The stone gargoyle at the base of Dumbledore's staircase had barely finished leaping aside when Madam Hooch burst past it. She didn't bother with polite knocks or measured steps. Her boots echoed sharply against the winding stairs until she reached the Headmaster's office and pushed the door open with more force than usual.
Albus Dumbledore looked up from his desk. He had been sorting through letters with neat, unhurried movements, but he set the parchment aside as Madam Hooch strode in, her broom still clutched under one arm as though she might throw it down for emphasis.
"Albus," she snapped, "that boy belongs on a Quidditch team."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled faintly, though his expression remained composed. "Good evening to you as well, Rolanda. I trust the flying lesson was… eventful?"
"Eventful?" Her voice rose in disbelief. "The boy flew like he'd been doing it all his life. Smooth, balanced, controlled—better than Potter, and I don't say that lightly. I've trained generations of fliers, and I've never seen instincts like his in a first-year." She leaned over the desk, stabbing a finger against the polished wood. "It would be criminal to keep him grounded."
Dumbledore folded his hands, the picture of patience. "Oliver Night does seem to surprise us at every turn, doesn't he?"
"Surprise?" Hooch barked a short laugh. "This isn't a surprise, Albus. This is talent. Talent that will rot if we smother it."
"And yet," Dumbledore said mildly, "you know as well as I do that placing a first-year on a Quidditch team is not without precedent, but neither is it without… complications."
She narrowed her eyes. "You put Potter on the team within weeks."
"That was under certain… circumstances," he replied, tone still maddeningly calm. "And even then, Minerva argued tooth and nail on his behalf."
"Well, I'll argue for this one." Hooch's voice softened just slightly, almost grudgingly. "I don't care what house he's in, Albus. That boy belongs in the sky."
Dumbledore studied her a moment before speaking again. "Then perhaps we should hear what his Head of House has to say. After all, Slytherin would be the natural team for him."
Her mouth twisted. "If you think Severus will give him a fair chance—"
"We shall see," Dumbledore said, rising from his chair. "Come, let us consult him together."
Severus Snape looked up from a steaming cauldron as the door creaked open. His eyes narrowed at the sight of Dumbledore and Madam Hooch stepping inside unannounced.
"This had better be important," Snape drawled, setting down a vial with deliberate care. "Some of us have lessons to prepare."
"It concerns a student," Dumbledore said, lowering himself into a chair as though this were a friendly visit. "Oliver Night."
Snape's expression flickered, then settled into practiced disdain. "What has he done now? Broken another rule, perhaps? Or composed a sonata in the Great Hall to disrupt supper?"
"This is not about music," Hooch cut in sharply. "It's about flying. The boy's a natural—more than a natural. He outflew Potter today, caught the Snitch clean, pulled maneuvers I wouldn't dare teach until third year. He belongs on a team."
Snape's brow arched. "On Slytherin's team, I presume?"
"Of course," Dumbledore said smoothly. "It would give your house quite the advantage, I imagine."
For a moment, silence hung heavy. Then Snape gave a short, humorless laugh.
"Absolutely not."
Hooch's eyes blazed. "What do you mean, 'absolutely not'? The boy could carry your team to victory!"
"And tear it apart in the process," Snape snapped back. He stood, robes sweeping behind him, and began pacing the narrow space. "You have no idea what you're asking. My Quidditch team is close-knit, disciplined. They've trained together, trusted one another, for years. And you suggest I throw in a boy they already resent? A boy who has done nothing but sow division in my House since the moment he arrived?"
Dumbledore's voice remained calm. "Surely, Severus, skill on the pitch might earn him some measure of respect."
"Respect?" Snape turned sharply, his eyes flashing. "No, Albus. It will earn him hatred. You forget, perhaps, that the Slytherins already whisper about the favoritism he receives—his private room, his phoenix, his so-called talents paraded in every corridor. And now you would have me place him above them, on their team? That would not unite them. It would destroy them."
Madam Hooch's hands curled into fists. "So you'd bury a talent just to keep peace among sulking children?"
"I would protect my House," Snape hissed. "Slytherin unity matters more than one boy's ego."
"This isn't about ego!" Hooch shot back. "This is about potential. He could go professional one day if we nurture him now."
"And if we don't?" Snape sneered. "He still has his phoenix. He still has his music. The boy hardly lacks for gifts, Madam Hooch. Do not pretend the sky is the only place he belongs."
Dumbledore interjected softly, "And yet, Severus, we cannot deny what he has shown us today. Even you must admit—"
"I admit nothing," Snape cut him off, voice low and dangerous. "What I see is a boy already straddling too many lines. Neither Slytherin nor Gryffindor, friend to one House, outcast from another. And you would force him into yet another role he is not prepared for? No, Albus. I will not permit it."
Hooch glared. "You'd clip his wings before he's even flown."
"I would save him from a harder fall," Snape said coldly.
The argument spiraled, back and forth, sharp words clashing like blades.
Hooch demanded fairness. Snape defended his House's pride. Dumbledore mediated, calm but persistent, gently pressing Snape to consider that stifling talent had its own consequences.
But in the end, Snape's refusal was absolute.
"If you wish to see him on a broom," Snape said at last, his voice like iron, "then let him fly for himself in practice. But not for my team. Not now. Not ever."
Dumbledore inclined his head, as though accepting a stalemate. "Very well, Severus. I thank you for your candor."
Hooch's jaw tightened, but she said nothing until they were back in the corridor.
"He's wrong," she snapped the moment the door shut behind them.
Dumbledore's eyes glimmered faintly. "Perhaps. Or perhaps he is only right for the moment. Time has a way of shifting these things."
"Well, I won't wait for time," she retorted. "If he won't let the boy onto his team, then I'll make sure someone else sees him. Someone who'll recognize what he's worth."
"Meaning?" Dumbledore asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.
Hooch's mouth set into a thin, determined line. "Meaning I'll put his name forward to a professional recruiter. There are teams desperate for talent like his. And I know exactly who to write to."
Dumbledore regarded her a moment, then gave the faintest nod. "As you will, Rolanda. But remember—opportunities carry burdens as well as gifts."
"I know," she said, her voice firm. "But better a burden than a waste."
With that, she turned on her heel and strode away, already planning the letter in her mind.
Rolanda Hooch did not wait until morning.
By the time she returned to her quarters, she was already scratching out a letter on thick parchment, her quill digging hard enough to leave grooves. Every word pressed with the same force as her conviction.
She described Oliver Night's flight in detail—his natural control, his speed, his daring. She compared him to the best she had ever trained and insisted his instincts were beyond anything a child his age should have.
Then, with a final sharp stroke, she addressed it not to Dumbledore, nor to the Hogwarts Board of Governors, but to the recruiter for the Chudley Cannons.
A team in desperate need of young, raw talent. A team that might, at last, have a chance at rising again.
The quill paused only once, when she muttered under her breath: "If Severus won't let him shine here, then someone else will."
The owl was gone within the hour.
The following evening, the staff assembled in the long chamber adjoining the Great Hall. A fire crackled in the hearth, and a circle of high-backed chairs waited. Dumbledore presided as usual, his expression mild, but there was a sharper glint in his eyes that few noticed.
"Shall we begin?" he asked, steepling his fingers. "There are… matters to discuss regarding one of our first-year students. Oliver Night."
The name alone stirred reactions. McGonagall straightened in her chair. Sprout folded her hands with a thoughtful hum. Flitwick perked up, eyes keen. And Snape, as expected, sighed heavily, as though already weary of the subject.
Rolanda Hooch wasted no time. "The boy deserves recognition. I've written to the Chudley Cannons."
Snape's head whipped toward her, eyes narrowing. "You what?"
"I wrote to them," she said flatly. "Explained his skill. Recommended they watch him, even consider him for training when the time comes."
"You've overstepped," Snape hissed. "He is a child, Rolanda. Barely able to hold a wand straight, and you would throw him into the jaws of publicity and pressure he cannot begin to handle?"
"He can handle the sky just fine," she shot back.
"Flying and surviving the politics of Quidditch are not the same thing."
McGonagall cleared her throat, cutting across them. "I will admit, I saw some of what Madam Hooch described. The boy does fly remarkably well. Better than even Potter, though I hesitate to say it. But Severus has a point—exposure at his age could prove dangerous."
Sprout nodded slowly. "Children grow under pressure, yes, but too much can crush them. Perhaps we should be careful."
Flitwick spoke next, his high voice carrying more weight than usual. "I observed the scrimmage from the stands. His instincts weren't just natural—they were magical. It's rare, but sometimes a student's affinity for flight is linked to their deeper magical core. If that is true, then ignoring it may do him harm."
Snape scoffed. "Harm? The boy already has too much attention. Every week it is something new—phoenixes, music, now flying. You all praise him while his House resents him. And when that resentment boils over, who do you think will shield him? You? Or me, the Head of Slytherin, who must manage the fallout of your indulgence?"
His voice was sharp, his eyes dark.
Silence followed for a moment.
Then Dumbledore spoke, calm but firm. "Oliver Night is not a problem to be managed, Severus. He is a student. A child. And like all children, he deserves guidance. Whether in music, in books, or in the air, his gifts must be nurtured."
"Nurtured, yes," Snape snapped. "But not paraded."
Hooch's chair scraped against the floor as she stood, arms crossed tight. "I won't sit by while his wings are clipped. If he's good enough for professionals to notice, then it would be criminal not to give him the chance."
"And what team," Snape sneered, "would be desperate enough to entertain such a suggestion?"
"The Chudley Cannons," she said without hesitation.
For a heartbeat, the room was silent.
Then the narrator, if such a thing could be said to exist, might have remarked: By strange coincidence, this just so happened to be Ron Weasley's favorite team.
McGonagall pursed her lips. "The Cannons? Rolanda, they've been… struggling."
"Which is why they need him," Hooch retorted. "And before you say it, no, I'm not suggesting they draft him tomorrow. But recognition now means opportunity later. We owe him that much."
Sprout leaned back, thoughtful. "Opportunity is important, yes. But balance matters, too. If he soars too high, too soon…" She shook her head. "Children are fragile things."
Flitwick tapped his chin. "Perhaps the answer is compromise. Let the Cannons be aware of him, but shield him from direct pressure until he is older. Allow him to train privately, if he wishes. In time, his path will reveal itself."
All eyes turned to Dumbledore.
He sat in silence for a long moment, stroking his beard. Then, finally, he spoke.
"Rolanda is correct: wasting such a gift would be folly. Severus is correct: burdening a child too soon would be cruel. So we must tread carefully. The Cannons may watch, but Oliver must not be made a spectacle. His choices must remain his own."
Snape's mouth tightened, but he said nothing.
Hooch inclined her head stiffly, accepting the compromise though her eyes still blazed.
McGonagall sighed. "I only hope this does not cause more tension in the school."
Dumbledore's gaze flickered toward the window, where the faint outline of the Quidditch pitch glowed under moonlight. "Tension, my dear Minerva, is unavoidable. What matters is how we guide him through it."
Later that night, Madam Hooch sat alone at her desk, staring at the copy of her letter already flown away. She knew the Cannons might not even respond. But if they did…
She smiled grimly.
"Fly high, boy," she murmured. "Don't let them drag you down."
And somewhere in the castle, Oliver Night dreamed of the sky, unaware that his name was already being whispered beyond the walls of Hogwarts—on professional lips, in professional circles, where his future was being weighed like a Quidditch Quaffle in the balance.