The news of the Duel Arena's establishment spread like wildfire throughout the castle, and the students were all exhilarated, as if they had been hit with a Cheering Charm.
This arena was not only a way to quell the chaos—it also carried Sagres's high hopes: a new sport with boundless teaching potential and enjoyment.
Quidditch?
What rubbish is that?
On an otherwise ordinary afternoon, Sagres gathered all the professors willing to assist and headed straight to the designated construction site.
While the accompanying professors discussed where to begin laying the foundation, Sagres had already walked alone to the center of the clearing.
There were no lengthy incantations, no flashy gestures.
Sagres simply raised his right arm, the tip of his wand pointing diagonally toward the ground, his movements fluid and natural.
Then, a short, cold, and firm word escaped his lips.
"§ȟåק£."
The word wasn't loud, but it struck every bystander like an invisible shockwave, and the ground beneath their feet trembled violently.
Crack! Boom!
What followed was nothing short of a miracle—or rather, a breathtaking Earth Reshaping driven by pure magic.
Rumble! Rumble! Rumble!
The patch of ground where Sagres's wand pointed did not rise slowly—it was torn open by a tremendous force!
Accompanied by the tremendous sound of rocks grinding and breaking, a massive slab of stone was wrenched from deep within the earth by an unseen magical force, carrying soil and roots with it as it rose from the ground with a deafening roar.
It was as if the earth itself had been forcibly dissected, revealing its ancient, rugged backbone.
Dust billowed, and gravel fell like rain. With a wave of his hand, Sagres summoned a sudden whirlwind that precisely gathered all the dust into a compact sphere, which then silently drilled itself back into the ground.
Sagres's wand drew precise trajectories in the air. Each subtle flick was accompanied by a dramatic transformation of the arena.
The massive stone slabs that had emerged were like obedient clay under the command of his magic.
Their jagged edges were smoothed by invisible force, their curved surfaces reshaped into fluid, natural lines. Slab after slab interlocked seamlessly, the low grinding and fitting sounds echoing through the clearing.
The arena took shape at a pace visible to the naked eye—its surface smooth as a mirror, yet exuding the weight and solidity of something rooted deep within the earth.
Sagres's gaze shifted to the arena's perimeter. He drew a semicircle in the air with his wand.
Swoosh! Crack!
Vine seeds, long buried and infused with magic by Professor Sprout, burst forth with crisp, dense crackling sounds, as if injected with a hundredfold vitality.
In an instant, thick, verdant vines surged upward as if alive, frantically twisting, weaving, and climbing along the invisible paths marked by Sagres's wand.
They didn't grow wildly, but followed precise, controlled movements—constructing elegant stairways that spiraled upward from all sides, finally anchoring to the edge of the floating arena.
Immediately after, the tough vines seemed to possess a will of their own, quickly coiling and transforming into sturdy handrails and rows of seats.
The entire process was dazzlingly fast, brimming with wild, untamed vitality.
Tiny glowing flowers scattered along the vines began to bloom, their soft light illuminating the stands like an elven theater hidden deep within the forest.
Then, Sagres pointed his wand at the center of the arena once more. A thick silver-white beam of light burst from the tip, piercing forcefully into the center of the platform.
Where the beam struck, a massive stone tablet rose with a thunderous roar from the heart of the arena, radiating a solemn and majestic aura.
The entire process had taken only a few minutes. As the final traces of magical energy dissipated, the dust began to settle, and the vast fissures in the earth vanished without a trace.
Now, the grand and sturdy Duel Arena floated before them, like a miracle made manifest.
Absolute silence blanketed the edge of the Quidditch Pitch.
Hundreds of students, along with the professors who had come to assist, stood frozen—staring in awe, as if someone had cast Petrificus Totalus on them all.
The only sounds were the heavy breathing and the thunderous pounding of hearts racing in shock.
Ron's jaw nearly hit the ground. He nudged Harry mechanically. "He… he alone… made the whole… this thing… into… into…"
The rest of the words stuck in his throat, refusing to come out.
Hermione, too, stared fixedly at the massive circular platform floating in mid-air—nearly the size of a Quidditch Pitch—her lips silently forming words that never came.
Harry was equally speechless; his legs felt slightly weak beneath him.
Even the students who had merely been passing by were frozen in place by the earth-shaking spectacle, stunned beyond words—the scene before them was so unreal it bordered on the unbelievable.
Finally, Sagres began assigning tasks.
"Professor Flitwick," he turned to the excited little professor, "please take charge of the core protective enchantments. I'll complete them with you."
Professor Flitwick was already rubbing his hands together eagerly, muttering, "Fantastic! Absolutely fantastic—finally something more than just Quidditch!"
"Professor Sprout," Sagres continued, addressing the cheerful Herbology professor, "please plant the magical vine seeds you brought in suitable locations throughout the castle. Later, I'll guide their growth to construct vine staircases and suspension bridges leading directly to the arena from inside the castle. Our goal is to ensure that each House's common room, as well as key locations like the Great Hall, has at least one direct path."
Professor Sprout nodded enthusiastically and immediately turned to begin the task.
"Professor McGonagall," Sagres's gaze turned to the stern-faced Transfiguration professor, his tone slightly more reassuring, "Don't frown just yet. Your role is crucial: you'll need to inspect the protective enchantments that Professor Flitwick and I set, and…"
He added pointedly, "...use your unparalleled Transfiguration skills to precisely shape every detail of the arena—ensuring every student has a clear view of the battles, while also making sure no one accidentally 'rolls' off the edge."
Professor McGonagall pressed her lips together and gave a very solemn nod.
"Professor Lumina, please engrave the runes on the arena according to my specifications."
"No problem!" Kestrel replied, visibly excited—then blinked. "Um… can I sign it?"
"No."
"Oh…" Her excitement visibly deflated.
Sagres then turned his gaze to the Potions Master cloaked in black.
"Professor Snape…"
Severus Snape stood expressionless, like a shadowy statue.
He was clearly displeased—Sagres knew it well. The two of them had always been at odds, and if not for Dumbledore's arrangement, Snape would never have come to help.
But since the opportunity had presented itself, Sagres had no intention of letting it go to waste.
"You'll need to brew a special adhesive for the protective layer," Sagres said clearly. "Later, have the older students—or the house-elves—apply it evenly along the magical circuits at the base of the arena."
Snape's brow was already deeply furrowed, his expression showing clear impatience. But Sagres continued as if he hadn't noticed:
"In addition, I'll need a magical coating that efficiently absorbs impact. As for the formula… I presume you already have one, don't you?"
Snape's impatience was already clear, but Sagres continued as if he hadn't noticed:
"And special paint that washes off easily, stimulants to keep people calm, lubricating magical glue, and adhesive magical lubricant—"
Snape's face twitched involuntarily.
He clenched his jaw and growled through gritted teeth, "I am the Potions Professor of Hogwarts, not a handyman apprentice in an alchemy workshop. The first two are fine—but what are those ridiculous things you listed after that?"
Sagres nodded solemnly. "You're right, Professor. Very reasonable. Then just the first two. None of the others."
Before Snape could react, Sagres continued decisively, "I imagine this won't be a problem for you. I'll leave it to you, Professor…"
Snape's face turned ashen, his lips pressed into a bloodless line.
But in the end, he gave a stiff nod, turned abruptly, and strode away—his suppressed fury practically radiating off him.
_________
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