Oliver Night had learned long ago that sometimes the best way to hide was to step into the light.
It was a cruel trick of the world: the children who tormented him at the orphanage always seemed to find him when he tried to shrink into corners, when he pressed himself against the walls hoping no one would notice. But when he was on a stage, a battered instrument in his hands, the spotlight became a kind of shield. People could mock, they could sneer—but in those moments, when notes carried like wings, Oliver was untouchable.
This performance was supposed to be just that. A moment of escape.
The Gymnasium
The orphanage's charity events were nothing special; folding chairs lined the old wooden floor, paint peeling on the walls, the faint smell of disinfectant barely covering dampness in the air. But tonight, the room had been transformed into something more. A small stage had been built on the far end, draped with threadbare curtains donated from the local theater. Strings of fairy lights zigzagged overhead, giving the air a faint golden glow.
Oliver sat backstage with his guitar case propped against his leg. His fingers itched to pluck the strings, but he kept them folded tightly in his lap. He knew the rules: wait, listen, breathe.
Mrs. Reed, the volunteer music teacher who had become the closest thing he had to family, squeezed his shoulder. "Remember, Ollie," she whispered, her soft eyes crinkling with warmth. "It's not about impressing them. Just play. Let them hear you."
He nodded, though words caught in his throat. She didn't need to remind him. Music wasn't about them. It was about surviving.
Through the curtain, he peeked at the crowd. At least two hundred people filled the gymnasium. Local townsfolk, donors, children from the orphanage. And near the back—Oliver froze.
A boy with messy black hair and round glasses sat stiffly, his too-large clothes hanging from his thin frame. Beside him, a horse-faced woman with pursed lips whispered to her walrus of a husband, who already looked bored. Oliver didn't know the boy's name, but he'd seen him before on the playground when Mrs. Reed had taken them to the park. A quiet kid, lonely in a way Oliver understood instinctively.
What Oliver didn't know was that this boy was Harry Potter.
When his name was called, Oliver's legs felt like lead. He clutched the guitar case as if it were a lifeline and walked onto the stage. The lights blinded him for a moment, and the murmur of the crowd dulled into a heavy silence.
He set the case down, withdrew the old guitar, and adjusted the strap. The instrument was battered, secondhand, its varnish chipped and strings re-tuned so many times they felt like part of his own body. He gave it one test strum. The sound rang clear, trembling through the gymnasium.
Then he began.
The first notes were soft, uncertain, like a whisper testing the air. He sang quietly, his voice raw, untrained, but carrying an honesty that silence seemed to lean into. And then the music grew. His fingers found their rhythm, his voice strengthened.
The audience leaned forward. Even the bored donors tilted their heads. Something in Oliver's sound—fragile yet unyielding—drew them in.
Harry sat upright. His scar tingled faintly—not painful, just… odd. Like a breeze brushing over a wound that had long healed. He frowned, touching his forehead, but his eyes never left Oliver.
It happened when Oliver closed his eyes.
He was lost in the song, and he imagined what it would sound like if more than one instrument played. He could hear it in his mind: a violin soaring, a piano anchoring the chords, percussion lifting the rhythm.
And then the impossible happened.
When the audience gasped, Oliver thought he'd made a mistake. His eyes flew open—and nearly dropped the guitar.
Standing beside him was… himself.
An exact copy, strumming an identical guitar. A little clumsy, the timing just a hair behind, but undeniably real. The clone grinned sheepishly, as if to say, "I'll try my best."
The crowd erupted. Children screamed. Adults shouted.
But the music didn't falter. Somehow, impossibly, the clone kept playing. Their two guitars blended, fuller, richer, as if the song had been waiting for this all along. Oliver's heart pounded. He didn't know what he was doing, but stopping felt wrong. So he pressed forward, pouring every ounce of breath and soul into the music.
Lights flickered above them. The fairy bulbs strung across the ceiling pulsed with the rhythm of his song, glowing brighter with every chord. A hum filled the air—not mechanical, not from the speakers, but something deeper, older.
Harry's scar burned faintly now. He gritted his teeth, staring wide-eyed at Oliver. This wasn't normal. This was—magic.
When the final chord struck, silence followed like a crashing wave. Then, suddenly, applause erupted, deafening. Donors leapt to their feet. Children cheered. Even Mrs. Reed clapped with tears streaming down her cheeks.
Oliver blinked. His clone flickered like a mirage—and vanished. The guitar in its hands clattered to the floor and disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Gasps turned to shrieks.
"What was that?!" someone shouted.
"Did you see—"
"Impossible!"
Chairs scraped back as people panicked. Yet through the chaos, Oliver heard something else: the faint pop-pop-pop of Apparition. Shadows moved near the exits. Men and women in dark robes fanned out through the crowd, wands already in hand.
The Ministry of Magic had arrived.
Oliver stood frozen as a tall witch with sharp features muttered under her breath. A golden mist rolled across the crowd like a tide. One by one, the frightened faces softened, panic giving way to confusion.
"No, no," the walrus man muttered, his earlier fury slipping into dazed calm. "Just… just lighting tricks. Stage tricks, nothing more."
The woman beside him frowned. "Yes… stage tricks."
Harry shook his head, blinking rapidly. The mist swirled around him, but it didn't stick. He rubbed his scar again, eyes darting back to Oliver. He wouldn't remember the clone clearly, but the feeling of magic stayed lodged in his chest.
Oliver, meanwhile, was untouched. The mist avoided him entirely, as if recognizing him as its source. He clutched his guitar, heart pounding, eyes darting between the strangers with wands. He didn't understand who they were—but instinct told him to stay silent.
Within minutes, the crowd calmed. Donors muttered about "trick performances." Children whined that they hadn't seen properly. The chaos smoothed over like a page rewritten.
Only Harry kept glancing back at the stage, his brows furrowed.
The Obliviators slipped out as quietly as they'd come. Mrs. Reed rushed to Oliver, wrapping her arms around him. "That was incredible," she whispered, oblivious to the terror in his eyes. "You have a gift, Ollie. A real gift."
He tried to smile but failed. His hands trembled against the guitar. He'd felt the clone, felt its strings under fingers that weren't his. And then—gone.
Later that night, back in his small bed at the orphanage, Oliver stared at the ceiling. His body buzzed with something electric, too big to contain. The applause still echoed in his ears, but louder than that was the sound of his own voice asking the question he'd never dared:
"What am I?"
The answer came the next morning, delivered by owl post.
A thick parchment envelope, sealed with a crest of a lion, snake, badger, and raven entwined around the letter H.