fans clapped, intrigued by the sight of a boy flying alongside seasoned professionals.
Oliver kicked off from the ground, and the world fell away. The rush of wind, the sting of air against his cheeks—it was everything he'd ever dreamed of.
He climbed higher, circling the pitch as the referee's whistle cut through the chaos. The players took their positions.
The Quaffle soared into the air, and the match began.
For the first few minutes, Oliver stayed high above the chaos, his sharp eyes scanning the field. Below him, the Cannons fought fiercely, their movements sharper and more synchronized than they'd been in years. The fatigue was gone—the drink had worked better than he'd imagined.
Two Chasers wove through the air in a practiced pattern, passing the Quaffle between them in quick succession. Then, with a flick of her wrist, one hurled it straight through the Bulgarian hoops.
The crowd erupted again, the Cannons fans screaming, "GOAL!"
Oliver grinned, the wind tugging at his hair.
His gaze flicked across the field and there—it was. The Snitch. A flash of gold darting just above the northern goalpost.
He could've gone for it right then, ended the match before it began. But he hesitated. He wanted to give his teammates their moment. They'd worked hard for this.
So instead, he hung back, circling lazily above, keeping the Snitch in sight while the Cannons scored again.
Down below, the team's chemistry was like magic itself—every movement crisp, every pass seamless. Even the Bulgarian team seemed startled by their sudden competence.
From the stands, Penny and Nick cheered with unabashed pride, and Dumbledore clapped politely, the twinkle in his eye genuine. Somewhere, among the thousands of faces, Grindelwald watched quietly from beneath his enchanted hood. A faint smile tugged at his lips—not the smile of a dark lord, but that of a man seeing his child soar.
Oliver's eyes tracked the Snitch again, and this time, it darted low, teasingly close to the grass. His heart raced.
It was time.
He leaned forward, feeling the broom respond instantly. The air roared in his ears as he dove, streaking downward like a bolt of lightning. The crowd gasped.
The Bulgarian Seeker saw him and followed, but Oliver was faster—his movements instinctive, fluid, as though the air itself parted to make way for him.
Every twist, every dip—it all came naturally.
When his hand closed around the Snitch, the stadium erupted into chaos.
The whistle blew, the Cannons' banner shot into the sky, and the announcer's voice boomed, cracking with excitement:
"THE CHUDLEY CANNONS WIN!"
The roar that followed was deafening.
Oliver slowed his broom and looked around at the sea of orange, at his teammates screaming in disbelief, at the flashes of cameras capturing the impossible moment—the Cannons had won.
For a second, he simply hovered there, watching, smiling softly as the sunlight caught the Snitch's golden wings.
He wasn't just the boy who flew—he was the boy who helped them believe again.
And as he descended to the pitch, the crowd chanting his name, he felt something deep and certain settle in his chest.
He'd never felt more alive.
The noise of the crowd was a living thing. It rolled through the stands and crashed back onto the field like a wave, a rhythm that beat in time with Oliver's heart.
All around him the Cannons were shouting—laughing, grabbing each other's shoulders, throwing their gloves in the air. Someone tackled him in a half-hug that nearly lifted him off the ground.
"You did it, kid!" Bronn bellowed, his voice half-lost in the chaos. "Ten seconds! Ten bloody seconds!"
Oliver laughed breathlessly, trying to shake the man's arm from his shoulder. "We did it," he corrected. "Two goals before I even went for the Snitch—that's a team win."
The older man only laughed louder. "Listen to him, modest as a monk! If you'd have missed it, we'd still be chasing that golden thing into next week."
They all laughed at that, a rough, relieved laughter that came from deep inside—the sound of a curse being lifted after too many years. Around them the stadium fireworks burst in orange and silver; the smell of gunpowder mixed with the cut grass, sharp and sweet.
Oliver tipped his head back to watch the sparks fizzle out against the blue sky. For a moment he just let it all soak in—the roar, the colors, the sunlight that flashed on every broom in the air. He had imagined flying before thousands of people, but the real thing was something else entirely. The cheers vibrated through his ribs until he could barely breathe.
A small, warm chirp drew his eyes downward. Nyx had fluttered down from the stands, glowing faintly as she landed on his shoulder, trilling in excitement. Her tiny wings spread, scattering faint trails of starlight that dissolved in the wind.
He smiled and scratched the soft feathers under her chin. "We did it, Nyx," he whispered. "Our first win."
She nipped affectionately at his finger and then tucked herself against his neck as though she could purr.
The manager's whistle shrilled across the pitch. "CANNONS! Line up!"
The players scrambled into formation, brooms under arms, still grinning like madmen. Across from them, the Bulgarian team offered stiff handshakes, the kind given by professionals who had underestimated their opponents and paid for it. Their Seeker nodded to Oliver—half respect, half disbelief.
"Good flying, kid," he said in accented English.
"Thank you," Oliver replied sincerely. "You were fast."
"Not fast enough," the man said with a rueful grin before walking off toward his team's tunnel.
The crowd was still on its feet, stamping and clapping, chanting the Cannons' name as though they were witnessing the return of a legend. For the first time in decades, orange banners were flying for victory instead of consolation.
As they left the field, a dozen reporters shouted questions, flashes popping like lightning. The team manager barked that there'd be a statement later. For now, everyone was to head straight to the locker room.
Inside, the roar dulled to a warm echo. Steam drifted from the showers. Someone had already popped open a crate of butterbeer—legal for the older players, and the sweet smell filled the air.
Oliver peeled off his gloves and set them neatly in his locker. He was tired, but it was the good kind of tired—his muscles humming from exertion, his lungs still tasting of wind.
Bronn thrust a butterbeer toward him out of habit, then caught himself. "Ah—right. Too young."
Oliver grinned. "Maybe next year."
Instead he reached for the leftover bottles of Sunshine's Tears. "You can toast with this instead," he said. "Trust me, it works."
Everyone raised their bottles in unison. The clink rang bright.
"To the Cannons!" Bronn shouted.
"To winning!" another answered.
"And to the kid who made us believe again!" someone added, and the room erupted into cheers.
They drank. The sweet, revitalizing flavor washed through their throats and the faint shimmer of magic traced their veins again, smoothing every ache left from the match. Laughter spilled louder now, unrestrained and jubilant.
Oliver leaned back on the bench, watching his teammates with quiet satisfaction. He didn't need to shout to share in it; just seeing their happiness was enough. A week ago, these men had treated him like a curious experiment. Now they looked at him like a fellow player—perhaps even their talisman.
The manager appeared again, red-faced and breathless from shouting over reporters. "Alright, everyone—great job out there. Enjoy it while it lasts, because next week we've got practice again. But before you scatter, we've got one more announcement."
The chatter dimmed.
"You might've heard that one of our players has a special talent off the pitch," he continued with a grin. "And since it's not every day we break a losing streak this old, management thought a celebration was in order. So, after the awards ceremony, there'll be a short performance on the field. Everyone's invited to stay."
A murmur spread through the locker room. Eyes swung to Oliver.
"Performance?" Bronn said slowly. "Don't tell me you juggle too."
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. "Not juggling. Music."
"You play?" one of the Chasers asked.
"Guitar," he admitted. "And sing, sometimes."
"Well I'll be—our Seeker's a bard," Bronn laughed. "No wonder you've got rhythm in the air!"
Another voice chimed in. "Better hope the crowd doesn't faint from too much talent in one day!"
The teasing was good-natured, full of affection now instead of doubt. Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. "I'll take that risk."
The manager clapped his hands. "Alright, you lot, get changed and head out for the photos. Then we'll give the fans a show they won't forget."
As the others filtered out, Oliver lingered for a moment, gazing at his reflection in the small mirror above his locker. The boy who looked back at him still seemed faintly astonished by everything that had happened. The same unruly dark hair streaked faintly with Nyx's blue-silver sheen, the same calm eyes—but something had changed. There was confidence there now, the quiet kind that came from doing rather than boasting.
He exhaled slowly, gathering his guitar case from the corner. Penny had helped him charm it to be weightless.
"Ready?" the manager asked from the doorway.
Oliver nodded. "Give me fifteen minutes."
"Take twenty," the man said with a wink. "The crowd's not going anywhere."
When the door closed, the sounds of celebration dimmed again. Oliver set the guitar case on the bench and unlatched it carefully. The polished wood gleamed, runes etched subtly along its body to amplify sound without distorting it. He strummed once—soft, testing—and the tone filled the room like sunlight through glass.
Nyx fluttered down from the locker shelf, perching beside the instrument. Her eyes glowed faintly, reflecting the golden finish.
"You think they'll like it?" he asked her quietly.
She trilled in reply, a musical sound that made him laugh. "Yeah, you're right. Doesn't matter if they do. It's for me anyway."
He began tuning the strings, slow and meticulous, humming under his breath. Each note steadied his racing heart. Outside, the cheers of the crowd continued, but they seemed far away, softened by the hum of magic in the air.
By the time he finished, a knock sounded at the door. "Five minutes!" someone called.
Oliver slid the guitar over his shoulder and gathered the courage that had carried him through battles and storms and lonely nights in an orphanage. Flying had always been freedom—but music was where his heart spoke.
He walked out into the corridor. The noise swelled again; reporters still crowded near the exit, flashes catching the gleam of his broom and the guitar strap. Penny and Nick waited near the tunnel, radiant with pride. Penny blew him a kiss, mouthing, You were wonderful.
He grinned and waved. "Wait until the next part," he said, voice lost in the roar.
Above, the enchanted ceiling of the stadium had shifted into twilight hues for the evening celebration. Magical lanterns floated up, casting trails of color across the stands. The pitch glowed in golden light, ready for the ceremony.
The Cannons stepped forward one by one to receive their awards. Oliver stood between Bronn and the Keeper, feeling slightly small but glowing all the same. Dumbledore was in the VIP box, clapping politely. Even from that distance, Oliver could feel the pride radiating from his uncle like sunlight.
And somewhere in the crowd, hidden under glamour and shadow, Grindelwald watched. He said nothing, but the faintest smile softened his features—a private, almost wistful expression. His son was everything he had once dreamed to be: powerful, kind, and untouched by darkness.
When the last medal was awarded, the manager raised his wand and his voice boomed across the stadium:
"Ladies and gentlemen, before we close tonight's celebration, we invite you to stay for a special performance by our newest Seeker—Oliver Night!"
A collective gasp ran through the crowd, followed by curious applause. The Bulgarian fans leaned forward too, intrigued.
Oliver's teammates whooped and patted his shoulders as he walked toward the center of the pitch. "Go on, prodigy," Bronn called. "Show them what kind of legend we've got."
"Make us proud, kid!" another shouted.
He turned and gave them a small salute before disappearing down the tunnel toward the locker rooms.
As he walked, the sound of the crowd dimmed behind him, replaced by the muffled beat of his footsteps. The victory chants faded into anticipation.
Inside the empty locker room, the air still smelled faintly of sweat and polish, but the noise had gone. Only Nyx waited on the bench, grooming her tiny wings.
Oliver leaned his broom against the wall and sank onto the bench beside her. For a moment he just breathed, letting the quiet settle.
He thought of everything—the match, the laughter, the drink that had healed them, the faces of the crowd, the pride in Nick's eyes, the joy radiating from Penny, the solemn respect in Dumbledore's nod. And somewhere, maybe, someone else's gaze hidden in shadow.
He didn't know why, but the thought gave him comfort.
"Alright," he whispered, running a thumb along the guitar's neck. "Let's make this one count."
Nyx chirped once, bright and sure.
Oliver smiled. "Yeah. For all of them."
He rose, slung the guitar over his shoulder, and walked toward the doorway leading back to the field. The roar of the stadium swelled again as soon as he stepped close—the crowd restless with curiosity, fireworks fading into a sky streaked with pink and gold.
He paused at the threshold, taking one last deep breath. The world beyond was brilliant and loud and alive. He'd won his first professional match. In a few minutes, he'd share his first song with the world.
And somewhere in that same world, his father—once a legend of a darker kind—was watching, not with malice but with pride.
Oliver tightened his grip on the guitar and stepped forward into the light.