The descent into the Slytherin dormitory felt endless. The prefect's lantern swung with each step, throwing slanting shadows along the damp stone walls. The group of first-years trailed behind in uneasy silence, their shoes scraping on the worn steps. Oliver clutched his guitar case to his chest as if it were a shield.
When the corridor finally opened into the common room, he drew a sharp breath. The ceiling was low and arched, the walls cool and dark, but the light had a strange, shifting glow. Green lamps shimmered faintly, their light refracted through the depths of the Black Lake that pressed against the windows. Shadows of fish flickered across the floor.
A hush of awe rippled through the other first-years, but Oliver felt no wonder. The room was beautiful, yes, but it was also cold. The air smelled faintly of damp stone, and the couches arranged around the hearth seemed more like thrones than places for rest. This was a room that expected its inhabitants to posture, not to belong.
"Girls' dormitory, to the left. Boys, to the right," the prefect instructed. "You'll find your beds marked. Lights out in ten minutes."
As the students scattered, Oliver moved quickly toward the boys' side. He could feel the eyes of older Slytherins raking over him, noting the guitar case, whispering behind hands. His cheeks burned, but he didn't falter. He found his bed in the far corner and dropped his suitcase with a muted thud.
The mattress was stiff, the pillow thin, but Oliver didn't care. He sat down heavily, resting the guitar across his knees. The familiar weight steadied his hands. Around him, the other boys—Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle, and a few Oliver didn't know yet—were laughing as they unpacked, swapping jokes about "blood-traitors" and "Mudbloods."
Oliver tuned the strings softly, plucking one note at a time. The sound was barely audible over the chatter, but it was enough to anchor him.
"What's that?" drawled a voice.
Oliver looked up. Malfoy stood a few feet away, smirk already in place. "Still carrying that silly thing? Do you plan to serenade the mermaids outside?"
Laughter broke out among the others. Crabbe guffawed so loudly it echoed.
Oliver's jaw tightened. He didn't answer. Instead, he set the guitar carefully against the wall and lay back on the bed. He'd learned long ago that sometimes silence was the sharpest blade.
But as he closed his eyes, he knew this dormitory would never feel like home.
The first morning of classes arrived far too quickly. Oliver woke groggy, stomach knotted with dread, and dressed in the green-trimmed robes that still felt alien on his shoulders. He strapped his guitar across his back before leaving, ignoring the raised eyebrows of his dormmates. Better to endure stares than to leave it vulnerable.
Breakfast in the Great Hall was a blur of noise and clinking plates. Oliver ate little, distracted by the thought of his first lessons. He caught sight of Harry across the hall. For a moment, their eyes met. Harry smiled faintly. Oliver felt warmth stir in his chest—until Ron leaned in, muttered something, and tugged Harry's attention away. The smile faltered.
By the time the Slytherins gathered for Potions, Oliver's nerves were raw. The dungeon classroom was cool and dim, rows of desks set before a blackboard scrawled with chalk. Jars lined the shelves, filled with things that floated or writhed in cloudy liquids. The air smelled of herbs, damp earth, and something sharp that made Oliver's eyes sting.
"Pair off," came the silken voice of Professor Snape. He emerged from the shadows like smoke, his black robes sweeping, his expression unreadable. His gaze slid over the students as though cataloging flaws. "Today you will brew a simple Cure for Boils. Instructions are on the board. I expect precision."
The class shuffled into pairs. Malfoy immediately seized Crabbe, leaving Oliver standing awkwardly until a quiet voice said, "You can sit here."
Oliver turned. A girl with pale blond hair and cool gray-blue eyes gestured to the empty seat beside her. She was neat, composed, her quill already set out.
"Daphne Greengrass," she said as he sat down. Her tone was polite, not warm, but not mocking either.
"Oliver D. Night," he murmured.
She nodded once, as though confirming a detail on a list, and turned to the board.
They set to work. Oliver measured the dried nettles, careful to cut them as evenly as possible. Daphne handled the cauldron with calm efficiency, heating the water just enough, stirring clockwise with practiced flicks.
Snape drifted between desks, his presence like a chill. When he reached theirs, his black eyes fixed on Oliver's hands. "Chop them finer, Mr. Night," he said coldly. "Unless you wish to poison the entire class."
Oliver's stomach dropped. He adjusted his knife, cheeks hot, though Daphne's ingredients looked no better. Snape, however, said nothing to her.
When the professor moved on, Daphne lowered her voice. "Don't take it personally. He favors his own."
Oliver glanced at her. "You mean Malfoy."
Her mouth twitched—neither smile nor frown. "And others like him. Bloodlines matter to them. But not to everyone." She dropped another nettle into the cauldron, watching it dissolve. "I don't care what family you come from. You can brew or you can't. That's all that matters to me."
Oliver blinked, surprised. "You don't think I'm… strange? For…" He gestured vaguely to the guitar leaning against his chair.
Daphne's eyes flicked toward it, then back to him. "I think you're different," she said. "But different doesn't mean lesser. Let them laugh. They're louder than they are clever."
For the first time since arriving, Oliver felt a knot loosen in his chest. Someone in Slytherin who wasn't against him, who didn't sneer when he breathed. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Thanks," he muttered.
Daphne simply stirred the potion again, as if the matter was settled.
By the end of the lesson, their cauldron produced a potion of cloudy green, serviceable if not perfect. Snape gave it a long look, his lips curling. "Barely acceptable," he pronounced. His eyes lingered on Oliver, sharp and cutting, before he swept away.
Oliver felt the sting, but Daphne's earlier words lingered. Different doesn't mean lesser.
As they packed up, Daphne glanced at him. "Ignore Malfoy," she said quietly. "He'll be after you no matter what you do. Just don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction."
Oliver nodded. He wasn't sure if he could follow that advice, but he appreciated the offer.
When they left the dungeon, the corridor swarmed with students rushing to their next classes. Daphne slipped into the crowd without another word. Oliver adjusted his guitar strap and followed the tide, his mind whirling.
Perhaps, he thought, this House wasn't entirely against him after all.
The next morning began with Charms, and Oliver felt a nervous flutter in his stomach as he slipped into the classroom. The space was smaller than most, with high windows that spilled light across rows of desks. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with books, baubles, and strange devices that ticked faintly or hummed when students brushed past.
Professor Flitwick was barely tall enough to see over his desk. He clambered up onto a stack of books, beaming at the class as though their arrival was the best thing that had happened all week. "Welcome, welcome! Charms is one of the most useful branches of magic. You'll be employing what you learn here every day of your lives."
Oliver leaned forward, guitar strap digging into his shoulder. He wasn't about to play it here, but the weight of it grounded him.
Their first task was simple: the Levitation Charm. "Swish and flick!" Flitwick demonstrated, his high-pitched voice brimming with enthusiasm. "And remember the pronunciation: Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa."
Students paired off, feathers laid before them. Malfoy was already smirking at Crabbe and Goyle, twirling his wand with theatrical flourishes. Oliver found himself across from a nervous boy with hair so dark it shone blue under the light.
They practiced, Oliver mimicking Flitwick's swish-and-flick. The incantation stumbled clumsily from his lips. Nothing happened. Around them, frustrated murmurs filled the air, punctuated by an occasional spark or puff of smoke.
Oliver frowned at his feather, tapping the rhythm of the incantation against his knee with his free hand. Words always slid into him better when they had cadence. Slowly, he whispered the syllables like they were notes, humming the vowels just under his breath: Win-gar-dium… Le-vi-o-sa.
When he lifted his wand with that gentle rhythm, the feather twitched. His partner gasped.
Oliver tried again, this time letting the hum of the syllables stretch like a sustained chord. "Wingardium Leviosa," he murmured, swish, flick—
The feather rose smoothly into the air, bobbing gently like it had caught a breeze.
His partner let out a sharp laugh of disbelief. "You did it!"
Flitwick was at their side in an instant, clapping his small hands together. "Excellent, Mr. Night, excellent! Five points to Slytherin for such elegant execution!"
A ripple of whispers spread across the room. Slytherins at the back craned their necks, eyes narrowing. Malfoy shot Oliver a glare sharp enough to cut glass. But Flitwick's approval rang in Oliver's ears, warm as a chord resolving.
The feather hovered higher, and Oliver grinned despite himself. For once, it didn't matter if he was strange. His way worked.
By the end of the lesson, he'd guided his feather in lazy arcs above the desk, humming softly to keep the rhythm. His partner watched, half-amused, half-in awe. When the bell rang, Oliver let the feather drift down, heart lighter than it had been since the Sorting.
"Very well done, Mr. Night," Flitwick praised again as they left. "It's clear you've a natural sense for cadence. Magic often flows easier when you find your rhythm."
The words echoed in Oliver's chest long after he left the classroom. Rhythm. He had always known it, always felt it, but hearing a professor recognize it—reward it—was something else entirely.
But whatever pride he carried back to the common room was short-lived.
"Levitation," Malfoy sneered that evening as Oliver crossed the room. "Big accomplishment, Night. Maybe next time you can charm your guitar to play itself. Save us the torture." Crabbe and Goyle howled with laughter, and a few others smirked.
Oliver didn't rise to it. He climbed the stairs to the dormitory, heart still clinging to Flitwick's words. The points he'd earned might not have mattered to Malfoy, but they mattered to him.
That night, the ache of laughter still gnawed at him. He waited until the dormitory quieted, then slipped into the corridors, guitar across his back.
The castle at night was alive in its own way—torches guttering low, staircases creaking faintly as they shifted, portraits muttering in their sleep. Oliver padded to his usual hallway, settling against the wall with the guitar on his lap.
The first strum was quiet, a breath against the silence. He let the chords rise gently, matching the echoing cadence of Flitwick's lesson. Magic had rhythm, just as music did. The realization soothed him more than he expected.
A soft scrape of claws on stone made him stiffen. From the shadows, two gleaming eyes blinked into view.
Mrs. Norris.
Oliver's stomach dropped. If she fetched Filch, he'd be finished. But the cat didn't dart away. Instead, she slunk closer, tail curling high, and sat primly beside him. Her ears twitched as he played.
"You're not going to get me in trouble, are you?" Oliver whispered.
Mrs. Norris purred faintly, a low rumble that vibrated through the stone floor.
Oliver blinked. Carefully, he strummed another chord. She closed her eyes, tail twitching in time. His chest loosened, a laugh catching in his throat. "You like this, don't you?"
He played softly until his eyes drooped. When at last he stood, slinging the guitar back over his shoulder, Mrs. Norris rose too. She padded a few steps ahead, paused, and glanced back as though expecting him to follow.
Oliver frowned but obeyed. At each corner, she stopped, scanning before moving on. Slowly, carefully, she led him all the way to the dungeon entrance. When he slipped inside, safe, she blinked once and vanished into the shadows.
"Thanks," Oliver whispered into the dark.
From then on, she was always there when he played—silent, listening, guiding him back unseen.
Word still spread that Oliver Night was "weird," that he hummed through spells and strummed at odd hours. Malfoy's nickname—"the Minstrel"—caught on quickly. But Oliver kept Flitwick's words in his heart, and he kept his secret ally in the shadows.
And yet, as the week wore on, the ache of isolation deepened. Harry still tried to smile at him, but Ron's glare always pulled him away. Slytherins laughed when he entered a room. Even the few curious glances he earned in the halls slipped away before they became words.
The Sorting Hat had promised greatness. But all Oliver felt was different. Alone.
That ache would carry him to the forest's edge before long.
The week tipped into the weekend with a sky the color of wet slate. Rain threaded down the castle windows in thin, tired lines. Oliver watched it from the Slytherin common room, where the lake's dim light smeared everything green and gray. Malfoy was holding court near the hearth, tossing out loud opinions about Quidditch teams he had never actually seen play. Laughter rose and fell like the tide.
Oliver packed his parchment slowly, sliding his quill away and checking the time on the little brass clock mounted above the mantel. Curfew was in an hour. If he left now, there would be just enough space between patrols and wandering prefects to disappear for a bit. Not for the corridors this time. The ache in his chest had built into something that didn't fit in stone or echo. He needed outside air, wet or not.
He slung the guitar over his shoulder and stood. Malfoy's eyes flicked to him, then away, as if the sight of Oliver moving about freely offended him. Crabbe attempted a strum in the air; Goyle laughed as if that counted for wit. Oliver didn't look back.
The dungeon corridor was cooler than usual, breath puffing faintly. Water ticked somewhere, regular as a leaky faucet. He took the stairs up two at a time, mind already mapping which passageways would be emptiest, which tapestries hid the shortcuts he'd discovered by accident at midnight. At the first landing he paused. Something moved in the shadow by the armor—low, sleek.
"Hello," he whispered.
Mrs. Norris slid into the torchlight, whiskers lifted. She gazed at him as though the plan in his head were written across his face. Without a sound, she turned and padded down the corridor, not toward his usual practice nook but toward a side passage that sloped upward.
"You won't get me in trouble, right?" he murmured.
She didn't answer, obviously. She simply led, and Oliver followed. The castle's bones shifted around them: narrower halls, older stone, a scattering of spider webs like fine lace at the ceiling corners. Twice she stopped, ears pricking, and Oliver pressed himself flat to cold walls as footsteps clicked faintly past at cross corridors. Once a prefect's voice floated by, bored and thin, and Oliver held his breath until it melted into distance.
They reached a door with iron straps and a long latch polished by a thousand hands. It opened to the covered path that led down to the grounds: a cloister, really, open arches to the rain, square pillars slick with damp. The air outside hit Oliver's face with clean chill. He stepped out, and the sound of the castle softened to a hush behind him.
Mrs. Norris hesitated at the threshold, peering into the wet night with a look that said she'd gone as far as she would. Oliver crouched, scratching gently under her chin in thanks. She allowed the indignity for one whole second, then batted his fingers away with regal restraint and vanished back inside.
"Fair enough," Oliver said, quietly grinning. "See you later."
The rain wasn't heavy, just steady enough to soak hair and cloak edges. He pulled his collar up and followed the gravel path down toward the dark blur of the tree line. The grounds felt huge at night—more space between breaths. Lanterns burned at intervals, fat halos of gold on the grass, but the far stretches drowned in gray. The lake at his left was a slab of iron, smooth and unreadable.
There were rules about wandering at night. There were more rules about the forest. He knew both as you know the warning on a stove: keep clear if you don't want to be burned. He also knew he wasn't going to barge under the branches and get himself eaten. He wanted the edge. The fringe. He wanted to stand where the train's steam in his memory met the smell of wet leaves and say, out loud, that he still meant to belong here.
Oliver sat on the damp stump, rain whispering through the trees. He drew the guitar into his lap and brushed his fingers along the strings. The notes came soft at first, circling the clearing like fireflies.
He let the rhythm fall into place — steady, pulsing, the same rhythm that had helped him master his first charm. For a long breath he only played, listening to the way the chords dissolved into the mist, until he felt the moment was ready.
And then he began to sing.
[Past Lives by BØRNS ]
"Past lives couldn't ever hold me down
Lost love is sweeter when it's finally found
I've got the strangest feelin'
This isn't our first time around"
Oliver's voice seemed to merge with the humming of the forest
"Past lives couldn't ever come between us
Sometimes the dreamers finally wake up
Don't wake me, I'm not dreamin'
Don't wake me, I'm not dreamin'"
"Past lives couldn't ever hold me down
Lost love is sweeter when it's finally found
I've got the strangest feelin'
This isn't our first time around"
Every time he repeated the Lines the Magic around him seemed to start to vibrate visibly.
"Past lives couldn't ever come between us
Sometimes the dreamers finally wake up
Don't wake me, I'm not dreamin'
Don't wake me, I'm not dreamin'"
"Past lives couldn't ever hold me down
Lost love is sweeter when it's finally found
I've got the strangest feelin'
This isn't our first time around"
As he finishes his song his voice seems to fade away and the sounds of nature are still for a second before continuing as if the performance was just as natural as a gust of wind.
"Past lives couldn't ever come between us
Sometimes the dreamers finally wake up
Don't wake me, I'm not dreamin'
Don't wake me, I'm not dreamin'"
The forest seemed to stir with every line. Owls shifted in the branches above, their wings rustling like a second chorus. A fox crept from the undergrowth, nose twitching as it sat back on its haunches to listen. Even the trees themselves felt quieter, as though holding their breath.
When his voice rose, a ripple shivered through the lake's surface. When it fell soft, the rain hushed as if to give him space.
The final chord lingered in the damp air. For a heartbeat, there was only silence — but it was not an empty silence. It was full, listening, alive.
A low, astonished voice broke it.
"Blimey," someone said, very softly. "That was summat."
Oliver jerked upright, heart kicking his ribs. From between two tree trunks near the path, a lantern glow bobbed. It moved toward him with care, like the person carrying it didn't want to startle whatever lived in the dark.
"Sorry," the voice added quickly, gentle and rough at once. "Didn' mean to put the fright on yeh."
The lantern set the wet leaves alight with warm color, and the big man from the boats stepped into it. Hagrid looked even larger out here than he had on the platform, beard collecting rain, hair plastered under a battered cap. His beetle-black eyes shone, and there was a smile tucked into his beard the way light tucks into glass.
"How long—" Oliver began, then shook his head and tried again. "How long were you there?"
"Don' worry," Hagrid said, raising one giant hand. "Wasn' spyin' or nothin'. I heard a bit when I was comin' from the gamekeeper's shed. Sound carries funny over the grass." He angled his head, listening to the last ghost of the night's music as if it might come back round for another lap. "Didn' want to interrupt your… singin'."
Oliver blinked water out of his eyelashes and realized he was shaking a little. From the rain, yes, but also from the way the song had pulled things out of him. "I'm not really supposed to be out."
"True enough," Hagrid said. "Nor me, technically, but rules bend a touch for groundskeepers." His eyes softened. "You're Night, aren' yeh. Oliver D. Night. Sorted yerself into Slytherin the other evenin'."
"I didn't—well. Yes." Oliver looked at his boots. "That's me."
"Right," Hagrid said, like that settled the matter. "Well, Night, I'll say it plain. Yeh've got a knack. The guitar's fine playin', but the singin'—there's somethin' in it. Honest. The forest liked it." He glanced past Oliver into the trees, not with fear but with the careful respect of someone who knew how many eyes could be watching at any given moment. "Creatures listen different than people do. Dun' care what house yeh're in, see. They hear if yeh mean it."
Oliver's chest did that strange tight-loose thing again. He nodded, because the words wouldn't line up. He wiped his sleeve across the guitar's body even though there wasn't much water left on it.
Hagrid shifted the lantern to his other hand. "Listen. If yeh ever want a place to play where folk won' bother yeh and no one's takin' house points or sniggerin', my hut's at the edge o' the forest. Door's open. Tea's rubbish—can't lie about that—but it's warm inside. Yeh can strum a bit; I won' mind. Fang won' either. He snores, truth be told, but he's good company."
Oliver startled himself by laughing. The sound was small and went out in a puff, but it was real. "I'd like that," he said.
Hagrid nodded, as if he'd expected that answer. "Good. Come round when yeh like, long as yeh're sensible about patrols. I'll not be the reason Filch comes knockin' on Professor Snape's door in the middle o' the night." He tilted his head at the guitar. "That song—d' yeh write it just now?"
Oliver shifted, half-embarrassed. "I… put pieces together. From this week."
"Well," Hagrid said, the word thick with approval. "Keep at it. Yeh've got a way of sayin' things that ain' too many words, but they sit right. That's rarer than folk think."
They stood that way for another few seconds, rain whispering on leaves, lantern light making the water on the grass look like flecks of copper. A soft hoot rolled across the lakeshore. Oliver looked toward it and saw the outline of an owl coasting to a perch, silent as falling dust.
"Alright," Hagrid said gently, as if not to scare off the quiet that had settled between them. "Best get yeh back before Filch decides to do an extra round. He gets restless on wet nights."
Oliver nodded and rose, carefully refastening the latches on his case. Hagrid waited, lantern steady.
They walked the first part together. Hagrid's steps were long but measured, mindful of where student legs began and ended. He kept between Oliver and the deeper trees without making a fuss about it, as if his bulk were a wall that wind and trouble would choose to go around. When the path met the cloister again, he stopped.
"I can take it from here," Oliver said.
"Aye," Hagrid said. "And next time—knock the first time yeh come by. I don' want Fang thinkin' we got a visitor the size of a Whomping Willow and wakin' half the grounds with his bark." His eyes crinkled. "Night, Oliver."
"Night," Oliver said, and couldn't stop himself, "—Hagrid."
"Tha's right." Hagrid's smile got bigger, which was saying something, and he swung the lantern in a thoughtful arc before turning back toward the hut and the invisible lines he walked every night to be sure the grounds stayed themselves.
Oliver slipped under the cloister's protective stretch. He could hear rain hitting the roof louder now, drumming a steady measure. At the door he'd used earlier, he paused. The iron latch was cold against his palm.
A shape unpeeled from the shadow of the last pillar and flowed to his ankles. Mrs. Norris looked faintly offended at the damp but otherwise unbothered. She bumped his shin with the top of her head, once.
"I'm going," Oliver whispered. "Promise."
She trotted ahead, tail a question mark, and Oliver fell into step behind. The castle swallowed them quickly, door sighing shut on the night sounds. Inside, torches guttered low and painted the halls in more gold than green. Mrs. Norris kept to the edge of the light, pausing at corners, peering down stairwells. Twice she stopped and held still until a pair of prefects went past, their shoes click-clicking without urgency. At one turn a portrait of a knight blinked awake and made a half-hearted attempt at a challenge before thinking better of it and resuming his snore. The cat ignored him completely.
At the entrance to the dungeons, she halted and sat, neatly wrapping her tail. Oliver crouched, not quite daring to reach for a scratch this time. "Thank you," he said, earnest enough that it sounded like a request for more than directions.
She blinked like a slow-door hinge and slid back into the darkness without ceremony. He watched the place she had been for another beat, then went the last part alone.
The Slytherin common room gave its familiar chill when he pushed through the wall. Fewer students lingered this late; the fire was banked, shadows long. A couple of second-years bent over a game of chess with little stone pieces that clacked their teeth impatiently when ignored. Malfoy was gone. The couch by the window was empty, fishes making pale commas as they slid past the glass.
Oliver crossed to the dorm stair quietly and climbed. The room smelled of damp wool and soap. He set the guitar case down and eased the latches, just to check everything was as it should be. It was. The wood gleamed faintly in the greenish light, the strings fine and true. He closed it again.
He lay back on the stiff pillow, expecting the old itch of thoughts to return straight away. Strangely, they didn't. They spread out instead, like damp pages held near a fire, flattening, smoothing. He replayed Hagrid's voice—Creatures don' care what house yeh're in. They just know if yeh've got kindness in yeh. It sat beside the memory of Flitwick's bright, pleased "Five points to Slytherin," and beside Mrs. Norris nosing him into motion in the hallway when he would have frozen. Three small things, hardly armor. But they fit together in a way that made the next breath come easier.
Sleep came in after that, not all at once but like a tide that gets what it wants in the end. He dreamt something about a red train and a black lake trading places, the water running along rails while the engine steamed between trees and didn't derail because the owls knew where to guide it. In the dream he sang, not loudly, and the forest didn't mind.
Morning would bring more mockery. Malfoy would invent a sharper version of "Minstrel." Ron would pull Harry in another direction. Snape would find a word that trimmed a bit of pride from whatever Oliver did well. Daphne would be polite without being kind. All of that would still be true.
But there was a hut at the edge of the forest now—somewhere he could be noisy without asking for forgiveness. There was a half-promise of tea and a dog that snored and the sense that the night had taken his song and put it somewhere safe inside the trees instead of flinging it back at him.
He didn't know yet that he would come to love those walks to the hut more than any place inside the castle. He didn't know that Hagrid would ask for help carrying crates or fetching bundles of dried herbs, or that on one of those errands they would find a creature no one had planned for. He didn't know those things, and he didn't need to. It was enough, for now, to know he had a path to walk that wasn't just hallway stone.
Oliver D. Night slept, finally. Outside, rain washed the grass flat and the lake smoothed to slate again. Inside, Mrs. Norris did one last slow patrol and then curled on a warm ledge. In the forest, something winged and secret turned its head once, as if marking a new sound in its territory, then settled its feathers and waited for a later night.
And in a small, green-lit room under the lake, a boy who had sung for the first time at Hogwarts let the after-sound of it hold him until the alarmless morning light woke the fish and the castle and everything else that still had to be faced.