The roar of the crowd still clung to the air like thunder that refused to roll away.
Light shimmered across the Quidditch pitch, bouncing off floating orbs of gold and silver conjured by the spectators. Oliver stood center stage, chest heaving, sweat catching the glow around his jawline. The cheers washed over him like a tide — familiar now, but no less overwhelming. Nyx fluttered from his shoulder to the top of one of the amplifying runes, her feathers shifting from silver to soft blue, dimming with the calm between storms.
He reached up to the charm near his throat, tapping it to quiet the magic that carried his voice.
When he finally spoke again, his tone wasn't booming like before. It was smaller — more human.
"This next song…" he said, pausing as the noise thinned to a hush. "It's not like the last one."
Every word rang clear in the silence. A stray breeze tugged at his shirt, fluttering a strand of his silver-and-black hair that shimmered under the stadium light.
"I wrote it before I ever met most of you. Before Hogwarts, before… real friends."
His voice cracked faintly on the word friends. He chuckled softly, brushing a hand through his hair.
"Fred, George — if you're listening, don't panic. This one's not about you."
That earned him laughter from somewhere near the sideline. The twins waved dramatically, each pretending to wipe sweat from their brow.
The moment of levity broke the tension — but only for a heartbeat.
Oliver smiled faintly, then looked down at his guitar. "This one's about the people who weren't there when it mattered."
His eyes flicked toward the distant stands where Dumbledore sat — calm and wise, but visibly proud. Then toward Penny and Nicholas, who were seated hand in hand, watching him with that quiet, nurturing warmth that steadied him more than any spell could.
He exhaled slowly. "Music's how I tell the truth."
A shimmer pulsed across his skin as two illusions split from his body — one clone taking a seat behind a small runic percussion ring, the other cradling a second guitar. Together, the three versions of himself began to play, slow and deliberate.
The rhythm began like a pulse — steady, melancholy.
The crowd leaned forward as though drawn in by invisible strings.
Oliver tilted his head, whispering the first line into the quiet.
"All my friends are toxic, all ambitionless…"
The melody was low and aching.
Wandlight dimmed across the stands, and soft blue light rose from the stage — the hue of moonlit water.
His voice deepened slightly.
"So rude and always negative…"
The crowd stilled. Only the faint hum of Nyx's magic filled the space between the chords.
"I need new friends, but it's not that quick and easy…"
His thumb brushed along the strings; the tone flickered, fragile.
"Oh, I'm drowning, let me breathe…"
The percussion clone gave a quiet thump of rhythm — heartbeat-like, distant.
Somewhere in the audience, a girl pressed her hand to her mouth. Another boy wiped his eyes and looked away, embarrassed.
And in the Slytherin dormitory, miles away, a single magical phone illuminated the face of Daphne Greengrass.
She had been sitting in bed, pretending she didn't care.
Now her eyes burned. The faint blue glow of the broadcast shimmered in her irises as she whispered, "Oh, no…"
On the field, Oliver's next words came out sharper, carrying the weight of every lonely night he'd buried under music.
"I'm better off all by myself,
Though I'm feeling kinda empty without somebody else…"
The crowd stayed silent.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
Fred Weasley leaned toward George, voice low. "He's good."
George elbowed him softly. "He's more than good."
"Oh, I hear you crying out for help,
But you never showed for me when I was ringing your cellphone…"
A faint ripple of whispers moved through the stands — not gossip, but empathy. The kind of hush that happens when people remember their own ghosts.
"Oh, you don't know how it feels to be alone…"
"Baby, oh, I'll make you know, I'll make you know…"
The refrain lifted, fuller now. Nyx's feathers glowed brighter, pulsing in time with the beat. A trail of starlight curved from her wings like a comet tail, wrapping around Oliver in a halo of faint, moving light.
In the audience, Nicholas felt Penny's hand tighten in his.
"He's not performing anymore," she whispered. "He's remembering."
"I'm drowning, let me breathe…"
The soft percussion echoed the line — a faint beat of thunder rolling under the words.
"I'm drowning, let me breathe…"
The guitars twined together, building gently. The melody was simple but haunting — not a plea, but a confession.
"I'm drowning, let me breathe…"
His eyes were half-lidded now, lashes catching the light. He wasn't looking at the crowd anymore. He was somewhere else — back in the nights before Hogwarts, where the air smelled of rain and dust and a too-small bed.
"I'm drowning, let me breathe…"
Nyx gave a low hum, almost mournful. The light around her wings flickered and dimmed again, matching his heartbeat.
The next verse began with a heavier rhythm, his clones leaning into the melody with slow precision.
"But life is immaculate, backin' it up a bit…"
Oliver swayed with the rhythm, the lyrics flowing out like memory.
"Countin' my hours and knocking on wood…"
A smile ghosted his lips — dry, ironic, self-aware. He had a way of laughing through pain, even while singing it.
"Avoiding my opposites, chewin' on chocolate…"
Some laughter drifted from the stands. It wasn't mockery — just recognition, shared humanity.
"Had a bit limited time, but I should
Be good for a minute, don't want to admit it
I'm running on seconds, I'm rigid, I'm screwed…"
The clones mirrored each other perfectly, one plucking low, the other following like an echo of his thoughts.
"Don't know what to do, I'm thinking of you…"
The light shifted red for a moment — just a pulse. Then gold. Then back to blue.
"I'm drinking up bottles and bottles of booze…"
The crowd murmured softly. Some older witches exchanged glances, but Dumbledore's expression didn't waver. He only looked at Oliver with quiet, sorrowful understanding. He knew the metaphor wasn't about drink — it was about emptiness, about reaching for anything to fill it.
"I'm better off all by myself…"
The words returned stronger now, rising, carrying
The stage lights dimmed to near darkness, leaving only the faint glow of Nyx's feathers and the steady pulse of Oliver's runic amplifiers. The air was thick with the silence left behind — the kind that felt sacred, trembling with held breath.
Oliver lifted his head, eyes still closed, and let his fingers find the strings again. His voice returned, lower now, almost breaking.
"I fell into your river…
That's where you told me lies…"
The first line carried like smoke through the night.
The rhythm deepened — heartbeat and pulse, soft and slow. The clone at percussion matched him perfectly, while the second clone began weaving higher harmony notes, light and distant.
"You said that I'd feel better…
But this is where good guys die…"
As the lyric fell from his lips, a faint blue shimmer began to curl from his hands. The crowd leaned forward — first in confusion, then in awe.
Every time his thumb brushed a string, a single spark of light escaped the instrument, like a droplet of starlight. One, then two, then dozens. They rose and hung suspended in the air, unbound by gravity.
"You took my pride away, but…
You cannot take my light…"
He meant it. Every syllable throbbed with conviction. The lights responded, pulsing brighter with his resolve. Nyx took flight above his shoulder, her feathers streaming trails of silver flame that arced across the stadium.
"I'll find another way…
But now you're takin' my light…"
The phoenix's wings beat once — and every hovering spark multiplied, rippling outward in a breathtaking wave. The audience gasped as the world around them shifted, their surroundings dissolving into a vast, weightless dark.
The pitch, the stands, the crowd — all faded beneath a blanket of shimmering motes, like the night sky had collapsed inward to cradle them all.
For a moment, it felt as if they stood adrift in space itself.
The stars glowed brighter around Oliver, drawn to his voice. His aura flared — blue and gold light swirling through him, rising from his skin in ribbons that drifted into the air and joined the illusion of the cosmos. The runes along his microphone pulsed in harmony with the music, as though amplifying not just sound but soul.
Dumbledore rose to his feet, lips parted in stunned wonder. Penny pressed a hand to her heart.
Nicholas whispered something that vanished under the roar of silent magic — "He's doing it without intent… pure emotional manifestation."
"Don't you see how I—
I'm better off all by myself,
Though I'm feeling kinda empty without somebody else…"
The stars swirled around him, orbiting the small figure at their center — Oliver, suspended in a constellation of his own making. Nyx's feathers burned with violet flame now, and every beat of her wings sent ripples through the galaxy that stretched above the pitch.
"Oh, I hear you crying out for help…
But you never showed for me when I was ringing your cellphone…"
The lights flared with the line — hundreds of spheres blooming white, lighting every face in the stands. People looked at one another through the glow, eyes wide, tears glistening. Even those who didn't understand the language felt the ache in the melody; emotion needed no translation.
"Oh, you don't know how it feels to be alone…"
"Baby, oh, I'll make you know, I'll make you know…"
The magic rose to its height. A galaxy of stars whirled overhead, caught in his voice — each note a gravitational pull shaping the illusion. The crowd was weightless in wonder.
And then —
"I'm better off all by myself…"
His aura shifted from blue to gold.
"Though I'm feeling kinda empty without somebody else…"
A soft sob rose from somewhere in the audience, but it was swallowed by the sound — by beauty.
"Oh, I hear you crying out for help…"
"But you never showed for me when I was ringin' your cellphone…"
The energy began to crest — his voice climbing, the clones' harmonies layering into a soaring chord.
"Oh, you don't know how it feels to be alone…"
"Baby, oh, I'll make you know, I'll make you know, oh…"
The light broke open.
Every speck of starlight burst outward in silent explosion — drifting, twinkling, scattering like new constellations. The audience stood bathed in moving galaxies, reflected across thousands of tear-streaked faces.
It wasn't illusion anymore. It was real magic, the kind that drew directly from emotion — from heart and memory.
And at the eye of it stood Oliver, glowing like a second sun.
The final chords trembled into being, soft as breath.
He let the last line fall like a sigh:
"Oh… I'll make you know…"
The words slipped into silence.
The stars lingered — pulsing gently — then began to fade, dissolving into harmless wisps of light that drifted upward and vanished. The illusion of space thinned until the crowd found themselves back in the stadium once more, grounded but forever changed.
For a long heartbeat, no one moved.
No one dared to break the sacred hush left behind.
Then Nyx landed lightly on Oliver's shoulder and released a soft coo, glowing faintly with pride.
The sound was the spark that woke the world.
Applause erupted — thunder rolling from every corner of the stands. Shouts, cheers, sobs, and laughter mixed together until the air itself trembled. People leapt to their feet, chanting his name.
Down below, Fred and George looked at each other, grinning through the noise. When Oliver finally turned toward them, flushed and blinking, they raised their hands and called out over the roar:
"Oi! You don't have to worry about us being toxic!" George yelled.
Fred cupped his hands and added, "Positively wholesome, us! Annoying, sure—but wholesome!"
The words broke the tension like sunlight through storm clouds.
Oliver laughed, a sound small and genuine — a boy's laugh, not a legend's.
He set his guitar down, the last echoes of his magic still humming faintly in the air, and bowed his head toward the crowd — toward his friends, his family, and the millions watching through enchanted glass around the world.
In the box seats, Dumbledore's eyes glistened. Nicholas smiled softly and whispered, "He's not just an alchemist anymore."
Penny dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and replied, voice breaking with pride, "No. He's a miracle."
And far away, hidden beneath an illusion in the upper stands, a man with familiar pale eyes watched silently, a faint smile ghosting his lips.
That's my boy.
The cheers rolled on, echoing into the night, long after the final note and fading starlight had gone.
And as Oliver turned toward the tunnel to prepare for whatever came next, the stars above flickered — just once — as if applauding him too.