The great exodus for the Christmas holidays left the castle in a state of profound and wonderful peace. Jake stood at a high window in Ravenclaw Tower, watching the scarlet ribbon of the Hogwarts Express puff its way southwards through the snow-covered valley. He had said his goodbyes to Penelope at the castle entrance, a slightly awkward but genuinely warm exchange where they had promised to write. As the last of the students disappeared from view, a quiet settled over the ancient stones, a silence that felt not empty, but full of a deep, contented stillness. This was it. This was home.
The days that followed were some of the happiest he had known. The castle, with only a handful of students and professors remaining, felt less like a school and more like a vast, magical country manor. He explored corridors he'd never had time to see, had a long and surprisingly interesting conversation with a portrait of a cantankerous alchemist, and even played a few games of wizard's chess with Chester Davies, who had also stayed behind.
The Christmas feast was everything he had read about and more. The Great Hall was dominated by twelve enormous, glittering Christmas trees, the ceiling was a swirl of enchanted, perpetually falling snow that never landed, and the food was magnificent. He ate until he was stuffed, laughed at a joke from Professor Flitwick, and felt a simple, uncomplicated sense of belonging that warmed him more than any fire.
On Christmas morning, he woke to find a small, surprising pile of parcels at the foot of his four-poster bed. He sat up, a slow, wondering smile spreading across his face. He had never, in his memory, received a Christmas present.
The first was a heavy box of Honeydukes' Finest Chocolate, wrapped in bright blue paper, with a note from Penelope wishing him a happy Christmas. The second, a lumpy, hand-knitted scarf in the Ravenclaw colours, was from Chester. He wrapped it around his neck, the slightly uneven stitches feeling wonderfully warm.
The final parcel was a flat, rectangular object wrapped in simple brown paper with no card. He unwrapped it carefully. It was a book. It looked very old, the leather cover worn smooth with age, but it was clear it had been meticulously cared for. The title on the spine was simple and direct, embossed in faded gold leaf: A Duellist's Primer: Foundational Stances and Defensive Charm-Work.
Tucked inside the front cover was a small, folded piece of parchment. He opened it. The handwriting was small, neat, and precise.
"Knowledge is power, Mr Bloom. But discovering how to apply that knowledge in the real world is the true strength a Ravenclaw should strive for."
There was no signature, but none was needed. It was from Flitwick.
Jake ran a hand over the book's cover, a thrill of understanding and immense gratitude surging through him. This wasn't just a book; it was a message. A piece of masterful, subtle mentorship. Flitwick had seen his drive, his work on Protego, his quiet ambition. And instead of shutting it down, he was guiding it, shaping it. He was pointing him away from the path of simply accumulating raw power and towards the more difficult, more elegant path of true, practical skill.
He spent the next few days in his secret classroom, the duelling primer his new bible. It was a revelation. He had been so focused on the static, brute-force application of a shield charm. This book introduced him to the art of dynamic, active magic. It was filled with detailed diagrams of stances, of wand movements that were less about power and more about precision, of theories on how to use an opponent's momentum against them.
He began with the very first exercise: the central guard stance, the Guardia Media. It sounded simple, but it was agonisingly difficult. It required a precise placement of the feet, a specific bend in the knees, a way of holding his wand not as a tool to be pointed, but as an extension of his own arm, his own will. His body, used to the straightforward exertion of running, protested at this new, unfamiliar discipline. It was less like a workout and more like a combination of ballet and sword fighting.
After three days of gruelling, repetitive practice, his analytical mind identified a critical, unavoidable flaw in his method. He was building muscle memory, but he had no way of knowing if it was the correct muscle memory. Every stance he perfected, every wand movement he practiced, could be subtly wrong. He was training in a vacuum, with no feedback, no way to test his form. He was ingraining habits that, in a real confrontation, could be a fatal weakness.
Rather than continue a flawed process, he knew what he had to do. He found Professor Flitwick in his office, a cosy, cluttered room filled with stacks of books and gleaming duelling trophies.
"Professor," Jake began, holding up the book. "I wanted to thank you again for this. It's... exactly what I needed."
Flitwick beamed. "I'm delighted you think so, my boy! A fine mind like yours needs a fine whetstone."
"It's more than that, sir," Jake said, choosing his words carefully. "It's shown me the flaw in my own methods. I've been practicing the stances, but I've realised that theory and static practice alone are insufficient. Without a dynamic element or some form of feedback, I am likely just building flawed habits that will be difficult to unlearn."
Flitwick's cheerful expression slowly transformed into one of stunned, profound respect. He stared at Jake, his eyes wide. He had expected the boy to be diligent. He had not expected him to grasp the fundamental principles of martial pedagogy in a matter of days. This was not just a gifted student. This was a mind that understood the very nature of learning.
"Your assessment, Mr Bloom," Flitwick said, his voice filled with a new level of esteem, "is not just correct. It is exceptionally astute. Most students do not come to that conclusion until their sixth year, if at all."
He hopped off his chair and began to pace. "A shame, really. The official duelling club is, of course, for older students. Far too dangerous for first-years." He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully, a conspiratorial twinkle appearing in his eye. "You know," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "it reminds me of a piece of historical trivia. In my day, there was a rather marvellous, albeit long-forgotten, Charms classroom on the seventh floor. Not far from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls ballet. It was equipped with some truly wonderful training dummies for advanced students to practice their spell-work. Self-repairing, I believe. They could even be charmed to return a few simple jinxes. A perfect, safe environment for dynamic practice."
He stopped pacing and looked at Jake, his expression one of pure academic innocence. "I imagine it has been locked up and left to gather dust for decades now. A terrible waste of such fine magical craftsmanship."
Jake's heart began to beat faster. He understood the message perfectly. Flitwick hadn't broken a single rule. He had simply shared a fond memory, a piece of historical trivia. But he had also given Jake a key. Not a physical key, but one of knowledge.
"Thank you, Professor," Jake said, a slow, grateful smile spreading across his face. "That's a very... interesting piece of history."
"Isn't it just?" Flitwick chirped. "Now, off you go. I have a mountain of holiday essays to grade."
Jake left the office, his mind buzzing with a new, exhilarating purpose. His training was about to evolve once again. He no longer needed his dusty, empty classroom on the fifth floor. He had a new destination. A new sanctuary to find.
The remaining days of the Christmas holiday took on the quality of a grand, solitary treasure hunt. Jake's mind, a tool he usually applied to abstract theories, was now focused on a single, tangible goal: finding a room that, according to official records, did not exist.
Flitwick's clue had been both a map and a riddle. The seventh floor. Not far from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls ballet.
Finding the tapestry was the easy part. It was a vast, slightly moth-eaten work of art depicting a scene of such cheerful absurdity that Jake couldn't help but smile every time he saw it. Barnabas, a wizard with a wild look in his eyes, was attempting to put a pink tutu on a towering, confused-looking troll, while a group of smaller trolls in the background attempted clumsy pirouettes. It was a landmark impossible to miss.
The corridor itself was unremarkable. It was a wide, stone passage, empty of the usual suits of armour or portraits, with a high, vaulted ceiling. On one side was the tapestry. On the other, a long, blank stretch of stone wall. This wall became the focal point of Jake's existence.
He started his search methodically. He walked the length of the wall, his fingertips tracing the seams between the massive stone blocks, searching for any sign of a hidden mechanism or loose stone. He found nothing. He moved on to magical detection, casting every variation of a Revealing Charm he knew. The spells washed over the stone, revealing nothing but the faint, residual magic that permeated the entire castle. The wall was just a wall.
He tried asking the portraits in the adjoining corridors. A grumpy-looking wizard in a ruff told him to stop bothering his betters, while a serene-looking witch simply pointed a painted finger in the opposite direction, a completely unhelpful gesture. The moving staircases were no help either, constantly shifting his perspective but offering no new clues.
By the second to last day of the holidays, he was beginning to despair. He stood before the blank wall one last time, a feeling of deep, biting disappointment settling in his chest. He had been so sure, so confident. Flitwick's hint had been a promise, and he had failed to unlock it. He was treating it like a puzzle, a riddle to be solved, but his logic was failing him.
He leaned his back against the cool stone opposite the tapestry, his head bowed in defeat. He closed his eyes, his mind replaying Flitwick's words. A perfect, safe environment for dynamic practice. He had been so focused on finding the room, he hadn't focused on why he was looking for it. He let the frustration drain away, replaced by the deep, fundamental desire that had started this quest.
I need a place to train, he thought, the thought a clear, silent bell in his mind. I need a room with training dummies. I need a place where I can practice duelling.
He paced along the blank wall, his mind no longer on the mechanics of the search, but on the pure, undiluted need. He walked past a certain spot once, thinking, I need a place to practice. He walked back the other way, the thought more intense. I really need a place to practice. He turned and walked past it a third time, his will focused into a single, desperate point. I need a room where I can learn to defend myself.
As he completed the third pass, a faint shimmering began to appear on the surface of the stone in front of him. Intricate lines of light etched their way across the blocks, forming the unmistakable outline of a tall, polished wooden door. A brass handle materialised from the light, and with a soft, final click, the door became completely, impossibly real.
Jake stared, his heart hammering in his chest, a slow, disbelieving grin spreading across his face. It wasn't a puzzle. It was a request. The castle had provided.
And then, as his grin widened, a second, more powerful realisation hit him with the force of a physical blow. A room that appears when you have real need of it. A room that provides what you require.
The Room of Requirement.
He felt a sudden, dizzying wave of idiocy wash over him. How? How could he have forgotten? He had read the books, he had watched the films, he had even spent dozens of hours customising his own version of this very room in the Hogwarts Legacy game. For months he had been in this castle, and not once had the single most useful, most versatile, most powerful secret of the school even crossed his mind. He had been so focused on his own systems, his own projects, his own narrow path, that he had developed a colossal, embarrassing blind spot.
He shook his head, a short, sharp laugh of disbelief escaping his lips. He was an idiot. A well-trained, magically improving idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. He reached out, his hand no longer trembling with excitement, but steady with a newfound sense of humility, and placed it on the brass handle. He pushed the door open.