The conversation began before Oliver had even fully seated himself. The Cannons' manager — a wiry wizard with salt-and-pepper hair and a voice that carried even when he whispered — was already leaning forward, speaking directly to Penny.
"I'll be frank with you, Madame Flamel," he said, setting down a sheaf of parchment on the table in front of them. "Our fixtures are tight. Quidditch isn't staged like a theatre performance. Matches run to schedule, referees are strict, and the League isn't exactly fond of… distractions. If young Oliver here wants to play music, it will need to fit into an allotted slot, preferably during the opening ceremonies."
Oliver flushed, heat rising to his cheeks. The words play music sounded so small compared to what music meant to him, and yet he didn't argue. His confidence in the air with a broom was beginning to blossom, but when it came to this — to his truest self — he still shrank back.
Penny, on the other hand, sat upright, her hands folded neatly on the table, her expression regal in its calm. "With all due respect, sir," she replied, her voice soft yet unyielding, "you will find that Oliver's performance is not a distraction. It is an asset. His music carries magic that cannot be measured in minutes and seconds. If there is any stage in this country that deserves him, it is a Quidditch pitch filled with roaring crowds."
The manager looked at her as though she had just suggested releasing a dragon in the stands. "We have to keep order," he insisted. "We—"
"Order," Penny repeated, her eyes narrowing just slightly. "Is not broken by beauty. You will find the time. I am certain of it."
For a moment, Oliver feared the manager would snap back. But then the man exhaled through his nose, rubbed his temples, and nodded reluctantly. "We'll… work around it. Maybe before the teams take the field. A shorter piece, no more than five minutes."
Penny's lips curved into a victorious smile, and she patted Oliver's shoulder. "You hear that, dear? They're making room for you."
Oliver gave her a sheepish grin, half-embarrassed, half-thrilled. Grandma Penny always wins, he thought. And for once, he was glad someone else had fought the battle for him.
While Penny and the manager continued to hash out finer points, the rest of the Cannons' team had drifted into a circle with Oliver, Nick, and the professors who had come along. Their mood was lighter, more playful.
"So, Hogwarts again, eh?" one of the Chasers — a tall witch with a streak of blue dyed into her hair — smirked. "Feels odd, coming back here after all these years. I still remember the way the staircases never went where I wanted them to."
"Or the way Filch tried to catch us sneaking dungbombs into the Slytherin dorms," another player laughed, nudging his teammate.
Oliver blinked at them, wide-eyed. "You… pranked at school?"
The witch gave him a wicked grin. "Best part of being a student, kid. You've got your Weasley friends — don't tell me you haven't already started."
Oliver chuckled softly, thinking of Fred and George. "I don't usually start the trouble," he admitted. "I… help finish it."
That got a round of laughter. Even Madam Hooch, standing with her arms crossed, allowed a small, approving smirk.
Their nostalgia rolled into speculation. "You know," one Beater said, leaning forward conspiratorially, "it's a shame we're just training here. Wouldn't it be something if we had a proper match? Us against Hogwarts' champions?"
The idea sparked instantly. Heads nodded, voices chimed.
"Imagine the crowd."
"Imagine their faces when they see a schoolboy outfly half the League."
"Merlin's beard, it would be priceless."
Oliver shifted uneasily in his seat. He didn't like being spoken of as though he were a spectacle, but there was no denying the small flicker of pride that came with it.
Dumbledore, seated at the edge of the group, laced his fingers together and tilted his head. His eyes twinkled, though his face remained composed. "It could be amusing," he said, the words floating in the air like a spark over dry tinder.
That was all it took. The room erupted with excitement. The players laughed, clapped one another on the back, and began speculating what such a match would look like. Even Nick allowed himself a chuckle, though his gaze flickered once or twice to Oliver, silently checking if the boy was overwhelmed.
Oliver just gave a small, humble shrug. "If it happens," he said quietly, "I'll do my best."
Talk shifted again, this time to Oliver's promised training pitch. The Cannons, half-serious, half-ridiculous, began throwing out suggestions.
"Enchanted hoops that light up when you score."
"Bludgers that reset themselves so we don't have to chase them down after every hit."
"Spectator stands that move so the crowd always gets the best view."
Oliver laughed, his grin coming more easily now. "If you let me, I might end up with a pitch that looks more like a carnival than Quidditch."
"That wouldn't be the worst thing in the world," one of the Chasers quipped.
Nick leaned closer to Oliver. "What matters," he said gently, "is that it works for you. Make it functional first. The frills can come later."
Oliver nodded firmly. He was starting to learn the rhythm of these conversations — when to stay quiet, when to speak, and when to let his small smile do all the talking. He wasn't invisible anymore.
The Cannons' laughter and banter echoed around him, but Oliver's mind was already ticking over blueprints, ideas, possibilities.
That was when he made his decision. With a small chuckle, he reached down to his suitcase, unfastened the latches, and set it on the floor.
"Would you… like to see?" he asked softly.
The players blinked. "See what?"
Oliver smiled. "Where the pitch will be."
And with that, he lifted the lid.
The players leaned forward, craning their necks to peer into the open suitcase.
At first, they saw only darkness, an odd shimmer of blue like the glint of starlight caught in water. Then Oliver swung his legs over the edge and dropped inside as though stepping off a ledge. He landed lightly, then looked back up at them, smiling faintly.
"Well?" he asked. "Coming?"
There was a pause. Then Penny rose first, her skirts swishing as she moved gracefully to the suitcase. "Don't dawdle," she told the others, and with surprising ease for a woman of her years, she vanished inside.
Nick followed, chuckling under his breath. "You'll forgive the boy for his… unusual methods," he said to the stunned Quidditch players before climbing in after her.
The Cannons exchanged nervous glances. "He expects us to—"
"He does," Dumbledore cut in smoothly, amusement glinting in his eyes. "And I expect you to oblige him." Without further hesitation, the Headmaster stepped in, his long robes swirling like shadows as he disappeared from sight.
That broke the dam. One by one, the Cannons jumped, some more gracefully than others. Their boots clattered against stone, and gasps of astonishment followed.
The world inside the suitcase was no dark cramped space. It was vast — an entire landscape, stretching out beneath an enchanted sky that shimmered with faint stars. The Cannons stumbled forward, their mouths falling open as they took it in.
"Bloody—" one muttered before clapping a hand over his mouth, remembering Penny's presence.
Oliver was waiting at the base of a path, Nyx perched like a midnight crown atop his head. Even as a chick, she seemed to glow faintly, her feathers shimmering with pinpricks of dark-blue starlight.
"Welcome," Oliver said simply, his grin small but proud. "This is… mine."
The tour began slowly, each step unveiling something that seemed impossible for a boy his age to have built.
First came the alchemy lab, its walls lined with polished instruments gleaming in soft candlelight. Brass alembics, crystal vials, and rune-carved furnaces all hummed faintly with magic. On one table sat prototypes of his inventions: the linked speakers glowing faintly with Nyx's blue crystal at their core, and the guitar with its wand-slot gleaming like it was waiting for another song to be born.
The players gawked openly. "You made these?"
Oliver nodded. "Some with help. But… yes. I wanted to test ideas."
There was no arrogance in his tone — only quiet pride, as though each word were an admission he hadn't dared say aloud until now.
From there, he led them to the potion lab. Neatly organized shelves stretched high, stocked with labeled jars, herbs dried in bundles, and gleaming cauldrons of different sizes. The air was cool, crisp, and smelled faintly of mint and smoke.
One of the Chasers whistled. "This makes Slughorn's private lab look like a broom closet."
Oliver flushed, ducking his head. "Madame Pomfrey says… environment matters. This one feels right."
They moved on to the greenhouse. Here, Sprout herself was bent over a plot of soil, coaxing a plant with broad silver leaves to spread. When she looked up, she beamed.
"Ah, visitors!" she said cheerily, brushing dirt from her gloves. "Don't mind me, I was just settling these in. Your boy here has given me enough space to grow an entire reserve of rare flora. Just wait until you see what we'll manage here."
The Cannons, utterly floored, could only mutter words like unbelievable and brilliant.
Oliver smiled faintly. This was exactly what he'd wanted — not their awe, but their acknowledgment.
At last, the path opened into the dueling hall. The ceiling arched high above them, charmed to shift colors depending on the duel below. The floor gleamed with protective runes, and the air carried the crisp edge of magic waiting to be used.
"Merlin's beard," one Beater whispered. "This isn't a suitcase. It's a fortress."
But the final revelation left them all speechless. Beyond the hall lay a forest — a true forest, alive with birdsong and the shimmer of moonlight through branches. White shapes flickered between the trees. Unicorns, their coats glowing softly, roamed the glades with regal calm.
And watching them, standing tall with bows slung over their shoulders, were two centaurs.
The female, Sylara, inclined her head gracefully in greeting. "We see your visitors, Oliver," she said in a low, melodic voice. "They are welcome… so long as they do not tread without respect."
Theron's deep voice followed, steady and resolute. "This forest may be new, but the stars above it still demand honor. If they mock or trample, we will remember."
The Cannons froze. Even Dumbledore's expression softened with rare wonder.
Oliver gave a small nod. "They won't. I promise."
Sylara studied him for a long moment, then gave a faint smile. "Then we are content."
Theron simply returned to watching the unicorns, his bow resting easily at his side.
The Cannons exhaled all at once, like they'd been holding their breath since the centaurs appeared.
"You keep…" one of them stammered. "Unicorns. Centaurs. In a— in a suitcase?"
Oliver shrugged lightly, though his grin tugged wider now. "It's safe here. Better than the Forbidden Forest."
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Penny, standing at Oliver's side, broke the silence with a warm laugh. "I do believe you've stunned professional Quidditch players into silence. Quite the feat, my dear."
The Cannons erupted into chuckles, though none could tear their eyes away from the marvels around them.
When the tour circled back toward the entrance, the players were still reeling.
"This isn't just a pitch," one said finally. "This is… a world."
Oliver's grin widened, shy but radiant. "It's home."
And for the first time, he felt no shame in saying it.