If you're enjoying these stories, consider leaving a comment, review, or vote.
You can also visit the Pat** on at: ilham20
The hype around the Battle Royale arena kept growing. The screams and laughter of young witches and wizards had become Hogwarts' new background noise—piercing the clouds, echoing between the castle towers, and carrying all the way to the edge of the Forbidden Forest in a chaotic mix of excitement and terror.
The nonstop racket finally pushed Argus Filch past his breaking point.
His face turned a sickly gray as he flipped through every appendix in Hogwarts, A History, hunting for applicable rules. Then he dragged out his own greasy, dog-eared notebook—the one crammed with every "supplemental punishment" he'd ever invented—and read it cover to cover three times.
He still couldn't find a single regulation that neatly covered "magically attacking each other inside a professor-created forest while terrorizing giant insects."
"Lawless! Completely lawless!" he snarled, breathing hard, his few remaining hairs standing on end. "The Headmaster has to put a stop to this! It's a serious violation! Disruptive to castle order! Noise pollution! And a safety hazard—just look at the ones being carried out! This sort of thing should never be allowed at Hogwarts!"
He was pointing at a second-year Gryffindor who had tried to ride a giant beetle, only to get flung off and land in a bruised, grinning heap. The vines were already gently depositing the boy outside the arena.
Filch marched off with stiff, furious steps, heading straight for the Headmaster's office. He didn't bother with the password—he pounded on the stone gargoyle with his fist.
The gargoyle slowly swung aside, revealing the spiral staircase. Filch stormed up it.
"Headmaster Dumbledore!" he burst into the office, chest heaving, voice shrill with outrage. "This is a serious violation! It must be stopped! That so-called Battle Royale is nothing but a breeding ground for chaos! Students are running wild, firing spells at each other, provoking—provoking those disgusting oversized bugs! They should all be rounded up and put in detention! One month each! No—a whole term!"
Dumbledore sat behind his desk, an enormous ancient tome open in front of him, its page edges shimmering with starlight. He looked up, blinking behind his half-moon spectacles. Instead of annoyance, a spark of amusement lit his blue eyes.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Filch. Calm yourself. Would you like a lemon drop?" he asked mildly, gesturing to a spinning silver dish on the desk.
"I don't want candy, Headmaster!" Filch waved his arms wildly, nearly knocking over a quietly bubbling silver instrument. "I want order! Rules! Punishment! Look outside! Those little brats are completely out of control!"
Dumbledore followed Filch's pointing finger as if he could actually see the lively scene in the arena. He stroked his long silver beard with a contented smile.
"Ah, yes. Quite energetic, isn't it? Full of youthful vigor. Honestly, Mr. Filch, watching them makes me feel a few decades younger. I wonder if they'd let me join in for a round or two—"
"Albus!" A stern voice cut in. Professor McGonagall had appeared in the doorway, clearly drawn by Filch's commotion—or she had been on her way to discuss the arena herself.
She strode in, brow furrowed, her expression only slightly less furious than Filch's, though hers stemmed more from worry than rage.
"Headmaster, we need to talk. Student safety! Just this morning two more Ravenclaws were sent to the hospital wing—one chased into a tree by his own conjured bats, the other accidentally hit by his partner's Jelly-Legs Jinx and rolled off a simulated cliff. Even if it was just a Transfigured bush, it was still dangerous! This kind of potentially harmful activity should be strictly regulated, or even—"
"Minerva," Dumbledore interrupted gently but firmly, his voice carrying quiet authority.
He popped a cockroach cluster into his mouth, chewed, and spoke around it. "Madam Pomfrey has already stocked up on enough Essence of Dittany, Skele-Gro, and Calming Draughts. I approved an extra materials purchase last week. Of course," he swallowed the candy, his blue eyes twinkling with wisdom, "I believe our students have more sense than we sometimes give them credit for. They know when to stop—especially when faced with a shared… surprise. Care for an ice mouse, Minerva? Quite refreshing."
McGonagall glared at the dish of candies, then at Dumbledore's relaxed face. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
"…Thank you," she finally said, taking an ice mouse—thankfully not a cockroach cluster. But the worry on her face didn't fade. "Still, I must insist you at least ban clearly dangerous spells inside the arena, or limit the intensity of the duels—"
"Minerva." Dumbledore interrupted again, his voice lower and more serious this time.
He set the ancient book aside and leaned forward slightly. His gaze grew deep and far-seeing behind his half-moon spectacles.
"Have you ever watched lion cubs? In the wild, or even at a zoo?"
McGonagall blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "Of course I have."
"As an Animagus with a feline form, she had a natural understanding of big cats."
"Then you know," Dumbledore continued, his voice like an old fable, "that young animals learn the skills they need to survive through play. Lion cubs practice hunting by pouncing on each other's tails. They learn speed and stealth by chasing and hiding. They establish pack hierarchy and bonds through roughhousing. To them, play isn't pointless fun—it's rehearsal for life-and-death situations."
He paused, his eyes seeming to drift toward the noisy, vibrant mini-forest in the distance.
"Our children are the same, Minerva. A wand in their hands isn't just for homework or conjuring flowers. It's an extension of themselves—the bridge between will and magic."
"If they cannot learn to use it effectively in a relatively safe, controlled game—learn to think under pressure, cooperate in crisis, judge when to attack, when to defend, when to run—then real, harsh life will eventually teach them those lessons in a much colder, much more painful way."
The office fell quiet for a moment, broken only by the soft humming of silver instruments.
Filch's mouth opened and closed, as if he still wanted to argue, but under Dumbledore's all-seeing gaze he finally just grumbled and fell silent.
McGonagall squeezed the ice mouse between her fingers, feeling its cold touch.
She remembered the scenes she'd glimpsed at the edge of the arena earlier.
Harry Potter had instantly thrown up a perfect Shield Charm to protect a terrified first-year Hufflepuff from a prank curse coming from the side.
Students from different houses had spontaneously formed a circle to drive off an overly enthusiastic giant dung beetle.
Even Pansy Parkinson—the Slytherin girl who usually looked down on everyone—had been clutching Hermione Granger's sleeve in pure terror, tears streaming down her face. Yet her other hand still trembled as she tried (badly) to cast a Leg-Locker Curse at the beetle Hermione was fighting.
Those images were nothing like the neat, orderly classroom drills of reciting spells and practicing careful wand movements.
There was something raw, vibrant, and even bright shining through the chaos.
"I only regret one thing—" Dumbledore's voice pulled her back.
A boyish, slightly rueful smile appeared on the old Headmaster's face.
"Why didn't I bring Viktor on as a professor sooner, or think of something like this game myself? Back in our school days, the best we could do was sneak into abandoned classrooms for secret duels. We never had anything this fun and… genuinely educational."
McGonagall's mouth twitched, as if she wanted to smile but forced it down.
She finally sighed, turning the breath into a reluctant concession.
"I'll go check with Madam Pomfrey again to make sure the hospital wing has enough supplies and bandages for the… possible increase in traffic."
She said "traffic" through gritted teeth, then turned on her heel, black robes swirling, and strode out of the office. Her high heels clicked against the stone a little lighter than when she had arrived.
Filch watched McGonagall leave, then looked back at Dumbledore, who had already returned to his ancient tome as if nothing had happened. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally gave a heavy "Hmph!" before shuffling out grumpily.
He still needed to find a rule that could ban "persistent noise generation in non-teaching areas."
Great Hogwarts should not be this loud.
The white-bearded Headmaster narrowed his eyes slightly and did not immediately return to his book.
With a gentle wave of his old wand, one wall of the office turned transparent, clearly showing the real-time scene of the distant Battle Royale arena.
He saw Harry Potter darting through the trees like a nimble antelope, using Impedimenta and Diffindo to neatly trap a small "hunting party" before quickly leading a group of younger students to safety.
He saw Theodore Nott from Hufflepuff showing surprising courage, leaping onto the broad, chitin-armored back of a mantis while it was distracted and clinging on tight, shouting instructions to Michael Corner from Ravenclaw to hit the joints with a Freezing Charm.
Their coordination was clumsy, but their bravery was commendable—and they actually managed to slow the mantis down.
He saw Blaise Zabini from Slytherin and Ron Weasley from Gryffindor—two boys who usually glared at each other in the corridors—now standing back-to-back, wands flashing as they fought three enlarged wolf spiders closing in from different directions.
Ron used a modified Sand Blaster to disrupt the spiders' sight and senses, while Zabini precisely targeted the more vulnerable leg joints with Severing Charms. Their spells weren't powerful, but the teamwork had real rhythm.
He saw Terry Boot from Ravenclaw using Illusion Charms to create several copies of himself, successfully drawing away a patrol of giant ants and rescuing a breathless Padma Patil.
And he saw Pansy Parkinson—yes, still her—screaming at a pitch that could shatter glass while desperately clutching Hermione Granger's wrist like a drowning person grabbing driftwood.
Hermione was being dragged along but kept her wand steady, muttering rapidly. A powerful Banishing Charm sent a rolling dung beetle crashing into a tree trunk, leaving it dazed.
Then Hermione grabbed Pansy's arm and practically dragged her behind a thick ancient tree, shouting urgently, "Duck! Close your eyes! Obscuro!"
In the face of those terrifying insect "surprises" and the threat of random opponents, the usual house barriers and petty rivalries seemed to dissolve.
They screamed, they laughed, they looked ridiculous—but they also reached out to help one another, deliberately drew fire to protect teammates, and even sacrificed themselves to shield students from completely different houses.
"How wonderful—" Dumbledore murmured, his blue eyes reflecting the lively scenes of cooperation and occasional flashes of courage.
He gently wiped the corner of his eye, which seemed a little moist.
"True magic isn't just in the spells themselves, but in the way they bring people together—even if it's by getting chased by giant bugs together."
At the same time, on the other side of the castle, at a window.
Severus Snape stood like a frozen shadow in his black robes, expressionless.
He stared coldly toward the Battle Royale arena.
His lips formed a harsh, straight line. In his hand he held a quill and a sheet of parchment, occasionally jotting down names.
"Idiotic," he muttered, watching a fourth-year Slytherin charge recklessly into "enemy" territory only to be overwhelmed and carried out by three Gryffindors.
"No strategy whatsoever. Five points from Gryffindor—no, from Slytherin—for his recklessness and for embarrassing the House."
"Pathetic aim," he noted as another Slytherin's Stunning Spell missed its target by a good three feet and instead hit an innocent floating insect, enraging it. "Cassius, two extra hours of target practice after class."
Even in a game, he refused to let his students perform poorly. Slytherin's honor could not be tarnished—not even in play.
Professor Flitwick, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.
Standing on a specially brought tall stool, he bounced with excitement, his high-pitched voice ringing out nonstop.
"Oh! Look at that Ravenclaw! Petrificus Totalus used perfectly! It froze that sneaking scorpion! —Watch your back! —Brilliant, he noticed! A beautiful Shield Charm! —Teamwork! Pay attention to teamwork! That Hufflepuff over there, use Wingardium Leviosa to move that log and give your teammate an opening! —Yes, yes, just like that! —Fantastic! They took down the sentry!"
He clapped and cheered, his small body wobbling on the stool, completely unconcerned by the heavy, almost tangible aura of disapproval radiating from Snape beside him.
The Slytherin student Flitwick had just praised as having "aim as weak as a few drops of water" was none other than Crabbe.
He had shown a bit of cunning by hiding in the shadow beneath a slowly moving giant beetle, but his combat experience and magic control were abysmal. The moment he was exposed, he was easily countered.
"Lack of basic training," Snape wrote harshly next to Crabbe's name on the parchment, already planning how many buckets of slimy toad entrails the boy would have to handle to "make up" for the embarrassment.
The magic of the Battle Royale arena showed no signs of fading. If anything, it grew stronger as students began inventing their own variations.
Inspired by the Weasley twins—who had unofficially become the arena's consultants—students moved beyond simple solo or small-team survival matches.
They created even more ways to play.
The most popular was a random team format using a hat enchanted with anti-interference charms. Participants dropped their names in, and George (or another elected student) drew them out to form "White Team" and "Black Team."
Whether only two or three wanted a quick skirmish or thirty or forty wanted a full "army battle," teams formed instantly.
Teammates and opponents were completely random. The Gryffindor fighting beside you today might be the Slytherin firing a Tarantallegra at you tomorrow. It added huge amounts of fun and unpredictability.
When Dumbledore learned about this new mode, his inner child (or "elderly mischief-maker") emerged. He personally added a small charm to the arena: once teams were formed, participants' robes automatically changed color—one side pure bright white, the other deep black—until the round ended.
The visual effect was striking and prevented accidental friendly fire (though deliberate friendly fire was another matter).
He even enthusiastically offered to join a team himself.
The students unanimously and immediately rejected the idea.
"Headmaster, your wisdom should be used to guide us, not… uh, personally participate in such a crude game," Hermione Granger said as student representative, though she secretly wanted to see Dumbledore cast a few spells.
"Yeah, Headmaster, if you joined, none of us would have any fun left!" George Weasley grinned.
"One spell from you and the whole forest would turn into a candy wonderland. We wouldn't be fighting—we'd just be having a tea party."
"And it wouldn't be fair to you," Fred added with mock sincerity. "The rules ban powerful magic. That would tie your hands too much."
Dumbledore looked at the children's mix of awe, nervousness, and outright "please don't" expressions, sighed regretfully, and respected the majority's wishes. He promised to remain the "fairest spectator."
Although the professors—especially McGonagall and Snape—had strictly forbidden the use of any Dark Arts, curses, or deliberately insulting or permanently harmful attacks inside the arena, a few hot-headed or overly ambitious students still tried to sneak in violations during the chaos.
For example, a Slytherin attempted a Permanent Sticking Charm on an opponent's shoelaces. A Gryffindor, pushed to the limit, nearly used a gut-expelling curse. Another tried a Confundus Charm to make an opponent mistake a teammate for one of the "surprise" insects.
Punishments for rule-breaking came swift and severe—and very different from usual.
Point deductions and detention were standard. But detentions were no longer simple lines from A History of Magic or cleaning up slugs.
Violators faced the tasks they hated most.
—Cleaning the most remote, foul-smelling bathrooms in the castle by hand, with brush and rag only. No Scourgify allowed. Filch would supervise with near-gleeful strictness.
—Helping Professor Sprout in the greenhouses mixing special fertilizer by hand. No wand use for stirring or moving anything. The smell and texture were enough to ruin anyone's appetite for days.
The harshest punishment, however, was "banned from the Battle Royale arena" for anywhere from three days to a full term.
This penalty was personally approved by Dumbledore and announced publicly in the Great Hall during meals.
Some students might not mind getting dirty or working hard, preferring toilet duty over copying lines.
But almost no one could bear being shut out of the school's most popular and exciting activity.
Watching others excitedly discuss tactics and enter the fun, challenging forest while you could only stand outside listening to the laughter and shouts—that mental isolation hurt far more than any physical labor.
After a few high-profile cases—a Slytherin banned for two weeks for the sticking charm, a Gryffindor banned for a month for nearly using a dark curse—the atmosphere inside the arena visibly "civilized."
Students began to truly understand the meaning of "sparring" and "restraint," where the red lines were, and that breaking the rules carried a price none of them wanted to pay.
Even so, Madam Pomfrey's workload in the hospital wing showed no sign of decreasing.
Almost every day, several bruised, limping, or bandaged students were brought in.
Most injuries were minor: scratches from branches while running through the trees, scraped knees from slipping off unstable Transfigured rocks, twisted ankles from jumping out of trees to dodge spells, or—more commonly—broken arms and legs from falling from various heights, whether real branches or conjured platforms.
In the wizarding world, as long as the injury wasn't caused by Dark Magic or something like a Basilisk's gaze, ordinary fractures and cuts were no more troublesome than treating a bad cold under Madam Pomfrey's skilled care.
A few potions, a good night's sleep, or letting the bones knit themselves back together with a satisfying crack, and most students were bouncing around again the next day.
But the daily number of patients was still far higher than before the arena opened.
Madam Pomfrey was run off her feet, the hem of her white coat always carrying the scent of potions.
At least three times a day she sent notes, owls, or marched to the Headmaster's office herself, demanding in her sternest voice that the "dangerous playground" be shut down immediately and permanently.
Dumbledore always greeted her with a warm smile, listened patiently to her complaints and concerns, and offered her a calming herbal tea.
Then—he would skillfully and firmly steer the conversation elsewhere, or gently deflect with comments like "The children need to train" and "Madam Pomfrey, your medical skill is one of Hogwarts' greatest safeguards."
Once, she even threatened to write to the Board of Governors.
Dumbledore simply blinked his blue eyes and said mildly, "Oh, I'm sure the governors would understand that suitable extracurricular activities are vital to the well-rounded development of young witches and wizards. Besides,"
He gestured out the window, where a huge crash mixed with cheers could be heard.
"Listen to how much fun they're having. And I've noticed that because of the arena, students are secretly practicing defensive and healing spells far more often after class. Won't that lighten your workload in the long run?"
Madam Pomfrey stared at the Headmaster's "I understand everything but I'm not changing anything" smile and knew further argument was useless.
She could only sigh heavily, run a hand through her always-neat hair, and head back to tend to her "clients," muttering, "At least… at least stop them from trying to ride those bugs! Especially the beetles! They are not mounts!"
The Battle Royale arena remained wildly popular.
The screams and laughter continued to pierce Hogwarts' sky every day.
And inside that magically sustained mini-forest, among the enlarged insect "surprises" and the randomly assigned black-and-white teams, the young witches and wizards were indeed growing in ways they never had before.
They learned real combat application of spells, teamwork, staying calm under pressure, reading situations, protecting themselves and their companions, and accepting defeat while learning from it.
Dumbledore stood by the window in his office, watching the setting sun gild the lively forest in gold, listening to the noisy but vibrant sounds carried on the wind. A deep, satisfied smile curved his lips.
He knew the shadows still lurked deep within the castle. The Basilisk threat had not been eliminated. Production of the protective lenses continued at full speed, and the secret investigation into Voldemort's contingency pressed on.
But beneath all that darkness, the vibrant scene before him—these children growing tougher, sharper, and more united through "play"—felt like a beam of light breaking through the clouds.
"Warriors forged in games are far better than lambs raised in a greenhouse," he murmured softly, popping another lemon drop into his mouth. The sweet-sour taste spread across his tongue.
"Besides, who can say these laughs themselves are not the most powerful magic of all?"
He turned, his silver hair and beard stirring slightly in the evening breeze, and walked back to his desk where heavy files on the Chamber of Secrets, the Basilisk, and distant threats still waited.
Yet for a moment, his steps seemed just a little lighter than usual.
---