The castle was never truly silent, not even at night. Its stones breathed with shifting staircases, portraits murmuring in their sleep, wind pushing low moans through cracks in the ancient glass. But in the abandoned classroom Oliver had claimed as his own, silence could be shaped.
Each evening, after surviving the snide remarks and restless whispers of Slytherin, Oliver slipped away. Mrs. Norris often led the way, her tail high and deliberate as if she alone sanctioned his exile. The classroom wasn't much—an old blackboard streaked with faint chalk, windows that rattled when the wind hit, shelves holding nothing but dust. But with a cot set neatly against the wall, a lamp that hummed to life when tapped, and the steady company of his guitar, it felt more like home than the dormitory ever had.
Sometimes the house-elves appeared with small offerings: a plate of bread and cheese, a blanket folded too neatly to be accidental. He always thanked them, voice catching on the words, and they always nodded with small, bright eyes, slipping away before he could say more. Fred and George had popped their heads in once or twice, pretending to inspect the room for "mischief potential." They never stayed long, but they left him with grins and reminders: "Don't let Malfoy boss you out of this place."
Oliver practiced here, but quietly. He had promised himself not to waste the music by repeating it so often that it dulled. He used the guitar for shaping charms, humming through wand movements, blending rhythm into incantations until they became natural. His late-night notes echoed soft and low, sometimes rewarded by the faintest purr from Mrs. Norris before she slunk back into the corridors.
In this room, the boy who felt invisible at meals and targeted in class was simply Oliver D. Night.
The forest became his second refuge.
Hagrid had welcomed him back after that first night, as if Oliver were an old friend rather than a student. More than once, Oliver had found himself sitting at the wooden table in the hut, Fang's massive head resting on his knees, while Hagrid poured tea and asked questions without judgment. When he played softly, Hagrid listened as though the notes were worth cataloging.
One damp afternoon, Hagrid invited him again. "Got a bit o' gatherin' to do in the forest. Nothing dangerous," he promised. "Just some herbs Sprout's after, and maybe a feather or two if the hippogriffs are feelin' generous."
Oliver hesitated only a moment. The forest no longer felt menacing the way it had when he first crossed the line of trees. It was vast, yes, and wild, but he was beginning to see it the way Hagrid did: as a place with rules, not chaos.
Lantern light flickered against the trunks as they walked. Fang bounded ahead, ears flopping, nose twitching at every scent. The air smelled sharp and green, filled with damp earth and a thousand unseen lives.
Hagrid pointed out plants as they went: dittany leaves shaped like small spears, a patch of shrivelfig roots wrinkled like old hands, a clump of toadstools glowing faintly blue. Oliver crouched beside each one, repeating their names under his breath like notes in a scale.
They paused when a rustle broke the underbrush. A small creature stepped into view, birdlike but with long, furred ears. It froze, trembling, its thin leg caught in a twist of bramble.
Oliver's chest tightened. He glanced at Hagrid, who nodded slowly, holding the lantern steady.
Kneeling, Oliver extended a hand but didn't touch. Instead, he hummed low, a single note that settled into the air. His fingers brushed the guitar strings strapped across his back, coaxing a chord soft enough not to startle. The sound threaded through the hush, patient and unhurried.
The creature's ears twitched. Its tremble slowed, as if something unseen was smoothing the air around it. Carefully, Oliver shifted the bramble aside, freeing the trapped leg. The creature blinked at him once, a dark glossy eye meeting his, before it vanished into the brush with a flutter of wings.
Hagrid's beard split in a grin. "Now that's somethin'. Most beasts'd've bolted. You've got a way with 'em, Oliver."
Oliver straightened, brushing dirt from his knees, but the warmth in his chest lingered long after.
Later, as they skirted a clearing, shapes moved between the trees. Tall, proud, their silhouettes unmistakable: centaurs. They didn't step forward, didn't speak, but they watched. Oliver felt their eyes on him, steady and measuring. He swallowed hard, instinct urging him to look away, but he held the gaze until they melted back into the forest.
"Best not bother 'em," Hagrid murmured. "They keep to themselves. But funny thing, they didn't look at me half as long as they did at you."
Oliver didn't answer. He didn't know how.
By the time they returned to the hut, his boots caked with mud and pouch filled with herbs, Oliver felt different. Not stronger exactly, but steadier, like his bones had absorbed the rhythm of the forest.
Classes remained mostly theory. Charms focused on pronunciation and wand movement diagrams, Transfiguration required copying dense notes from McGonagall's chalkboard, and Defense Against the Dark Arts seemed more about Quirelles stories than actual defense. Oliver listened, wrote, and whispered rhythms to himself when no one noticed.
Snape continued his disdain in Potions, cutting into Oliver's work with sharp remarks: "Stirring is not an excuse for humming, Mr. Night." But he never deducted points. Malfoy smirked each time, basking in Snape's favoritism.
Still, Oliver endured. The forest had given him patience. The Lone Classroom gave him a sense of control. He wasn't unshakable, but he wasn't fragile either.
Which was why, when the challenge came, he didn't crumble.
It happened on the way to Charms. The corridor was crowded, students streaming between classes, voices bouncing against stone. Malfoy's drawl rose above the noise, carrying just enough to gather attention.
"Well, if it isn't the Minstrel."
Oliver stiffened. Crabbe and Goyle flanked Malfoy, their grins wide and witless. A handful of students slowed, sensing entertainment.
Malfoy leaned lazily against the wall, arms folded. "Funny thing. You've been strumming away in the halls, keeping us all awake with your little serenades. But no one's ever seen you perform properly, have they?"
A few snickers rippled through the crowd.
Oliver tightened his grip on the guitar strap. "I don't play for you."
"Oh, I know," Malfoy said smoothly. "You play for yourself. But how selfish, really. You should share your talent." He paused, letting the sarcasm drip. "Tell you what. Halloween Feast is coming up. Why don't you put on a little show for the whole school? You'd like that, wouldn't you, Night? All eyes on you."
Laughter bubbled louder this time. The corridor swelled with whispers. Oliver felt every gaze pressing into him, waiting for him to squirm.
His stomach twisted. His first instinct was to walk away, to let the laughter fade. But something in him—something shaped by the hush of the forest, the unicorn's gaze, the centaurs' watchful silence—held him in place.
He lifted his chin. "Fine."
The laughter faltered. Malfoy blinked, taken aback.
"I'll play," Oliver continued, voice steady. "But if they like it, you owe me one hundred Galleons."
The corridor erupted. Gasps, shouts, incredulous laughter. Someone whispered, "Did he just—?"
Malfoy's smirk twitched. "Don't be ridiculous."
"You challenged me in front of everyone," Oliver said, louder now. His heart hammered, but he forced the words out. "If you're so sure I'll make a fool of myself, then prove it. A hundred Galleons. Or are you afraid?"
More gasps. The crowd leaned closer, savoring every word. Malfoy's pale face flushed faintly pink. He could feel the weight of witnesses pressing on him. Backing down now would mean surrender.
With a curl of his lip, he spat, "Fine. One hundred Galleons."
The corridor exploded with chatter. Some laughed harder, imagining Oliver's humiliation. Others whispered that Malfoy was mad to risk that much. Either way, the gossip was born, spreading faster than fire in dry grass.
Oliver's pulse thundered in his ears. He forced himself to keep walking, brushing past Malfoy, past the stares, into the classroom beyond. His hands shook as he sat, but deep in his chest was something steadier than fear.
He had spoken. He had claimed a place in the story. And now, the entire school was waiting to see if he would rise or shatter.
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Hello Everyone, Dead3nd here.
Who do we think are going to be the guests that Dumbledore will be inviting. Only one way to find out, join us here next time onnnnnnnnnnnnn... WAIT I blanked out there. Anyways have a great day everyone.
Kindest Regards,