A week had passed since Oliver first spoke with Professor Flitwick about his idea for a dueling hall. In that time, with the eager cooperation of several Hogwarts professors and his own relentless drive, the project inside his suitcase sanctuary had transformed from sketches and notions into something startlingly real. The barren clearings he had once walked through were now teeming with life and structure, and the feeling that it was all truly his—a space to learn, to grow, to protect—settled deeper into his chest with every passing day.
It was late afternoon when Oliver stepped through the suitcase's portal. The first rush of air always felt different here, thinner and sharper, as if stepping into a higher altitude. Nyx wheeled above him, her wings painting the sky in soft ribbons of dark blue light. She sang a low, haunting note before banking toward the treeline, her feathers scattering flecks of starlight that vanished before they hit the ground. Oliver couldn't help but smile. She felt at home here too.
Professor Sprout was crouched in front of one of the new planting beds, her wide-brimmed hat tilted back as she dabbed sweat from her brow with a kerchief. Behind her rose a structure Oliver had never imagined could exist before she brought it into being: a vast greenhouse with curved walls of enchanted glass that shimmered faintly in the light. Vines already curled along the supports, drinking in the magical warmth provided by runes carved into the foundation stones. Inside, rows of budding flora promised both beauty and utility, each chosen for their magical or alchemical potential.
Sprout looked up at Oliver's approach and grinned, her cheeks pink. "Come here, my boy! Have a look at these roots—perfectly acclimatized. I thought it might take weeks, but the soil here is rich in ways even Hogwarts can't match." She patted the earth with clear affection. "This place of yours—it's… well, it's extraordinary."
Oliver knelt beside her, brushing his hand over the damp earth. "It's thanks to you, Professor. I'd never have thought of organizing it this way."
"Nonsense," Sprout said, waving a hand, though her eyes twinkled. "I may know a thing or two about coaxing plants, but you provided the vision. Rare species, delicate ecosystems—this greenhouse will be more than just a project. It'll be a sanctuary, just like this entire world you've been building."
Oliver's chest swelled with quiet pride. He thought of the unicorns grazing deeper in the woods, watched over now by the two centaurs who had volunteered to remain behind. The herd had adjusted far quicker than anyone expected; perhaps they sensed the difference in this space, the absence of the constant lurking danger the Forbidden Forest carried. Sprout had been astonished when she saw them roaming freely and had immediately suggested planting clusters of wild magical berries nearby to give them a stable food source. Now the bushes were already taking root, and Oliver could see flashes of silver manes flickering in the distance as the unicorns grazed.
The dueling hall lay on the far side of the sanctuary. Where once there had been only rough, open ground, there now stood a wide, rune-marked platform enclosed by sturdy wards. Professor Flitwick had poured himself into the design, crafting enchantments to absorb stray spells and redirect force to prevent catastrophic damage. McGonagall had contributed her transfiguration skills, shaping the surrounding space so the hall could shift its layout at will—from a flat dueling floor to terrain scattered with obstacles and cover. Even Dumbledore himself had stopped by, lending a few protective charms that hummed faintly in the air, subtle but unshakable.
Oliver stood in the center of the dueling floor now, turning slowly. It felt solid beneath his feet, ready for the energy of spells yet to be cast. He raised his wand experimentally, whispering a charm, and felt the wards absorb the faint ripple of magic without disturbing the environment around him. He grinned, imagining what it would be like to train here with friends—Harry, perhaps, or even the twins once they caught wind of it.
Flitwick's delighted voice echoed in his memory: "This is exactly the sort of place that breeds champions, Mr. Night. Not merely duelists, but wizards who understand the discipline behind magic."
The professors' faith made Oliver stand taller. Once, he would have shrunk beneath such praise, mumbling a thank-you and fleeing as quickly as possible. Now he found himself wanting to live up to their expectations, to prove worthy of the trust they had placed in him. Nyx circled above, her shadow falling over him like a cloak, and he felt her approval pulse through their bond.
He wandered toward the edge of the hall, letting his gaze travel over the expanse of the sanctuary. Greenhouse thriving, dueling hall completed, unicorns and centaurs settled—what had been only fragments of dreams was rapidly becoming a reality. He thought of how far he had come since his first hesitant days at Hogwarts, and how much further he still wanted to go.
Far above, Nyx gave another cry, this one sharper, more insistent. Oliver followed her gaze, though there was nothing unusual—just the horizon glowing with the fading light of day. A strange unease pricked at him, as though her call carried more than sound. He filed the feeling away, resolving to pay attention. Nyx often sensed things long before he did.
For now, however, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The sanctuary was growing. He was growing.
But beyond the suitcase, beyond this private world, darker forces stirred.
Oliver lingered for a while longer in the sanctuary, watching the centaurs Orin and Selene pace the edges of the forest while the unicorn herd grazed calmly beneath their watch. The sight filled him with quiet pride. For once, it felt as if the world was balanced, safe, and secure. He knew it wouldn't last forever—nothing ever did—but he promised himself he'd hold onto this peace for as long as he could.
Nyx descended in a graceful sweep and landed beside him, folding her wings with slow precision. Her sky-blue eyes locked on his, and for a heartbeat, he felt her steady him from the inside out. Whatever storms brewed beyond these walls, they would face them together.
The moment stretched, warm and grounding, before fading into the practical tug of time. Dinner in the Great Hall would be starting soon. With a soft whistle, Oliver coaxed Nyx back into the skies and stepped through the suitcase's threshold, the sanctuary dissolving into the familiar cool stone of Hogwarts.
While Oliver walked toward the Great Hall with a spring in his step, far from his awareness, a very different atmosphere clung to another corner of the castle.
Deep within his chambers, Professor Quirrell sat hunched before a dying fire, his thin hands clasped so tightly the knuckles whitened. His turbaned head dipped low as he whispered to the flickering flames, his voice a stuttering murmur.
"They are gone, M-my Lord… the unicorns… gone from the forest. I've searched, but there's n-nothing left. Someone has moved them."
The room responded not with silence but with a voice that seemed to seep from the very walls, cold and high, threading into Quirrell's ears like poisoned silk.
"Fool. Do you not feel it? The presence has shifted. That boy. The one with the black phoenix. He meddles even here."
Quirrell flinched, his shoulders hunching tighter. "O-Oliver Night. He's been… troublesome. Always drawing attention, always with those infernal professors at his side. I c-could not—"
"Excuses," the voice hissed, sharper now, slicing through Quirrell's stammering. "You had one task: secure sustenance for me while I grow stronger. And now, not only are the unicorns gone, but the centaurs whisper of new protections in the forest. Protections you allowed."
Quirrell trembled, bowing his head lower, his breath ragged. "Forgive me, my Lord. I will find another way."
For a moment the air thickened, pressing down upon him, before the voice grew almost contemplative.
"You will not have to act alone. Write to Lucius Malfoy. His ambition makes him useful. He craves influence, and his reach stretches deep within the Ministry. A letter, woven with a thread of my essence, will stir him to investigate this boy. Let the Malfoys see what becomes of meddling children who draw such… dangerous allies."
Quirrell swallowed hard, sweat sliding down his temple. "A-as you command."
The fire sputtered violently, throwing long shadows across the walls. "And mark this well," the voice whispered, quieter now, a serpent's whisper slithering along his spine. "This child—Oliver—must not be underestimated. He is not merely a distraction. He is a threat. One that grows with every step."
Quirrell nodded jerkily, his breath catching in his throat. "Y-yes, my Lord. I will act swiftly."
The flames snapped and dimmed, and the room fell into an oppressive silence. Only the faintest echo of a hiss lingered, like a phantom crawling across Quirrell's mind.
He sat frozen for a long while, clutching at the folds of his robes. At last, with a shaky hand, he reached for parchment and quill. The scratching of ink soon filled the chamber, each stroke laced with the faint shimmer of magic not wholly his own.
Far above, in the Great Hall, Oliver laughed lightly as Fred tried to balance a spoon on his nose. The boy had no idea that shadows were already stretching toward him, cloaked in the guise of politics and power.