Halloween at Hogwarts was an event in itself, but this year it felt like a stage set for something larger.
The Great Hall glowed with flickering pumpkins, each carved with faces grinning or grimacing, their insides lit by warm amber flames. Bats swooped beneath the enchanted ceiling, darting between chandeliers and down the aisles in swooping black arcs. Platters of roast, bread, puddings, and spiced cider filled the tables, steam curling upward like invisible ribbons. The castle itself seemed to hum with expectation, as though the stones knew a performance was about to happen.
Oliver walked in with the Slytherins, but as always, he walked apart. His guitar case weighed heavier than usual, pressing against his back as though reminding him of every eye already waiting. Students turned to look, some openly, others with sidelong glances. Whispers chased him down the length of the hall like a breeze rustling through leaves.
At the Gryffindor table, Hermione Granger sat with her usual straight posture, a book closed neatly beside her plate. Ron leaned toward her, muttering something sharp, his ears going red with the effort of being overheard.
"You can't seriously think he'll do well," Ron scoffed, stabbing his fork into a sausage. "He's a Slytherin, Hermione. He's making a complete fool of himself."
Harry, sitting beside him, looked uncertain. His glance flicked across the hall to Oliver, then dropped quickly. "Ron's probably right. Malfoy set him up. Everyone knows it."
Hermione sniffed, her tone sharper than her expression. "That doesn't mean he deserves to be laughed at before he's even tried. Honestly, the pair of you act like you know the outcome of everything."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Come off it, Hermione. You're only sticking up for him because you like strays."
Hermione ignored the remark. Her eyes stayed on Oliver as he sat alone at the end of the Slytherin table. Something in the way he carried himself, shoulders tight but head held steady, tugged at her sense of fairness. He was out of place in his own House, and that much even she could see. She didn't know if he would succeed, but she was determined not to join the chorus of jeers.
Harry gave a small, reluctant nod toward Oliver, as though he wanted to agree with Hermione but couldn't quite find the words in front of Ron. Hermione noticed and said nothing.
Fred and George had turned the Feast into their own business venture, parading an enchanted parchment that gleamed with wagers in sparkling ink.
"Two Sickles says he cracks halfway through," one Gryffindor boy declared, pressing coins into Fred's hand.
"Five Knuts he surprises us all," a Hufflepuff girl said more shyly.
The twins grinned like salesmen. "We'll take any bet you like," George assured. "Odds are changing by the minute."
Across the room, Malfoy basked in the attention, retelling the story of the corridor challenge with exaggerated hand gestures. Crabbe and Goyle laughed on cue, their thudding guffaws echoing too loudly. "One hundred Galleons," Malfoy repeated, smirking for the benefit of nearby listeners. "The Minstrel's so desperate for attention he wagered his pride. Wait until he trips over his strings."
A ripple of laughter answered him. But not everyone was laughing. Curiosity was creeping into the air, mixing with the mockery.
At the staff table, the professors had taken their places, each a counterpoint to the other.
Flitwick leaned forward eagerly, his small hands clasped in anticipation. Professor Sprout's rosy cheeks glowed as she exchanged cheerful words with him. McGonagall sat upright, her lips pressed thin but her eyes sharp, measuring. Snape lounged in his chair with the disinterest of someone who already knew the ending of the story. And at the center, Dumbledore twinkled like the pumpkins overhead, pleased as if the entire affair had been arranged for his amusement.
Unseen to the students, the shimmer of a Notice-Me-Not charm lingered at the far end of the hall, near the shadows where light bent oddly. Those who glanced in that direction saw nothing more than empty benches, yet there was a sense—an almost imperceptible presence—that others were watching. Teachers exchanged brief, knowing glances; they, too, felt the quiet weight of guests observing under Dumbledore's invitation.
Oliver felt it as well. The air prickled faintly at his neck, the way it did in the forest when centaurs watched unseen. It wasn't Malfoy's smirk or the crowd's whispers that unsettled him most; it was this other gaze, hidden and silent, that suggested his performance mattered beyond the walls of Hogwarts.
Food arrived, endless and rich. Students dug in with gusto, laughter and speculation mixing with the scent of spiced pumpkin and buttered rolls. Oliver picked at his plate, appetite strangled by nerves. Every clatter of cutlery seemed to echo louder than it should, every laugh aimed like a dart in his direction.
He closed his eyes briefly, counting to four, then again. The rhythm steadied him, recalling the beats he practiced in the Lone Classroom. He pictured Mrs. Norris blinking slowly in approval, the house-elves applauding in the kitchens, Hagrid grinning through his beard, promising Butterbeer if he didn't faint. He clung to those threads as the noise pressed in.
Fred and George caught his eye from across the hall and lifted their goblets in another silent toast. Hermione gave the smallest nod, as if to say don't let them break you. Even Harry, glancing up once, didn't look away immediately. That was enough to keep Oliver's hands from trembling when he reached for his goblet.
At last, the platters cleared themselves, vanishing in silver flashes. The pumpkins flickered brighter, and the bats swooped in synchronized arcs. The hall stilled, expectation rolling through the crowd like a tide.
Dumbledore rose. The silence was instant.
"Another splendid Halloween," he began warmly, his voice filling the chamber without effort. "Our thanks to the kitchen for their generosity, and to our groundskeeper, who has outdone himself in pumpkin production once again."
Laughter rippled, and Hagrid blushed beneath his beard, hiding behind a tankard.
Dumbledore spread his arms, his gaze sweeping the room. "And now, before we bring the evening to a close, we have something new to enjoy. One of our students has agreed to share a gift with us, and I suspect it will be worth our attention." His eyes twinkled as they landed on Oliver. "Mr. Oliver Night has consented to perform."
The hall stirred, whispers surging up again like wind through dry leaves. Some laughed outright, others leaned in eagerly, while still others exchanged doubtful glances.
Oliver pushed back from the bench. The guitar strap settled into place across his shoulder as if claiming him. The aisle stretched before him, long and narrow, lined with eyes. He walked it, each step measured, not hurried. Students leaned back instinctively, creating space without realizing they were doing it.
When he reached the open space near the staff table, Dumbledore inclined his head with a small, encouraging smile. "Take your time, Mr. Night."
Oliver planted his feet, grounding himself the way Hagrid had taught him in the forest. His left hand found the neck of the guitar, his right hand the strings. He inhaled, a silent count in his ribs, and raised his chin.
"The song," he said clearly, "is called Cherry Wine."
The hall rippled again—curiosity, skepticism, amusement. Oliver ignored it. He adjusted the strap, fingers brushing the strings, and let the first clean chord fall into the silence.
(Cherry Wine)
[Verse 1]
Her eyes and words are so icy
Oh, but she burns like rum on a fire
Hot and fast and angry as she can be
I walk my days on a wire
The first notes rang out clean and steady, a soft hush rippling through the Great Hall. Conversations stilled. Even the bats wheeling overhead seemed to pause mid-flight, wings cutting slower arcs. Oliver's voice was quiet but clear, carrying into every corner of the stone chamber.
A cluster of Hufflepuffs leaned forward, eyes wide. The Ravenclaws at the far table, halfway through scribbling odds onto parchment, forgot their quills. Even some Slytherins stilled, the sneers slipping from their lips as the first verse threaded into the air.
[Pre-Chorus]
It looks ugly, but it's clean
Oh mama, don't fuss over me
The words struck differently than anyone expected. Instead of boast or bravado, they carried raw honesty. A ripple went through the crowd — soft murmurs, shifting shoulders — as though students weren't sure whether to laugh or listen.
Professor Flitwick's eyes shone, fingers clasped tight, while Professor Sprout tilted her head, lips parting slightly in wonder. Even McGonagall's stern expression faltered, her brows knitting at the sincerity in Oliver's tone.
[Chorus]
The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist, oh, would be fine
The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine
A low chord lingered in the air, vibrating against the enchanted ceiling. The Great Hall was silent now, not with mockery but with suspension — the kind of quiet that hung between heartbeats. Malfoy shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his smirk brittle.
Near the staff table, Dumbledore's eyes twinkled more brightly than the floating pumpkins. In the far shadows, where the Notice-Me-Not shimmered faintly, something stirred — guests unseen, watching closely.
[Verse 2]
Calls of guilty thrown at me, all while she stains
The sheets of some other
Thrown at me so powerfully, just like she throws
With the arm of her brother
Gasps broke out at the imagery, some students startled at how heavy the lyrics felt. A Gryffindor boy whispered, "Blimey…" but didn't finish the thought. Hermione clutched her goblet, eyes fixed on Oliver, her mouth slightly open.
Harry's throat tightened. He remembered Oliver on the train — quiet, careful, yet warm when he let himself be. The music now was that same boy, only unhidden, raw and unashamed.
[Pre-Chorus]
But I want it, it's a crime
That she's not around most of the time
A Ravenclaw girl dabbed at her eye, embarrassed when her friend nudged her. Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to lower its stars, as if leaning closer to hear.
[Chorus]
The way she shows me I'm hers and she is mine
Open hand or closed fist, oh, would be fine
The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine
The last line lingered, ringing like glass struck true. Oliver let the chord fade, fingers resting lightly on the strings. The silence that followed was absolute.
For a heartbeat, the Great Hall didn't know what to do.
Then—
"YEEEAH!" Fred Weasley whooped, leaping onto the bench and clapping so loudly his palms echoed like firecrackers. George joined instantly, shouting, "Encore!" as his hands smacked the table in rhythm. Their cheers broke the silence open like a hammer on ice.
The Gryffindors caught it first, their applause swelling in waves. Then the Hufflepuffs rose, clapping and stomping. Ravenclaws joined, hesitant at first, then all at once, their curiosity giving way to admiration.
Even some Slytherins, despite themselves, tapped the table or clapped half-heartedly, unable to pretend they hadn't been caught in the spell of the music.
Harry found himself standing before he knew it, clapping hard. Ron tugged at his sleeve, frowning, but Harry didn't care. His eyes stayed fixed on Oliver, standing at the front of the hall with his guitar still in hand.
We were friends on the train, Harry thought fiercely. Why should a House change that?
Beside him, Hermione clapped with bright determination, her chin high as if daring anyone to mock her for it.
Oliver's chest heaved, the sound of applause crashing over him like a tide. For the first time at Hogwarts, the hall wasn't laughing at him. It was listening, clapping, alive with something he had made.
At the staff table, Dumbledore's smile deepened, the twinkle in his eye bright as the floating candles. And in the hidden shadows, the Notice-Me-Not shimmer trembled faintly, as if whoever stood within had leaned forward, ready to reveal themselves