Oliver barely slept the night after the performance.
He lay in his narrow cot, staring at the cracked ceiling of the dormitory, hearing again the ringing resonance of his own voice multiplied through that impossible clone. The way the gymnasium had shuddered. The sea of faces staring up at him in stunned silence before the applause erupted like a storm.
And then… nothing.
By morning, it was as though the world had agreed not to speak of it. The boys talked about football and chores. The staff scolded them for muddy shoes. Mrs. Reed hummed while ladling porridge. None of them mentioned the way the lights had bent and shadows had moved.
Only Oliver remembered.
It was after breakfast that it happened.
Oliver was by the common-room window, sketching notes for the story he'd begun — words rushing through him faster than he could trap them on paper — when something heavy tapped against the glass.
Tap. Tap.
He looked up. A bird stared back. No, not a bird — an owl. Its feathers were mottled brown, its eyes golden as coins. Clutched in its beak was an envelope thick and cream-colored.
Oliver froze. Owls didn't deliver letters. Not in London. Not at St. Mary's.
The owl rapped the glass again, impatient.
Hands trembling, Oliver unlatched the window. The owl swept inside with silent wings, dropped the letter in his lap, and vanished as quickly as it came.
The envelope was addressed in curling green ink:
Oliver NightDormitory 2BSt. Mary's OrphanageLondon
His breath caught. Whoever wrote it knew exactly where he was.
He broke the wax seal with nervous fingers.
Inside was parchment — real parchment, thick and textured. The words seemed to glow slightly in the morning light:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Night,We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Term begins 1 September. Enclosed you will find a list of necessary books and equipment.
Yours sincerely,Minerva McGonagallDeputy Headmistress
Oliver read the letter once, twice, three times. Each time the words remained unchanged.
Witchcraft. Wizardry.
It explained everything.
And yet it explained nothing at all.
For hours, he carried the letter like a secret flame. By midday, he couldn't hold it in. He found Mrs. Reed tidying the music room, stacking sheet music onto shelves.
"Mrs. Reed," he said softly, "something happened."
She turned, concerned. "Is this about the performance? Oliver, I told you — you were extraordinary. Don't let the other boys' jealousy spoil it."
"No," he whispered. He held out the letter.
She frowned, adjusted her glasses, and read. At first her lips pressed thin with skepticism. Then the parchment shimmered faintly in her hands. Her eyes widened.
"Good Lord," she breathed.
"So it's real?" Oliver asked, voice breaking.
Mrs. Reed set the letter down carefully, as though it might bite. Then she crouched, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Oliver, listen to me. Whatever this is, it means you're special. I've always known you had something extraordinary in you. If this school can help you, then you must go."
Her certainty steadied him.
For the first time since the gymnasium, he wasn't afraid.
Not everyone shared her faith.
That evening, in the yard, one of the older boys — Thomas, who had spent years tormenting Oliver — cornered him.
"Heard you're off to some fancy school," Thomas sneered. "Think you're better than the rest of us now?"
Oliver tried to brush past, clutching his manuscript. "Leave me alone."
Thomas shoved him. The pages spilled across the dirt. Laughter erupted from the boys nearby.
Something inside Oliver snapped. He clenched his fists, wishing Thomas would trip and eat mud.
Shoelaces knotted themselves. Thomas stumbled forward and landed flat on his face.
The yard erupted in howls. Thomas swore, tugging at the hopeless tangle around his shoes.
Oliver staggered back, heart racing. He hadn't touched the laces. He hadn't needed to.
The letter's words rang in his mind: You are a wizard.
That night, Oliver sat by the window with his guitar across his lap. He strummed softly, half afraid the strings would spark or ignite. But the notes came gentle, trembling like his breath.
Beside him, the letter glowed faintly in the moonlight.
He touched the crest with his fingers, tracing the lion, the eagle, the badger, the snake.
This wasn't madness. It wasn't a curse. It was a beginning.
"Hogwarts," he whispered. The name filled the room, warm and strange.
For the first time in his life, Oliver Night allowed himself to imagine a future beyond the orphanage walls.
And though fear still clung to him, another feeling stirred beneath it — hope.