The moment Oliver stepped into Charms after the corridor confrontation, he knew the news had already outpaced him. Heads turned, whispers swelled, and more than one pair of eyes flicked to the guitar case slung across his back before darting away with smirks.
By the end of the day, the story had taken on a life of its own. He had heard it twisted half a dozen ways in the space of one afternoon: that he had begged Malfoy for a chance to play, that he had claimed he could "charm the whole school into loving him," that the bet was for two hundred Galleons instead of one. The truth—Malfoy's mockery, Oliver's blunt acceptance, and the raised stakes—seemed buried under laughter and exaggeration.
The gossip didn't stop at Slytherin's walls. In the Great Hall, students from other Houses leaned across tables to whisper. Some sneered, already anticipating the disaster. Others looked curious, their eyes bright with the promise of a spectacle. Even the Hufflepuffs, usually the most generous, murmured in doubtful tones.
"He's mad to take it," Oliver overheard a Ravenclaw girl say. "Malfoy's clever enough—if Night fails, he'll never live it down."
"Fails?" her friend snorted. "He's a Slytherin. It'll be a joke before he even starts."
Oliver swallowed hard and kept walking, his tray clutched tighter than it needed to be. The Slytherin table had no room for him—Malfoy had made sure of that. He sat alone at the end, as usual, pretending to care about the stew cooling on his plate.
Everywhere he looked, eyes met his and then darted away.
That night in his Lone Classroom, Oliver set the guitar across his knees but didn't play. He sat in the quiet, staring at the strings, his fingers hovering without touching. The lamp hummed faintly, its glow throwing soft light across the chalk-streaked walls.
He had been brave in the corridor, reckless even. But courage was easy when anger burned in his chest. Now that the flames had cooled, doubt rushed in like water.
What if I make a fool of myself? What if Malfoy wins, and the whole school laughs?
Mrs. Norris padded into the room, leapt onto the desk, and curled neatly into a loaf. She blinked at him with golden eyes, unbothered by the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders.
"I might have ruined myself," Oliver whispered.
The cat yawned, flicked her tail, and rested her head on her paws.
Oliver let out a shaky laugh. "You don't care, do you?"
But some small part of him felt steadier with her there, her quiet presence anchoring him when the rest of the castle seemed ready to laugh him out of existence.
The next morning, the gossip had grown teeth. By breakfast, it was being traded between tables like currency.
A Gryffindor third-year said he'd bet two Sickles Oliver wouldn't last a single verse. A Ravenclaw claimed Oliver had enchanted his guitar to cheat. Even a pair of Hufflepuffs whispered that they hoped he would succeed, but their tone was doubtful, as though wishing wasn't enough to tip the scales.
Oliver pushed food around his plate, appetite gone.
"Oi, Night!"
The shout cut through the hall. Every head seemed to swivel toward the source. Fred and George Weasley stood at the Gryffindor table, identical grins stretching wide.
"Word is you're putting on a show," George called.
"A real one, not just serenading the corridors," Fred added.
Oliver froze, the whole hall watching. Malfoy smirked from further down the Slytherin table, clearly anticipating another humiliation.
But the twins weren't sneering. They lifted their goblets in unison.
"We're backing you," George announced. "One hundred percent."
"And we'll even take bets," Fred said cheerfully. "Odds in your favor, of course. Malfoy's overdue for a fall."
Laughter rippled, but it wasn't cruel this time. It was surprised, even impressed. Fred and George had reputations of their own, mischief-makers who thrived on chaos but rarely wasted time on lost causes. Their open support turned heads.
Oliver's cheeks burned. He didn't know what to say, so he just lifted a hand in acknowledgment. The twins whooped, satisfied, and clinked their goblets.
Across the hall, Malfoy's smirk faltered.
For the first time since the challenge, Oliver felt a spark of hope.
Later that afternoon, Oliver found himself back at Hagrid's hut. The air was crisp, autumn settling into the grounds with sharp edges. Pumpkins the size of boulders lined the path, their rinds glowing orange in the late sun.
Hagrid waved him inside, Fang nearly bowling him over in greeting. The hut was warm, the kettle steaming, the smell of earth and woodfire filling the space.
"Word's got 'round, eh?" Hagrid said, pouring tea into mugs so large Oliver needed both hands to hold his.
Oliver slumped into the chair, exhaustion written across his face. "It's everywhere. I can't go down a corridor without someone whispering."
Hagrid chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Course they're whisperin'. Hogwarts loves a bit o' drama. But yeh don't let it get to yeh. If yeh're playin' at the Feast, play like it's just you and the forest listenin'. Nothin' else matters."
Oliver stared into the steam rising from his mug. "What if I mess up?"
"Then yeh mess up," Hagrid said simply. "And the world keeps turnin'. But I don't reckon yeh will. Y'got somethin' in yeh when yeh play. Creatures feel it. I'd bet the Great Hall will too."
Oliver's throat tightened. He nodded, not trusting his voice.
Hagrid leaned back, grinning beneath his beard. "Tell yeh what. You get through it without faintin', and I'll let yeh try a Butterbeer. Can't be givin' it to first-years, mind, but one won't hurt. Just don't tell McGonagall."
Oliver blinked, then laughed, the tension in his chest loosening. "Deal."
The promise was silly, light, but it anchored him. Butterbeer wasn't just a drink—it was a symbol of belonging, of being part of something bigger. And Hagrid, in his way, was giving him that chance.
That night, Oliver sat in his Lone Classroom again, the lamp glowing faintly, the guitar resting across his lap. He strummed soft chords, humming low, not practicing for perfection but letting the music settle his nerves.
The whispers in the castle grew louder each day. But with Fred and George loudly in his corner, and Hagrid's promise warm in his chest, Oliver began to believe—just a little—that he might not be walking into disaster alone.
Still, the doubt gnawed at him. He lay awake staring at the cracked ceiling, wondering if courage was enough to carry him through the weight of the entire school's gaze.
The Feast was only days away.
And the staff had noticed too.
The following evening, in the staff-room, the conversation turned inevitably to Oliver.
"I've heard the boy has made quite the wager," Professor McGonagall said, setting down her teacup with a faint clink. "One hundred Galleons against Mr. Malfoy, no less. Foolhardy, if you ask me."
"It's not foolhardy," squeaked Professor Flitwick from his seat, eyes sparkling. "It's bold. The boy has real talent, Minerva. He uses rhythm the way others use wand movements. His incantations are crisp, precise. I'd argue his approach could teach the rest of the class a thing or two."
McGonagall pursed her lips. "Be that as it may, Professor Flitwick, discipline must come first. Mr. Night cannot rely on charm alone. Hogwarts does not reward theatrics."
"Not theatrics," Flitwick insisted. "Innovation."
Professor Sprout spoke up, her cheeks rosy from the warmth of the fire. "I've seen it too. In Herbology, some of the plants that snarl at the other students seem calmer with him. His humming makes them… pliable. I wouldn't dismiss that, Minerva. It's not showmanship—it's usefulness."
Across the room, Professor Snape let out a derisive snort. "Usefulness? If Night spent half as much time following proper brewing instructions as he does strumming that wretched instrument, he might produce a potion worth grading. Until then, all I see is noise. A parlor trick, nothing more."
Flitwick bristled. "That is unfair, Severus. The boy has a gift."
Snape's black eyes glittered. "Then let him gift it to the Feast, and be done with it. Perhaps then the school will see how shallow it truly is."
Silence followed, sharp as a knife.
Then Dumbledore, who had been listening with his fingers steepled and a faint twinkle in his eye, spoke at last. "Spectacle or no, music has its place. Joy is never wasted at a feast, Severus. And sometimes, a little light lifts more than one expects."
His gaze shifted to McGonagall, then Sprout, then Flitwick, each in turn. "I, for one, think the school would benefit from such a performance. It will remind us all that there is more to a student than his House."
McGonagall's mouth thinned, but she said nothing more. Sprout nodded. Flitwick beamed. Snape's sneer deepened, but he didn't argue.
Dumbledore's eyes gleamed brighter. "In fact, I may invite a few old friends of mine—friends who love music even more than I love sweets. I suspect they would find young Mr. Night quite… interesting."
The fire crackled. The decision, spoken in Dumbledore's calm voice, was final.
Word traveled fast in Hogwarts, but when the Headmaster himself gave approval, it moved faster still. By the next morning, the gossip had sharpened from rumor into certainty: Oliver D. Night was to perform at the Halloween Feast.
It wasn't whispered anymore—it was announced, debated, dissected.
At breakfast, students leaned over steaming porridge to place bets of their own. Fred and George carried around an enchanted parchment that recorded wagers in glittering ink, their grins growing wider with every Sickle handed over.
"Two to one odds he doesn't finish the song!" Fred proclaimed loudly, just to irritate Malfoy.
"Three to one he gets carried out by Madam Pomfrey," George added, quill scratching across the parchment.
"But even money," Fred concluded, "that he shocks the lot of you and plays something worth remembering."
The Great Hall roared with laughter, but the tone was shifting. Malfoy tried to sneer his way through it, declaring Oliver a fool and assuring anyone who'd listen that the Slytherins would never clap for him. But cracks were forming in his certainty.
The twins' support had turned Oliver into more than a joke—he was a gamble. And Hogwarts loved a gamble.
For Oliver, the attention was suffocating.
Every corridor felt like a gauntlet. Students paused mid-step to look him over as if weighing him against Malfoy's arrogance. Whispers chased him from one classroom to the next.
"Think he'll manage?""No chance.""Heard Dumbledore himself wants to see it.""Maybe he'll set the guitar on fire!"
Oliver ignored as much as he could, but the words clung to him like burrs. He carried them into his Lone Classroom at night, where the lamp glowed and the cot waited, where Mrs. Norris occasionally joined him with her steady, unbothered presence.
There, he practiced—not to dazzle, not to perfect every note, but to steady himself. He played until the nerves melted into muscle memory, until his fingers found their places without thought. He sang under his breath, soft and low, letting the words settle like seeds in soil.
Still, fear lingered. The hall would be enormous, the crowd merciless. One wrong chord, one crack in his voice, and Malfoy would never let him forget it.
He lay awake nights staring at the cracked ceiling, the thought looping endlessly: What if I fail?
It was Fred and George who finally snapped him out of the spiral.
They ambushed him outside the library, flanking him like bodyguards while Oliver clutched his books to his chest.
"You're looking grim, Night," Fred said, leaning in close. "Like you've seen a Dementor."
"And we know you haven't," George added. "Because if you had, you'd have played something and sent it running."
Oliver blinked at them, torn between irritation and gratitude.
"Listen," Fred said, lowering his voice. "You've already won, you know."
Oliver frowned. "What are you talking about?"
George smirked. "You've got Malfoy on the hook. Whole school's watching. He can't wriggle out of it. That's a victory already."
"Now all you have to do," Fred said, clapping him on the shoulder, "is play. And don't play for him. Don't even play for the school. Play for yourself."
Oliver stared at them, words caught in his throat.
"And if you botch it," George added cheerfully, "at least you'll botch it louder than anyone else."
They grinned, wicked and warm, and left him standing there with his books, stunned but lighter somehow.
For the first time in days, Oliver smiled.
The next evening, Oliver went to Hagrid's hut again. The pumpkins outside glowed like lanterns in the dusk, and Fang bounded up to greet him, nearly knocking him over.
Inside, the fire roared, the kettle whistled, and Hagrid's presence filled the space like a steady heartbeat.
"So, the whole castle's buzzin'," Hagrid said, handing Oliver a steaming mug of tea. "Halloween performance, eh? Brave lad."
Oliver sat heavily at the table, shoulders slumped. "Everyone thinks I'm going to make a fool of myself."
"Bah," Hagrid said, waving a massive hand. "Let 'em think what they want. Yeh play for yeh, not for them. That's the trick."
Oliver sipped the tea, warmth spreading through him. "What if I mess up?"
Hagrid leaned forward, eyes twinkling beneath his shaggy brows. "Then yeh laugh, start again, and keep goin'. Nothin' makes a bully madder than a lad who won't break."
Oliver swallowed. The advice was simple, but it landed.
"Tell yeh what," Hagrid added with a grin, "you get through it without faintin', and I'll let yeh try a Butterbeer. Don't tell the professors, mind. But one sip won't kill yeh."
Oliver laughed, the sound surprising even him. "Deal."
Fang woofed as if sealing the promise.
The whispers only grew sharper as the Feast approached. Students speculated on the song he'd choose, the length of the performance, whether he'd sing or only play. Some made cruel jokes—imagining him tripping over the guitar, his voice cracking, Malfoy laughing him off the stage. Others, though fewer, spoke with genuine curiosity.
By the morning of Halloween, Oliver could barely eat. The Great Hall shimmered with floating pumpkins and flocks of bats, the feast preparations already visible. He pushed eggs around his plate and tried not to notice the eyes tracking him from every table.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, the staff gathered again in the lounge, the fire crackling and the air thick with anticipation.
McGonagall set her cup down with a sigh. "It will either be a disaster or a triumph. I can't decide which worries me more."
Sprout chuckled warmly. "I think it will surprise us all. The boy has heart."
Flitwick clapped his tiny hands together. "Talent, too! Oh, I do hope the hall listens properly."
Snape sneered, swirling his goblet. "It will be noise. Nothing more."
Dumbledore only smiled, his eyes glittering. "Noise can be many things, Severus. Sometimes, it is music. Sometimes, it is courage. And courage, I believe, is what Mr. Night wishes to give us."
The fire popped, sparks rising. The decision had been made long ago, but tonight, the Headmaster's words sealed it. Oliver would play.
And not just for Hogwarts. Dumbledore had sent word to his "old friends." By morning, they would arrive, curious to hear the boy who played with magic in his chords.
Oliver didn't know that part yet.
He sat in his Lone Classroom, guitar on his lap, staring at the strings. His fingers itched to practice one more time, but he resisted. He knew the notes now, the shape of the song, the rhythm carved into him by long nights in this room and the echoes of the forest.
Instead, he rested his hands on the wood and breathed.
Fred and George's voices rang in his memory. Hagrid's promise of Butterbeer warmed him still. The house-elves' applause, the unicorn's gaze, even Mrs. Norris's quiet companionship—they were threads woven together, stronger than the whispers of doubt.
Tomorrow night, he would play.
For the first time, Oliver D. Night believed he might not be playing alone.