The aftermath of the Great Hall brawl left a lingering gloom over the castle. The groups of young wizards who had traded hexes and insults only hours before were now shuffling back to their dormitories, looking less like fierce warriors and more like scolded toddlers. The adrenaline had evaporated, leaving behind only the cold realization that their house points were in the gutter.
Professor Flitwick finally wrapped up the evening's intense session with Allen. Despite the chaos, the Professor seemed energized, his eyes twinkling with the remnants of the dueling spirit. "Excellent progress today, Allen. Your reaction time with the shield charm is becoming almost instinctual. Next Wednesday, same time—don't let the detentions distract you from your studies."
Allen bowed respectfully, his movements fluid and polite. "I won't, Professor. Goodnight."
As he stepped out into the corridor, he found Edward waiting for him, leaning against a stone pillar and looking like he'd swallowed a lemon. "I'll tell you this," Edward muttered as they began walking back to Ravenclaw Tower, "the look on Malfoy's face when I landed that hit was worth every bit of it. But two hundred points? Man, the rest of the house is going to skin us alive."
Allen chuckled, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway. "You're the one who's always complaining about how boring the House Cup is. Now we have a challenge. Besides, didn't you get that 'Get Out of Jail Free' pass from Professor Flitwick for your performance in Charms? I think it's time to cash that in."
Edward's face instantly brightened, a slow, devious smirk spreading across his lips. "You're right! I forgot all about that. While you lot are scrubbing floors, I'll be in the common room with a hot cocoa."
The official detention orders were posted the next morning, and the staff hadn't gone easy on them. Due to the sheer volume of offenders, the students were distributed across the school like a labor force. Some were sent to Argus Filch, which was widely considered the 'death sentence' of detentions. Others were assigned to help Hagrid, which sounded better until you realized it involved cleaning the stables of creatures that didn't follow a standard digestive schedule.
As predicted, Edward presented his exemption slip to a disgruntled Professor McGonagall and was promptly released from his duties. The envy from the other Ravenclaws was palpable, thick enough to cut with a butter knife.
Allen, however, received a slip that made him smile. Saturday Evening: Forbidden Forest Patrol with Hagrid.
To most students, the Forbidden Forest was a place of nightmares and shadows. To Allen, it was practically his backyard. Between his secret visits to Tina the Horned Serpent and his check-ins with the little Occamy he was secretly monitoring, the forest had become his sanctuary. Being 'punished' by getting a guided tour through his favorite haunt was hardly a deterrent.
On Friday, Allen ran into the Gryffindor trio in the courtyard. Ron looked particularly traumatized.
"I'd rather face a mountain troll again than spend another hour with Filch," Ron groaned, holding out his hands for Allen to see. "I had to polish the trophies in the silver room. Without magic! Filch stood over me the whole time, breathing down my neck. I polished the Quidditch Cup fourteen times, Allen. Fourteen! I can still feel the grit of that silver polish in my fingernails. Smell it! It's like industrial-strength mint and despair."
Allen took a strategic step back, offering a polite but strained smile. "I'll take your word for it, Ron. Truly."
"I don't know how you can be so calm, Allen," Harry said, looking a bit wistful. "I've wanted to deck Malfoy since the day we met, but I never thought a Ravenclaw would be the one to actually start a riot. It was... well, it was brilliant, actually."
"Harry, please," Hermione scolded, though she didn't look entirely convinced herself. "We can't afford to lose any more points. Remember the Norbert incident? If we get caught in another mess, Gryffindor will be in the negative by Christmas."
"Have you heard about the Slytherins?" Hermione whispered, leaning in closer. "Snape took almost all of them for his private detention. They're 'processing ingredients.' It's a total scam. He's basically giving them a private advanced potions lesson under the guise of punishment. It's so unfair."
"If the choice is between Snape's dungeon and answering Gilderoy Lockhart's fan mail, I'll take the fan mail," Harry said with a shudder. "At least Lockhart doesn't stare at me like he's trying to figure out which jar I'd fit in best."
"Still," Hermione added, "at least Madam Pomfrey is a miracle worker. Marcus Flint was looking like a horror movie extra, but she had him patched up and snarling again in fifteen minutes. If he'd stayed injured, there might have been talk of expulsion."
Allen touched the bridge of his nose, feeling a flicker of amusement. He knew exactly why Flint had been such a mess; his own Stun Charm had been the anchor that allowed the rest of the Ravenclaws to pile on their hexes. He didn't feel a shred of remorse. In fact, seeing how quickly the Slytherin captain had recovered, Allen found himself wishing he'd used something a bit more... permanent. Or at least something that required more than a quick 'Episkey' to fix.
By the time Saturday morning rolled around, the atmosphere in the Great Hall was suffocating. The Gryffindor Quidditch team was sat in a tight, silent huddle at the end of their table. Usually, Wood was shouting strategies, but today, the captain looked like he was preparing for a funeral.
Everyone knew the score: Slytherin had the Nimbus 2001s. The sheer speed gap was a psychological wall that the Gryffindors were struggling to climb.
Allen watched them from the Ravenclaw table, nursing a cup of tea. "They look like they're waiting for the executioner," he remarked to Roger.
"Can you blame them?" Roger replied, eyes on the Slytherin table where Malfoy was loudly bragging about the 'aerodynamics' of his new broom. "It's hard to play your best when you know the other guy can outrun you without even trying. Morale is everything."
"Gryffindor is like a bowstring, Roger," Allen mused. "The more you pull it back and tension it, the harder it snaps forward. Don't count them out just because of a few shiny brooms."
As eleven o'clock approached, the school migrated to the pitch. The weather was miserable—a thick, humid heat that suggested the sky was about to split open. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low warning of the storm to come.
The match began in a literal deluge. The rain turned the pitch into a blurred grey soup, but it didn't slow down the carnage. What caught everyone's attention wasn't the Quaffle or the Seekers, but a rogue Bludger. It was behaving... unnaturally. Instead of bouncing between players, it was locked onto Harry like a heat-seeking missile.
Allen leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. He knew exactly what was happening. Dobby. The house-elf was trying to "save" Harry by breaking his bones.
"That thing is possessed," Roger shouted over the roar of the rain. "Harry's flying like a maniac, but it's right on his tail! If he takes a hit at that speed, he's finished."
"He's good," Allen admitted, watching Harry pull a series of dizzying rolls to avoid the iron ball. "Malfoy is just coasting, looking for the Snitch, but Harry is playing a different game entirely. He's fighting for his life out there."
The Slytherin stands were erupting in laughter every time Harry had to dive into the mud to avoid a strike. But the laughter died when a sickening crack echoed through the stadium, audible even over the thunder.
The Bludger had caught Harry's arm.
"He's hit!" Roger roared.
Through the curtain of rain, Harry was a mess. He was dangling from his broom by one knee, his right arm swinging uselessly like a piece of wet rope. But he didn't head for the ground. He turned his broom and accelerated straight toward Malfoy, who was busy gloating and hadn't noticed the Golden Snitch hovering inches above his own left ear.
"He's going for the catch!" Allen shouted, standing up.
In a blur of motion, Harry lunged. He missed the broom, slipped into the mud with a heavy thud, and tumbled across the sodden grass. The stadium went silent for a heartbeat before Harry raised his left hand, clutching the struggling gold wings of the Snitch.
Gryffindor had won, but at a massive cost.
Allen was among the first to reach the field. The rain was relentless now, soaking everyone to the bone. Harry lay in the mud, his face pale and twisted in pain. His arm was bent at an angle that made several first-years turn away in disgust.
"Out of the way! Move aside!"
Gilderoy Lockhart swept through the crowd, his colorful robes looking ridiculous against the gray, muddy backdrop. He looked down at Harry with a beaming, camera-ready smile.
"Poor boy," Lockhart chirped. "Don't you worry, Harry. A quick spell and you'll be as good as new. I've performed this exact procedure on a tribesman in the Amazon—he was back to climbing trees in an hour!"
"No..." Harry wheezed, his eyes wide with genuine terror. "Please... just let me go to the hospital wing... Madam Pomfrey..."
"Nonsense! It's a simple charm, I could do it in my sleep," Lockhart insisted, ignoring the boy's protests. He twirled his wand with a flourish of emerald green sparks.
"Step back, everyone! Give the healer some room!" Lockhart cried.
"No, really—don't—" Harry's voice broke into a pained sob, but Lockhart was already leaning over him.
Allen watched with a grimace. He knew what was coming. This wasn't going to be a healing; it was going to be a disappearing act.