July 31st, 1990, 4:21 AM.
Silence.
Not the usual, nightly silence — but the kind that seems to descend over the entire world. As if reality… held its breath. Waiting. For something to happen.
I opened my eyes.
But I wasn't in the orphanage.
I stood in front of a mirror. The same one that had haunted my dreams countless times. I knew immediately that it wasn't a dream. Every sense was pulsing with sharp awareness. I was here. Truly.
Something had broken.
Like invisible chains that had gripped my insides all my life had finally shattered. I felt… free.
I looked at my reflection. And froze.
My eyes… were no longer blue. Their color had turned to a pale white, almost glowing, and in the center of my irises spun a symbol. A black circle, rotating slowly, inexorably — like the hands of a clock. Inside it — a single line, and all of it enclosed in a perfect triangle.
I knew that symbol. I had seen it too many times in my previous life.
The Deathly Hallows. The crest of the Peverell family. Not a mythical emblem from stories, but my heritage.
And then… the shadow that had always stood behind me moved for the first time.
Unhurriedly, but with the weight of a presence that shouldn't exist. It took form right behind me — a tall, slender figure, cloaked in a tattered black robe darker than the night itself. From its back rose massive, folded wings, like scorched leather. Its face was hidden. Only emptiness. Incomprehensible, unnamed.
Death.
It spoke with a voice that didn't travel through air, but echoed through my bones:
"So this is where you've been hiding, heir of the cursed bloodline…"
And without another word, it spread its wings and vanished — like smoke, like memory.
I woke up. Or rather: I returned.
I lay in my bed at the orphanage, but nothing was the same anymore.
I could feel magic.
Not as something abstract, not as a tug from deep inside. Now it was everywhere. In my veins. In my muscles. Beneath my skin. As if my entire body had opened itself to something that had always tried to break through — and could finally breathe.
Magic looked back at me.
But it wasn't just a glance. It was recognition. Contact.
Everything around me was alive. The room — the same as always — now breathed. Every wall, every floorboard, every dusty piece of furniture… was wrapped in a silvery shimmer. Subtle vibrations of magical particles — like light and sound woven together.
I blinked.
And suddenly, I saw more.
Threads.
Thousands of thin, glowing strands winding through the air, as if the world was woven from energy. Some were delicate and barely visible — others thick, heavy, almost pulsing. Some led outside through the walls, like paths to distant places. Others ended in me.
I was the center.
The threads clung to my skin, slipped through my hands, coiled around my neck, as if examining my existence. And then… they began to change.
One of the threads — the thickest — connected directly to my heart. Literally. I felt a prick, then a jolt. As if something had ignited within me.
It didn't hurt.
It was… pure.
My breath quickened. Sounds became sharper — I could hear a faucet dripping two floors below, a fly buzzing in the corner, the beat of my own heart pounding like a war drum.
My sight? Razor-sharp contours of everything. As if the world had never truly been clear before.
But the strangest part was the smell.
Magic had a scent. Metallic, damp, somewhat like ozone after a storm. And it tasted… like dawn. Like something that was just beginning.
I sat up on the bed. With effort. My whole body trembled, as if after an exhausting run. And yet… I wasn't tired. I felt power. And… a presence. As if something was watching me.
My eyes were itching more and more.
I looked into the small mirror in the corner of the room. Cracked at the edge, but enough.
And then I saw them.
They were no longer white.
Now they were deep black, with a sparkling white light inside the pupils. The colors of the Hallows. My eyes were no longer ordinary — they were what the old tale spoke of: Eyes of Death. I had awakened as the heir of House Peverell.
And the world knew it.
Elsewhere…
In a place hidden from Muggle eyes, in a castle whose grandeur and beauty mocked every medieval Muggle structure, in one of the high towers — there was a study.
A very special study.
The walls were lined with portraits. People in odd, ancient garments, as if plucked from another age. But the strangest part was… they moved. Some of them chatted among themselves, laughed, whispered — as if each of them truly lived, trapped within their frame.
In the center of the room stood a massive desk. Buried in parchment, scrolls, documents — chaotic, but in a way that suggested its owner knew precisely where everything was. Among the chaos, one thing stood out: an old, thick book. Beside it stood an elegant quill — upright, as if waiting to be used.
Behind the desk sat an elderly man with long silver hair and an equally long beard. He wore a whimsical, violet robe and muttered to himself while reading a document. But he wasn't alone — near the door, comfortably curled up, lay a large, fiery-orange bird. Its piercing eyes were fixed on the man, as if it understood every word.
Every wizard would recognize him.
Albus Dumbledore.Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
And his faithful phoenix, Fawkes.
Suddenly, the old book on the desk burst open with a loud thud. Not to the first page. Its sheets flipped rapidly, violently, as if an invisible force was searching for a specific place. Then… silence.
The book stopped.
On the page were listed the names of children — future Hogwarts students. A magical system, working uninterrupted for centuries. Recording every child who possessed even a trace of magic in their veins.
Neville LongbottomLongbottom HallBorn: July 30th, 1980
Harry PotterCupboard under the stairs, Privet Drive 4Born: July 31st, 1980
Between these entries was an empty space. Odd, perfectly sized. As if it had been waiting.
The quill lifted.
It dipped its tip in black ink and slowly, with almost ritual precision, began to write:
Oliver PeverellLondon OrphanageBorn: July 31st, 1980
Dumbledore sat in silence. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the flickering candle flames. Though his eyes followed the line of text on the parchment, his mind drifted somewhere far away. Fawkes stared at him — too still, too attentive.
And then — the book slammed shut.
The thud echoed off the stone walls. It was enough to cause a furrow of worry to appear on Dumbledore's brow. He took a deep breath and reached for the book slowly. He opened it to the page recording wizards born in the second half of 1980.
And there it was.
Oliver PeverellLondon OrphanageBorn: July 31st, 1980
He just stared for a long moment. Then whispered:
— Impossible...
His voice held no dread. It was full of disbelief — as if something he had believed lost had returned from the depths of the past.
He stood and walked to a nearby cabinet. Old, hand-bound tomes. Genealogies of pure-blood families. One faded photograph showing all members of the Order of the Phoenix.
Dumbledore's hands didn't tremble. But his eyes… did.
They landed on two familiar faces:
Elias PeverellAria Selwyn-Peverell
He remembered them. He remembered every student since he had begun teaching at Hogwarts. A powerful pair of wizards, disappeared in 1980, the world presumed them dead.
— And yet… they had a son, he said quietly, more to Fawkes than to himself. And they hid him so well, the world forgot.
The phoenix shifted slightly, releasing a soft sound — a melody, sorrowful and beautiful.
Dumbledore began searching through the library shelves of his office. A book that had only recently come into his possession. A unique volume detailing some of the darkest rituals. "There you are," he whispered, and began flipping pages. For a moment, only the rustle of parchment filled the room.
Then — silence.
On the very last page — thin as insect wing membrane and yet heavy as memory — were words Dumbledore had never seen before.
The Ritual of Complete ErasureForbidden magic, forgotten even among most wizarding families.A ritual that hides not just the body or name, but the fact of existence itself.
A child subject to the ritual is not removed.They are… never recorded.Books do not know them.Wands do not sense them.Curses and blessings pass without effect.Even Fate cannot reach what it cannot see.
But the price…
The price is two lives — bound by blood and love.The voluntary death of both parents, in full knowledge of the cost.Not an act of desperation.Not the result of battle.A sacrifice by choice.
Only then does the ritual take hold.Only then does the world forget.
But memory… always returns.
Dumbledore pulled back from the desk. Silent. His fingers gripped the edge of the armchair.
— Lily Evans… James Potter… he whispered. They died out of love. Their sacrifice was beautiful, but… imposed by Voldemort. They didn't choose the moment. They didn't choose the curse.
He closed his eyes.
— Frank and Alice Longbottom… their fate was worse than death. But not voluntary. Not chosen. Their minds were stolen from them.
He looked at the page once more.
— Elias and Aria… chose death. Chose to be forgotten. Consciously, with a cold decision. They gave their child a gift no one else could — not just protection from Voldemort… but from the entire world.
From fate itself.
Fawkes let out a low cry. His feathers trembled, as if the phoenix could feel the weight of the words spoken by his master. And then… he sang. The song was not joyful. Nor mournful.
It was… true.
— Oliver Peverell, Dumbledore whispered the name, as if afraid it might vanish again. Heir to those who erased themselves from history. A boy who should not exist…
He rose from his chair and walked to the window. The night was cold, dark, and the sky was hidden by thick clouds. No stars were visible.
But he felt that one had just returned to its rightful place.
— Minerva… he whispered. This time, it wasn't a command. It wasn't a summons. It was a plea.
A few minutes later, the door to the office creaked open without a knock. Professor McGonagall entered, her face worried, but focused.
— What happened?
Dumbledore didn't turn away from the window.
— Oliver Peverell… was all he said.
McGonagall froze. Truly froze. In that moment — she didn't breathe. Didn't blink. As if time itself had stopped.
— …but they… she began, but couldn't finish.
— They're not just "they" anymore, Minerva, Dumbledore said quietly, still gazing into the night. Their legacy has returned. And it has just awakened.
He looked at her over his shoulder.
— We need to send him a letter.
Her eyebrows rose slightly.
— Just a letter?
— For now… yes. He smiled faintly. A child who didn't exist for ten years… should not be overwhelmed by the full truth all at once.
McGonagall nodded, still silent. After a moment, she spoke with a trembling voice:
— You know he won't be an ordinary student, Albus.
Dumbledore looked at the extinguished candles — which had already begun to flicker back to life on their own.
— I know, Minerva.
He sighed deeply.
AN:
Thank you for reading this chapter.This is the true beginning of Oliver's story — a child hidden not only from the world, but from fate itself. A legacy erased by love, and now… reborn.