Classes at Hogwarts had settled into a rhythm that Oliver found hard to stomach. Most days began with parchment and quills, professors talking endlessly about magical laws, theory, or history. Practical lessons were rare, and when they came, students were clumsy with their wands, laughter bubbling up as feathers spun or sparks fizzled in the air. Oliver fared better than most—when he treated the words like lyrics, the magic flowed more easily—but it wasn't enough to anchor him.
The weight pressing on his chest wasn't about spells. It was about silence.
The Gryffindors passed him in the corridors with wary glances. Harry sometimes lifted a hand in greeting, a faint flicker of the boy Oliver had met on the train, but Ron was always there, tugging him along with a scowl. The few times Harry had tried to slow, Ron muttered something sharp, and Harry's hand dropped. Each time it happened, Oliver felt a little more of that fragile thread between them snap.
Slytherin wasn't kinder. Malfoy's nickname—"Minstrel"—had caught on like fire, repeated by students who weren't clever enough to invent their own taunts but eager enough to follow. Crabbe and Goyle plucked at invisible strings whenever he walked past, their laughter echoing down the dungeon halls. Even some of the girls giggled behind their hands when Malfoy performed his cruel mimicries.
Only Daphne Greengrass had once seemed different. In Potions she'd partnered with him without complaint, had even told him that being different wasn't a weakness. That single kindness had lodged in Oliver's mind, a spark in the cold.
Which was why he sought her out one evening.
The Slytherin common room was quieter than usual, the fire crackling low, painting green and gold across the water-shimmered ceiling. Most of the older students had gone to the library or their dorms. Oliver spotted Daphne across the room, her blond hair catching the firelight as she sat with a group of second-years near the hearth.
He hesitated, guitar strap digging into his shoulder. Approaching her wasn't easy—Malfoy was in the room too, lounging smugly in an armchair. But Daphne's earlier words replayed in his head: Different doesn't mean lesser. Maybe she meant it still. Maybe she wouldn't mind a simple question about the homework Snape had assigned.
He crossed the room slowly, rehearsing the words in his head. Before he reached her, though, Daphne laughed at something one of the others said. The sound was light, easy, unlike the clipped tones she used in class.
"…always humming to himself," a second-year boy muttered, just loud enough for Oliver to catch. "Like he thinks he's writing spells into songs. It's pathetic."
Oliver froze.
Daphne smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "He does it in Potions too. Can't even chop nettles without humming like he's composing a ballad. Honestly, it's embarrassing."
The words landed like a stone in Oliver's stomach. He stood rooted to the spot, the question he'd meant to ask shriveling on his tongue. Daphne hadn't noticed him, or maybe she had and didn't care. The others chuckled, and one of the girls mimicked a tuneless hum.
Malfoy's eyes flicked toward Oliver, his smirk widening. He hadn't heard the remark, but he didn't need to. The look on Oliver's face must have been enough.
Oliver turned on his heel before anyone else could see the heat rising in his cheeks. He climbed the stairs to the dormitory two at a time, each step ringing in his ears. Daphne's words replayed again and again, sharper each time.
She hadn't said them with malice, not like Malfoy would. That was what made it worse. She'd said them casually, carelessly, as though mocking him was just another way to pass the time.
For a moment, Oliver hated her more than he hated Malfoy. Malfoy's cruelty was predictable. Daphne's betrayal cut deeper because it had once been wrapped in kindness.
That night, he couldn't bring himself to play in the corridors. The guitar stayed by his bed, silent, while he lay awake staring at the ceiling. Even Mrs. Norris didn't appear; or if she did, he didn't notice her in his restless haze.
The next day wasn't kinder. Snape prowled through Potions, his gaze sharp as knives. When Oliver's cauldron produced a potion slightly cloudier than it should have been, Snape's voice cut through the room.
"Pathetic. If you cannot follow the simplest instructions, Mr. Night, you may as well take up playing lullabies instead of potions."
Laughter rippled through the Slytherins. Malfoy leaned back in his chair, grinning smugly.
Oliver's fists clenched under the table. He wanted to shout, to tell Snape that he wasn't useless, that he could do more if anyone gave him a chance. But he stayed silent, heat burning in his cheeks, jaw tight.
Snape didn't deduct points, of course. He never did. That small mercy only deepened the sting. It wasn't mercy at all—it was dismissal.
By the time evening fell, Oliver's chest ached with the weight of it. He carried his guitar to the common room, hoping to retreat into a corner and strum quietly to himself. But Malfoy was waiting.
"Well, well," Malfoy drawled as Oliver entered. Crabbe and Goyle flanked him, grinning stupidly. "Look who decided to grace us with his presence. The Minstrel himself."
Oliver kept walking, heading for the far side of the room.
"Oi, I'm talking to you," Malfoy snapped. "What's the matter? Too busy writing another love song to Potter?"
Crabbe snorted. Goyle guffawed. A few other Slytherins looked up, curiosity sparking in their eyes.
Oliver stopped. His grip on the guitar strap tightened until his knuckles whitened.
"What's wrong?" Malfoy pressed, smirking. "Scared to stand up for yourself again? You weren't so shy on the train when you attacked Crabbe. Remember that?"
Crabbe's grin twisted into a scowl, his fists curling at his sides.
Oliver's chest heaved. Every part of him screamed to lash out, to swing the guitar like a weapon, to wipe the smug look off Malfoy's face. His blood boiled, his vision narrowed. But the memory of the unicorn in the forest flickered through his mind—its calm gaze, the way it had stepped forward when he hummed.
He took a shaky breath and unclenched his fists. Slowly, he turned and walked past Malfoy without a word.
The common room erupted with laughter, Malfoy's voice carrying above the rest. "That's what I thought. Minstrel's nothing but a coward."
Oliver didn't look back. He climbed the stairs to the dormitory, heart pounding, throat tight. The laughter followed him up, echoing against the stone walls long after the door closed behind him.
He sat on his bed, guitar across his lap. His hands hovered over the strings, but he couldn't bring himself to play. Not tonight. Not with Daphne's words still cutting into him, not with Malfoy's taunts ringing in his ears.
Instead, he closed his eyes and thought of the forest. Of the damp earth beneath his boots, the hush of the trees, the shimmer of the unicorn's mane. There, he hadn't been mocked or dismissed. There, he had been heard.
The castle might never welcome him, but the forest had. And for now, that was enough to keep the silence from breaking him completely.
He sat with the guitar across his knees until the ache in his hands from not playing matched the ache behind his eyes. The dormitory was too quiet, the kind of quiet that made a person want to apologize for breathing. From the beds around him came the small sounds of Slytherins being comfortable: pages turning, a snore, the rustle of a sweet wrapper. Not one of them saw him—really saw him—unless there was a joke to be made.
A thought slid in, small at first and then too large to ignore: Why am I sleeping in a room with people who don't even see me as a person? It wasn't anger; anger burned hot and brief. This was something steadier. A decision.
He set the guitar down gently, slipped his few belongings back into his battered case, and tightened the strap across his chest. He took only what mattered: wand, notebook, socks rolled into a ball, the pouch of unicorn hairs Hagrid had given him, and the guitar. The rest could wait.
The common room had thinned out. Malfoy was gone, his laughter finally spent. The green light from the lake washed the ceiling. Oliver moved quietly, pressing his palm to the wall where the entrance unsealed, and stepped into the corridor.
A shape peeled from the shadow to his right and fell into step: Mrs. Norris. Her eyes caught the torchlight like little coins. She didn't meow. She didn't need to. He nodded once as if she'd asked a question.
"I'm not coming back here tonight," he whispered.
She swiveled an ear, then trotted ahead, guiding without fuss. Oliver followed. They took turns he'd never have dared alone, cuts through half-lit galleries, a narrow stair that smelled of polish and old oil, a slip behind a tapestry that hid a short crawl. Twice she stopped dead and he flattened to the wall as prefects' footsteps passed and faded. When they reached a landing that opened onto a colder stretch of corridor, she paused at a corner, peered around it like a soldier, then flicked her tail. All clear.
They weren't alone for long. As they curved under a low arch, muffled voices drifted up—too light to be teachers, too awake to be prefects. Oliver slowed. Mrs. Norris's tail went up like a flag as two redheads popped into view, identical grins already loaded and ready.
"Out for a midnight stroll, are we?" one said, leaning against the stone with theatrical nonchalance.
"And with the finest chaperone the castle provides," the other added, tipping an invisible hat to Mrs. Norris. "Evening, madam."
Mrs. Norris blinked once, accepting the respect as her due.
Oliver recognized them—Fred and George Weasley. They carried mischief like a scent, but their eyes were sharp.
"Look," Fred said quietly, the grin easing into something like curiosity. "You're Oliver, yeah? Slytherin. Guitar. Caused a minor earthquake on the train when you flattened Goyle."
"Crabbe," George corrected, cheerful. "Goyle's earthquake came later."
Oliver's chin lifted despite himself. "I'm… looking for a room."
"That is the most interesting sentence we've heard all night," Fred said.
George folded his arms. "Why?"
Oliver glanced down the corridor they'd just crossed. "Because I'm done trying to sleep in a room with people who don't think I'm real. I'm not looking for trouble. I just want a place where I'm not a joke."
The twins didn't laugh. Their glances flicked over the guitar, the thin strap of his bag, the set of his mouth. It was quick, the way they traded in-jokes over a broom handle or a trick sweet, but what moved between them now wasn't a joke. It was a decision.
"You know how to get into the kitchens?" Fred asked.
"No."
"Brilliant," George said. "Come on, then."
They set off at a brisk pace, the sort that looked casual but knew exactly where it was going. Mrs. Norris padded along like she had sanctioned the expedition herself. Down a flight, past a line of portraits (one knight lifted his visor to yawn), and into a wide corridor that smelled faintly of yeast and warm air. At the end of it, a painting of a massive fruit bowl lounged across a wall.
"Trade secret," Fred said, winking. "Don't tell Ronniekins."
"Especially don't tell Ronniekins," George echoed. "He'd only blunder into it with crumbs in his hair."
Fred reached up and tickled the painted pear. It squirmed, giggled, and transformed into a green handle. George pulled. The portrait swung open, warmth rolled out, and the sound of polite chaos spilled into the corridor: clinks, soft patter, a hundred tiny feet moving at once.
The kitchen was huge, bright, and alive. Copper pots gleamed from hooks. Long wooden tables were laid with bowls and platters in various states of completion—chopped vegetables here, polishes there. House-elves zipped from task to task, ears flapping, voices gentle. As soon as the door shut behind them, a dozen elves skidded to a stop as if they'd practiced, eyes bright with welcome.
"Good evening sirs!" chirped the nearest, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the floor. "What can we be getting yous this fine night?"
"Food," Fred said promptly, "for us, and—" he gestured to Oliver "—this is a friend who needs a favor and possibly a sandwich."
"Possibly two sandwiches," George amended.
Oliver opened his mouth to protest that he wasn't there to take advantage of anyone, but a plate had already appeared in his hands—thick bread, still warm, cheese that smelled of comfort, apple slices fanned like a little sun. Another elf thrust a mug into his grip: something warm with honey that unclenched his throat on the first swallow.
The elves' eyes had landed on the guitar by then. "Is the young master playing musics?" one asked, clasping his hands to his chest.
Oliver blinked. "Maybe later. If that's alright."
"That is very alright," the elf said fervently, then composed himself with a quick tug at his tea-towel. "We is liking musics very much."
Fred and George took their mugs to a table, sat on the bench backward, and rested their chins on the top rail, watching Oliver like they already knew how this would go. "Tell them," Fred said softly, not ordering, just nudging.
Oliver swallowed, still standing, feeling the kitchen's warmth working its way into his fingers. "I… need a place to sleep. Not forever. Just somewhere to be when the dorm is… impossible." He took a breath. "An empty classroom would do. I can keep it neat. I won't make trouble. I just want to be somewhere I'm not… wrong."
House-elves glanced at one another, a flurry of nods and whispers. One, older than the others, with careful eyes and a tea-towel folded very straight, stepped forward.
"There is old classroom near the fourth staircase what goes wrong on Wednesdays," he said. "Nobody is using it but for dust. We can be tidying, yes. We can be making bed. We can be bringing small lamp and blankets, and warm water sometimes, if master is cold."
"I don't—" Oliver's voice thinned. He tried again. "I don't want to make work for you."
"It is our work," the elder elf said, with dignity. "And we is wanting to do it for someone who is kind. The singing is welcome. The kindness is welcome." He looked at Fred and George, then back at Oliver. "We is not telling. It is safe."
The words unhooked something. Oliver nodded, once, almost too quickly. "Thank you."
"Eat," George said, tipping his mug toward Oliver's plate. "Marching orders after."
Oliver ate. He didn't realize until then how hungry he'd been. The twins talked quietly with the elves about nothing important—Quidditch brooms and pumpkin pasties and a rumor about a suit of armor that sneezed pepper every full moon. The kitchen hummed around them, efficient and gentle.
"Play a bit?" Fred asked when Oliver set the empty plate down.
"Just a little," Oliver said, because even tired relief could hold a little music. He sat on the edge of the nearest table, set the guitar across his lap, checked the tuning with quiet care, and let a soft line fall into the warm air. It wasn't a performance, just a thank you wrapped in strings—simple, steady, meant for ears that had chosen to listen.
The elves gathered near but not too near, hands folded, eyes wide. One swayed, barely. Another's ears wiggled like leaves. When the last chord settled, their small applause sounded like pattering rain.
"Thank you," Oliver said again, and this time the words didn't scrape on the way out.
"Now," the elder elf said briskly, business resumed, "we is preparing room."
It happened fast. Elves moved like a thought across the kitchen and out the portrait, Oliver following with Fred and George and Mrs. Norris trotting ahead as if she had engineered the whole affair. They wound up a staircase Oliver would have sworn went somewhere else yesterday, down a narrower hall that had not felt promising when he'd walked it before, and stopped at a door with a cloud of chalk dust clinging to its frame.
Inside, the room was plain and empty: blackboard at one end, high windows pressed tight against the night, rows of old desks stacked in a haphazard pyramid. Dust lay thick on the floor, scuffed by their arrival. It smelled like stale chalk and old paper.
"Perfect," George declared.
"Needs a bit of charm," Fred said, already rolling up his sleeves.
But they didn't need to lift a finger. The elves snapped into motion, small and organized. Cobwebs vanished with flicks of fingers. Dust spiraled into a tidy ball and zipped, offended, into a bucket. Two elves shuttled in a narrow cot that looked freshly aired; another set a thin but clean mattress on it and smoothed a blanket so precisely it could have been inspected by a general. A basin appeared on a low table with a pitcher beside it. A lamp found its way to the corner and hopped once to test its footing, then stood very still and brightened.
On the far wall, an elf tugged at the blackboard. It squeaked and then slid down like a curtain to reveal a shallow recess where a few shelves were hiding. "Books," he said, triumphant, though the shelves were empty for now. "Or socks."
"Or sandwiches," Fred offered.
The elder elf turned to Oliver. "This is being yours for now. We is keeping quiet. If master is needing food, he is tapping the lamp three times." He demonstrated with a tiny knuckle. The lamp glowed a fraction brighter and then settled.
Oliver stood in the middle of the room and tried to speak, failed, tried again. "I don't have words."
"You got here without them," George said lightly.
"Reckon you'll fill the room with the right ones anyway," Fred added, nodding at the guitar.
Mrs. Norris hopped onto the teacher's desk and sat, tail curled, as if stamping the room with approval.
Oliver set his bag down by the cot, the sound small and final. He placed the guitar case beside it, eased the latches, and checked the instrument once more, the way you check a pulse. Fine. Whole. He laid it on the blanket, then straightened, hands at his sides, overwhelmed and still.
"Thank you," he said to the elves, to the twins, to the cat, to the room—because all of them had conspired, in their own ways, to pull him out of a space that erased him and into one that didn't.
The elves dipped in a little bow and withdrew, one by one, until the elder paused at the door. "If master is singing, walls will keep the sound mostly in," he said, a tiny smile threatening the corners of his mouth. "But we is listening, if master is letting us."
Oliver nodded, almost laughing at how the lump in his throat kept ruining his voice tonight. "I'll… let you know."
When they were gone, Fred and George lingered at the threshold.
"If anyone asks," Fred said, "you didn't get the idea from us."
"Obviously," Oliver said.
"But if you need—" George began, then waved it off. "You'll figure it out. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The one you get when you've decided you'd rather get in trouble for being yourself than be safe being someone else," Fred said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
George grinned. "Welcome to Hogwarts, the real tour."
They pushed off the doorframe in perfect unison. "Night, Oliver," they said together, then were gone down the corridor, the kind of gone that made you wonder if they'd ever been there, except for the faint echo of their snickering at some joke they hadn't said aloud.
Mrs. Norris remained on the desk, washing a paw, as if to say she'd be the last to leave. Oliver scratched gently under her chin. She allowed it, then hopped down, trotted to the door, and paused to look back—you'll be alright?—before slipping away into the hall.
He shut the door. The lamp hummed softly, steady and warm. The cot looked impossibly inviting. He moved around the room, a small tour—shelves, basin, the way the window latch stuck, the way the chalk tray was still gritty where the elves hadn't bothered to polish it into nonexistence. He loosened the guitar strings a turn to rest them, covered it with a folded cloth, and sat on the cot, uncertain whether to laugh or sleep.
For the first time since the Sorting, the air around him didn't feel borrowed. No one sighed at the sight of him. No one sneered. The room had no opinion except that he was here, and that was enough to set its lamp glowing and its dust leaving and its cot remembering how to be a bed.
He lay back, shoes still on, too tired to care, and stared up at the ceiling. It was high and faintly cracked, the kind of ceiling that had seen a hundred years of chalk dust and thought each year acceptable. He let his breath slow. The forest would still be there tomorrow, and the kitchen, and Hagrid's hut, and—if the twins could be believed—a set of corridors through which a person could walk without brushing shoulders with anyone who wanted them smaller.
Oliver D. Night closed his eyes in his Lone Classroom, a sanctuary stitched together by a cat's silent routes, two pranksters' quiet respect, and a dozen house-elves' quick hands. Outside, the castle rolled over in its sleep. In the hidden corners, portraits muttered, staircases settled, and the lake pressed its cool palm to the outer stones.
In here, there was room enough to be a person. That would do for tonight.
===================
Hello everyone, I hope everyone is enjoying the story. This is something I've been wanting to do for a while. I've attempted but i didn't have the time so I'm hoping better late than never. If there's anything you guys would like to see let me know and I'll see if I can Fit it into the outline. If You've made it this far ca you please give me a review or a comment to let me know that I'm writing for actual people and not just myself. Song recommendations are always welcome so let me know what song you would like our MC to play.