The Great Hall was unusually alive that morning, the clatter of cutlery and chatter of students echoing off the enchanted ceiling. A pale winter sky stretched above them, a scatter of frosted clouds drifting across a sun that seemed to shine only for Hogwarts. Oliver sat at the edge of the Gryffindor table, Nyx perched neatly behind him like a silent shadow. Her head swiveled occasionally, eyes sharp, but she kept still as though she understood how much attention she could draw if she stretched her wings here.
Oliver had barely touched his porridge. His mind was restless, bouncing between his unfinished greenhouse plans with Professor Sprout and the other idea gnawing at him. The thought had been growing ever since he realized the sanctuary within his suitcase wasn't just a refuge—it could be shaped into anything. A greenhouse was the first step, but the other step… well, that required courage.
He spotted Professor Flitwick at the staff table, seated on a pile of cushions so he could reach his plate properly. The Charms Master was happily buttering toast, humming under his breath. Oliver's chest tightened. This was the moment.
Sliding from the bench, he took a breath and approached the staff table. It wasn't uncommon for students to ask questions after meals, but walking up with half the staff watching felt like dragging his feet into a battlefield.
"Professor Flitwick?" Oliver asked, voice steady though his palms were clammy.
Flitwick looked up immediately, eyes bright. "Yes, yes, Mr. Night? What can I do for you this fine morning?"
Oliver swallowed. "I was wondering… if you might spare me a little advice. I'd like to create a dueling hall. I thought… well, since you're renowned for dueling, you'd know how best to start."
The Hall quieted around them—not completely, but enough. McGonagall, seated two chairs down, stiffened and turned her head. Dumbledore paused mid-pour with his tea, half-moon spectacles glinting. Even a few students leaned closer to eavesdrop.
And, of course, Snape heard.
His voice cut through like a dagger, low and oily. "A dueling hall? What a ridiculous request. What business could a first-year have in such advanced matters? Tell me, Mr. Night, where do you possibly intend to get the funds to sponsor such an endeavor?"
The sneer on his face was sharp enough to slice. Several Slytherins nearby smirked, clearly enjoying the chance to watch Oliver get cornered.
Oliver didn't flinch. He turned slowly, met Snape's gaze, and let his expression flatten into one of cool disinterest.
"My book sales aren't doing too badly," he said evenly. "They're just gaining popularity, in fact. I don't mind investing a little now if it means building a better future."
The words landed like stones dropped into still water. A ripple of whispers spread among the tables. Flitwick's eyes widened a fraction; McGonagall's lips twitched as though she'd bitten back approval. Dumbledore's gaze lingered with quiet amusement, as if he were savoring the scene.
Snape's sneer faltered, but only for a heartbeat. He leaned back in his chair, robes whispering against the floor. "How… fortunate for you," he murmured, the bitterness in his voice unmistakable.
Oliver turned his attention back to Flitwick, refusing to grant Snape another word. "I'd like to know what kind of foundation or wards a dueling hall needs. It wouldn't just be for me. It could be a place where people train safely. I thought… who better to ask than you?"
Flitwick's bushy eyebrows shot up. "Well! That's certainly not the kind of question I usually get over breakfast. But…" His eyes gleamed, pride already evident. "It's a worthy project. Tell me, where is this hall supposed to be?"
Oliver hesitated, then chose honesty. "I have access to a private space. Professor Sprout has already agreed to help me set up a greenhouse there. I thought—well, if I balance that with a place for structured practice, it could be more than just a sanctuary. It could be a place to learn."
McGonagall leaned forward now, hands folded. "You have… a private space?" Her tone carried suspicion, but also curiosity.
Dumbledore's voice was calm, layered with his usual mystery. "Perhaps it would be best if we saw this space, Filius. That way, we'll know exactly what we're working with."
Flitwick clapped his hands together. "An excellent idea!"
Snape's lips curled, but McGonagall shot him a look that silenced any protest.
Oliver's pulse raced. He hadn't expected them all to want to see it right now. But maybe this was better. At least then they'd know he wasn't making things up.
After breakfast, Oliver led the small group down a quieter corridor. His suitcase, charmed to look inconspicuous, lay waiting. He crouched, unlatched it, and let the ladder descend.
Flitwick peered over the edge. "Oh-ho! Now this is intriguing…"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. "Down we go, then."
They climbed one by one, McGonagall still muttering under her breath about "foolish risks" but following nonetheless.
When they emerged into the sanctuary, silence fell over them.
It was always impressive—the wide sky-like ceiling, the stretch of grass and forest, the flowing stream—but watching the three professors take it in was something else entirely. Flitwick's jaw dropped. McGonagall blinked several times, lips pursed in astonishment. Even Dumbledore paused longer than usual, his expression momentarily stripped of its calm amusement.
Unicorns grazed peacefully by the stream, their silver coats catching the light. Caelum and Lyra stood sentinel nearby, nodding politely at the professors. Above them, Nyx circled once, her black feathers tipped in blue like threads of starlight.
And near the far edge, Professor Sprout was already hard at work. Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, dirt streaking her cheek, a set of tools spread beside her. She looked up, spotted the new arrivals, and waved cheerfully.
"Nice to see you all here as well!" she called, brushing soil from her hands. "Don't mind me—soil's perfect for the seedlings."
Flitwick let out a delighted laugh. "Marvelous! Positively marvelous!"
McGonagall shot Oliver a look that was half reproach, half admiration. "You've been hiding quite a secret, Mr. Night."
Dumbledore simply folded his hands behind his back and said, "Extraordinary, indeed."
Oliver felt heat rush to his cheeks but stood his ground. "I thought it'd be better to show you than to try explaining."
They walked deeper into the sanctuary until Oliver stopped at a wide, clear section of land he'd flattened.
"This is where I thought the dueling hall could go," he explained. "I want it warded properly, safe enough for practice and teaching. Something flexible, so it can be adjusted for different kinds of duels."
Flitwick was already buzzing with excitement. "Yes, yes! Adjustable wards to absorb impact, rebound-absorbing stone, movable platforms! Oh, the possibilities…" He began muttering charms under his breath, hands twitching as though he were already casting.
McGonagall crossed her arms but spoke thoughtfully. "Structural transfiguration could make the walls shiftable. It would allow you to simulate different arenas or environments."
Dumbledore, smiling faintly, added, "And, of course, the protective enchantments must be layered in such a way that even the wildest spell rebounds harmlessly. Safety first, after all."
Oliver listened intently, his chest tightening with both nerves and pride. He hadn't expected this level of investment from them.
For once, he felt as though he wasn't just surviving Hogwarts—he was building something inside it.
Flitwick paced the perimeter of the flattened ground, his short legs carrying him quickly as he muttered calculations under his breath. He drew his wand and began sketching glowing diagrams in the air—lines of wards intersecting, circles of containment, and shimmering outlines of possible layouts.
"This could work beautifully," he said, voice bubbling with enthusiasm. "We'll need a foundation of basalt or something equally resilient. Add a cushioning lattice of charmwork beneath so no one breaks their bones when they fall. Then—yes, yes—a layered ward that not only absorbs spell impact but channels excess magic safely back into the ground. Marvelous!"
Oliver watched wide-eyed, barely daring to breathe. He'd hoped Flitwick might give him advice, but this was beyond advice—this was design, construction, vision.
McGonagall stepped closer, inspecting the shimmering diagrams. "And movable walls," she reminded. "If this is to be worth the effort, the space should adapt to different training styles. Vertical obstacles, narrow corridors, wide open fields. That way, the students won't grow complacent in one type of environment."
Flitwick nodded rapidly. "Yes, yes, exactly! We can incorporate structural transfiguration into the base stones. With the right charms, the layout could shift in a matter of seconds."
Dumbledore chuckled quietly, his blue eyes twinkling. "You're giving the boy an arena worthy of a champion. He only asked for a hall, you know."
Flitwick turned, eyes bright. "Nonsense, Headmaster! When a student shows such initiative, we don't dampen it—we encourage it! Mr. Night, you've stumbled onto something grand here. With this space, Hogwarts could refine dueling talent like never before."
Oliver felt his cheeks heat, but he straightened his shoulders. "That's… what I want. Not just for me. A place for everyone to learn properly. Not dangerous, but real practice."
McGonagall gave him a rare approving smile. "That, Mr. Night, is a wise distinction. Discipline, not recklessness."
Flitwick clapped his tiny hands together. "Then it's settled! I'll draw up the preliminary wards tonight. We can begin layering charms within the week."
Sprout, still kneeling by her greenhouse foundation, looked up and waved her trowel. "Just don't duel too close to my seedlings!" she called cheerfully.
The professors chuckled, even McGonagall. Oliver grinned, the tension in his chest easing.
As the planning continued, Oliver noticed Dumbledore step aside, hands folded neatly behind his back as he surveyed the space. The headmaster said little, but his presence was weighty. Finally, he spoke, voice soft but carrying.
"You are not only creating rooms, Oliver. You are shaping the foundation of your own education. That is no small task."
Oliver met his gaze, startled by the warmth in it. "I just… I want to make the most of what I've been given."
Dumbledore's smile deepened, though there was something wistful in it. "And you are doing precisely that."
Nyx, perched on a nearby post, let out a low trill that seemed to echo Dumbledore's sentiment. The professors glanced at her, still clearly amazed that such a magnificent creature sat so calmly at the boy's side.
Flitwick broke the moment with a flourish of his wand. "Right! Now, Mr. Night, tell me—how often do you intend to use this hall yourself?"
Oliver blinked. "As often as I can. I'm not… strong yet. Not like I want to be. But I want to practice properly, not just sneaking around or improvising."
McGonagall inclined her head. "Then this will be as much a test of your discipline as your ambition. Very well. You have my support."
"And mine!" Flitwick added brightly.
Dumbledore gave a slow nod. "And mine as well."
The weight of their words hit Oliver harder than he expected. For a moment, he couldn't speak. He'd never had this kind of backing before—adults believing in his vision, not dismissing it as childish fantasy.
When they finally left the sanctuary, Oliver carried himself differently. He felt taller, steadier, as though the professors' faith had fused with his own determination. Even McGonagall's strict approval warmed him.
Snape was waiting in the corridor, arms folded, face an unreadable mask. His dark eyes flicked from Dumbledore to Oliver, then back again.
"Well?" he drawled.
McGonagall's lips pressed into a thin line. "Well, Severus, it appears Mr. Night's… project has merit. You might consider offering constructive support rather than endless suspicion."
Snape's nostrils flared, but he said nothing. Instead, his gaze cut toward Oliver, full of unspoken challenge. Oliver met it evenly, refusing to drop his eyes.
He didn't need to speak—the message was clear enough.
That night, lying in bed with Nyx perched protectively nearby, Oliver thought back over the day. The sanctuary had begun as a refuge, a secret place just for him. But now, it was becoming something larger, something others believed in.
A greenhouse. A dueling hall. Unicorns roaming free. Centaurs keeping watch. Professors lending their knowledge.
It wasn't just a sanctuary anymore.
It was becoming a world of its own.
And Oliver was at the center of it.