This is the area which, only half in jest, Ciaran used to refer to as "No Man's Land". Arcturus has, in point of fact, never crossed the threshold in his lifetime, and sees no reason for this to change. It is, indeed, one of the very few indisputable 'Archie' and his 'forebear' have in common. The weird, part-Fey troglodyte creatures which now tend to this building and call it "ugh" are the result of generations of inbreeding, and, Ciaran suspected, bizarre rituals plausibly involving equine gods.
The house elves, however, have reached some kind of "accommodation" with them, and on the rare occasions they've been brave enough, such as when Arcturus destroyed Ciaran's wing, have taken refuge here from the, for them, clearer madness roaming loose in the main building.
There is, however, an intrinsic weave of magic built into the fabric of the building, such as it is, a natural rhythm to the flow of energies within this microcosm. From this has emerged the race of current inhabitants.
Generations of tackles, saddles, bridles, hard hats and riding accoutrements can still be found here.
This includes such straw mattress sleeping quarters as there are here.