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The news that a dueling arena was about to be built spread through the castle like wildfire, igniting a storm of excitement. The students seemed as if they had all been struck by a powerful Cheering Charm, their anticipation bubbling over and impossible to contain.
This was not merely a remedy for the restlessness and disorder that had been simmering lately. To Sargeras, the arena carried far greater meaning. He saw in it a boundless well of teaching potential, a place where skill, discipline, and joy could come together in a single grand endeavor.
Quidditch?
What kind of worthless rubbish was that compared to this?
On a seemingly ordinary afternoon, Sargeras summoned every professor who was willing to lend a hand and led them straight to the site chosen for the construction.
The moment they arrived, the gathered professors began talking among themselves, debating where the foundation should be laid and how to begin. But while they were still exchanging ideas, Sargeras had already walked alone to the very center of the open ground.
There was no lengthy incantation, nor any elaborate flourish to announce the casting of a spell.
He simply lifted his right arm in a steady, unhurried motion, the tip of his wand tilting toward the ground at an angle, the gesture fluid and assured.
Then, with crisp precision, a short, cold word left his lips.
"Shape!"
The word was not loud, yet it struck with the force of an unstoppable wave, crashing into the hearts of every bystander. The ground beneath their feet shuddered violently in answer, as if echoing that single command.
And then came the miracle… or perhaps more fittingly, a breathtaking display of pure magic: a grand act of reshaping the earth itself.
The spot where Sargeras's wand pointed did not swell gently upward; it was torn open by a force so fierce it seemed to defy the natural order.
With the deafening roar of stone grinding and splitting apart, a colossal slab of rock, still tangled with roots and clumps of earth, was wrenched from the deep bones of the earth as though an unseen giant's hand had reached down into the crust to drag it upward. It rose from the ground with a thunderous crack, an eruption of primal power.
This scene was as if the land itself had been split wide open, laying bare its ancient, rugged spine for all to see.
Dust billowed into the air in thick, choking clouds, and shards of stone clattered down like a rain of jagged hail. With a casual wave of his hand, Sargeras summoned a sudden, whirling gale that swept every mote of dust into a tight spiral, carrying it silently back into the earth until the air was once again clear.
In the open space, his wand carved one precise arc after another through the air, each movement measured to perfection. Even the smallest shift of his wrist was enough to send sweeping, dramatic transformations rippling across the arena as it took shape before their eyes.
The massive slabs of stone that had risen from the ground moved at his command as if they were nothing more than pliant clay, bending and shifting with obedient grace beneath the invisible weight of his magic. Sharp edges were smoothed away, their harshness gentled under his power, while broad, rough curves were reshaped into lines so clean and natural they seemed to have been carved by centuries of wind and water. Stone plates slid together with a deep, resonant rumble, interlocking into place so seamlessly that not a crack could be seen between them.
The platform was forming at a speed the eye could follow, its surface gleaming like polished glass yet underpinned by a solid, unshakable weight that seemed to draw on the earth's oldest and deepest strength.
Sargeras's gaze swept to the space encircling the arena. With a deliberate turn of his wrist, his wand traced a half-circle through the air. Instantly, the dormant seeds Professor Sprout had buried long ago, each threaded with a whisper of magic, stirred to life as though awakened by a hundredfold surge of vitality. They split open in unison with a sharp, rapid chorus, the sound like a forest floor erupting beneath a flurry of snapping twigs.
In an instant, thick green vines, vibrant with vitality, surged upward like great serpents brought to life. They twisted and coiled in perfect unison, following exactly the path his wand described, climbing and weaving together with fanatic, unstoppable energy.
But there was nothing chaotic in their growth. Every coil, every climb, was deliberate, as if following an unseen blueprint. The vines wound themselves into the shape of staircases, spiraling upward from all sides of the field until they reached the floating edge of the arena.
Then, as though they possessed wills of their own, the vines tightened and knotted, braiding themselves into sturdy railings and long, sweeping rows of seats.
The transformation was so swift it was dizzying, each moment bursting with untamed life.
Small flowers unfurled along the vines, glowing with a soft, ethereal light. Their gentle radiance bathed the stands in a warmth that made them look less like part of a battleground and more like an enchanted theater hidden deep within some ancient forest.
Next, Sargeras lowered his wand toward the center of the arena and gave a single, decisive point. From the tip of his wand, a thick pillar of silver-white light shot forth, piercing down with tremendous force and striking the exact heart of the platform!
Where the light met stone, the ground trembled and a monumental stele of rock burst upward with a deafening roar. Its towering form radiated an air of solemnity and majestic authority, as if it had stood there for centuries and would stand for centuries more.
The entire process had taken no more than a few minutes. By the time the final ripple of magic faded into silence, the swirling dust had begun to settle and the gaping cracks that had split the ground apart were gone without a trace, as though they had never been there at all.
And there it was… an arena so grand and magnificent it seemed carved from the will of the gods themselves, suspended in the air before all who watched.
An absolute silence fell over the edge of the Quidditch pitch.
More than a hundred students, along with the professors who had been invited to assist, stood frozen where they were, their eyes wide, their mouths slightly open in disbelief. It was as if every one of them had been struck by a Full Body-Bind Curse, frozen in awe at the sight before them.
The only sounds in the air were the rough, uneven breaths of those present and the deep, pounding rhythm of hearts beating far too fast, each heavy thump echoing like a drumbeat inside their own ears.
Ron's jaw was hanging so low it seemed in danger of hitting the ground. Moving as if in a daze, he jabbed Harry in the side with his elbow.
"He… he just… all by himself… the whole… this thing… he… he…"
The rest of the words stuck in his throat, tangled there so completely that no matter how he tried, he could not push them out.
Hermione, too, could only stare fixedly at the massive stone disk hovering in midair, its surface broad enough to rival an entire Quidditch pitch. Her lips moved faintly, but no sound emerged, as if even her vast vocabulary could not keep up with the reality before her.
Harry found himself just as speechless. All he could register was a strange weakness creeping into his legs, leaving them unsteady beneath him.
Even the students who had merely been passing by were left rooted to the spot, their eyes fixed on the scene as though nailed in place. The sheer scale and force of what they had just witnessed felt almost unreal, so absurd and overwhelming that the mind could scarcely bring itself to accept it.
At last, Sargeras began to speak, his calm voice cutting through the stunned silence as he started assigning tasks.
"Professor Flitwick…" he said, turning toward the excited little wizard, "you'll be responsible for the core protective enchantments. I'll work alongside you to complete them."
Professor Flitwick was rubbing his hands together in barely contained delight, muttering under his breath, "Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant… finally, something more than just Quidditch!"
"Professor Sprout…" Sargeras continued, his attention shifting to the kindly Herbology mistress, "please take the magical vine seeds you brought and plant them at suitable spots throughout the castle. Later, I will guide their growth to construct some vine stairways and drawbridges leading directly to the arena from inside the castle. Our aim is to ensure that each House's common room, as well as major areas like the Great Hall, will have at least one convenient route to the platform."
Professor Sprout nodded warmly in agreement and immediately turned to set about her work.
"Professor McGonagall…" Sargeras said at last, his gaze resting on the stern‑faced Transfiguration professor and his tone carrying a subtle note of reassurance, "please, there's no need to keep that frown on your face for now. Your task will be extremely crucial: examine the protective spells that Professor Flitwick and I have put in place and make sure their strength meets the standard. And…"
His voice grew firmer. "Use your unparalleled skill in Transfiguration to shape every fine detail of the arena, so that every student has a clear view of the duels while ensuring no one accidentally goes tumbling off."
Professor McGonagall pressed her lips into a tight line and gave a very solemn nod.
"Professor Lumina…" Sargeras called next, "I'd like you to inscribe the runes on the dueling platform exactly as I have specified."
"No problem!" Kestrel's eyes lit up with unrestrained excitement. She tilted her head, blinking playfully. "Um… could I… maybe sign my name up there too?"
"No."
"Oh…" Her energy seemed to wilt instantly, the light in her expression dimming as though someone had drawn a curtain across it.
Sargeras turned his gaze toward the black-robed figure who had been standing in silence all this time.
"Professor Snape…"
Severus Snape stood there motionless, his face utterly devoid of expression, as still and forbidding as a statue carved from shadow.
Sargeras could all but taste the man's displeasure. He knew perfectly well that Snape must be seething inside… after all, the two of them had always been at odds, and if not for Dumbledore's decision, Snape would never have shown up here to lend a hand.
But since the opportunity had presented itself, Sargeras had absolutely no intention of letting him slip away unscathed.
"You'll need to brew a specially formulated bonding adhesive for the protective layers," Sargeras said clearly, his tone brisk and matter-of-fact. "Later, have the senior students, or perhaps the house-elves, apply it evenly along the magical circuit lines carved into the platform's base."
Snape's brows knit into a knot, the frown etching deep lines of clear impatience across his face. Sargeras, however, carried on as if he hadn't noticed a thing.
"In addition, we will need a magical coating that can efficiently absorb the impact from heavy blows. The formula, I imagine… you already have on hand, don't you?"
The professor's irritation was now written so plainly across his features it was impossible to miss, yet Sargeras remained utterly unfazed, pressing on without pause.
"And then, we'll also require a washable special paint, a stimulant that can keep someone calm, a magical glue with lubricating properties, and a magical adhesive lubricant…"
Snape's face twitched involuntarily, a tiny crack in his tightly controlled composure. He drew in a slow, sharp breath through his teeth before speaking, his voice low and edged with venom. "I am the Potions Master of Hogwarts, not some apprentice running errands in an alchemist's workshop. And while I might tolerate the first two requests, what in Merlin's name are these absurd things you're listing after that?"
Sargeras nodded gravely, as if giving the man's protest deep and respectful consideration. "You're absolutely right, Professor. Very true indeed. In that case, we'll only take the first two. The rest can be scrapped altogether."
Then, without giving Snape the smallest window to object, he clapped his hands lightly as though sealing the deal. "I'm sure this won't pose any difficulty for you. I'll leave it in your capable hands, Professor…"
Snape's face had gone the color of iron, his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.
But in the end, he merely gave the smallest, stiffest nod, the gesture so reluctant it was almost painful to watch. His anger seemed to gather around him like a dark fog, heavy enough to be felt in the air, before he turned sharply on his heel and strode away, his robes billowing behind him in quick, forceful steps.
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[Chapter End's]
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