The moment Gilderoy Lockhart's wand tip began to glow with that sickly, incompetent light, Allen didn't hesitate. To the onlookers, it looked like a simple accident—a slip on the muddy grass—but in reality, Allen had lunged forward with the precision of a pouncing leopard, shoulder-checking the Professor mid-incantation.
Lockhart went flying, his designer robes painting a streak of mud across the pitch. His spell, however, didn't just dissipate. In the split second of the impact, the magic backfired, rebounding off his own panicked movements and slamming directly into his own left thigh.
"Harry, stay still," Allen commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. Before the Gryffindors could even process what was happening, Allen's wand was out. A flicker of silver light traveled down Harry's arm. It wasn't the flashy, theatrical magic Lockhart used; it was a focused, medical-grade mending charm.
Harry's arm jerked, the bone knitting back together with a series of muffled pops. He gasped, blinking back tears, and then slowly, tentatively, rotated his wrist. "It's... it's fixed," Harry whispered, his face flooding with relief. "Allen, you actually fixed it!"
Meanwhile, a low, keening wail started to rise from the mud nearby.
Professor Lockhart was sitting up, but something was horribly wrong. He was staring at his left leg with an expression of pure, unadulterated horror. Where there should have been the sturdy shape of a limb, there was now a puddle of emerald fabric. The bone hadn't just broken; it had been completely vanished, leaving behind a shapeless sack of flesh and muscle that flopped uselessly onto the grass like a discarded rubber glove.
"Oh, my word..." Colin Creevey breathed, his camera shutter clicking frantically. Click-zip. Click-zip. "This is going to be the cover of the Daily Prophet for sure!"
Allen stood over the fallen Professor, his expression one of perfect, feigned concern. "Oh, Professor! I am so incredibly sorry. I saw you slipping in the mud and tried to catch you, but I must have knocked your aim off. I didn't realize your magic was quite so... volatile."
The apology was as hollow as Lockhart's leg, but the crowd was too busy gawking to notice. Lockhart could only stutter, his face turning a shade of pale that matched the belly of a dead fish.
"Don't worry, sir," Allen added, helping Harry to his feet. "We'll get you to the hospital wing right away. I'm sure Madam Pomfrey has seen plenty of... rubberized professors before."
The journey to the infirmary was a spectacle. Allen and Harry practically had to carry Lockhart, whose left leg swung in a way that defied the laws of physics. When they finally reached the ward, Madam Pomfrey didn't even wait for them to speak. She took one look at the boneless limb and let out a sigh that sounded like a tire deflating.
"Broken bones I can deal with in an hour," she snapped, her eyes darting between Allen's calm face and Lockhart's trembling one. "Regrowing them from scratch? That's a night of agony and Skele-Gro. Sit down, Professor. Though I suppose 'flop down' is more accurate."
After Allen recounted a very "sanitized" version of the accident—omitting the fact that he'd deliberately aimed the tackle—the Matron shooed everyone away. Allen and a few others had to stay behind for a moment to help the Professor change into his pajamas. It was a grotesque task; trying to thread a leg that had the consistency of a giant slug through a pair of trouser legs was an experience Allen promised himself he would never repeat.
Outside the ward, they found Hermione pacing the corridor. "Is he okay? I heard there was an accident with the spell!"
"He's fine, Hermione," Ron said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "If you consider having a leg made of jelly 'fine.' He almost deleted Harry's arm, you know."
"He was trying to help!" Hermione countered, though she looked shaken. "It was a complicated piece of magic. Even the best wizards make mistakes."
"Yeah, and the best wizards usually have Allen around to fix their mistakes," Harry muttered, giving Allen a grateful look. "Seriously, Allen. If you hadn't stepped in, I'd be the one drinking that Skele-Gro tonight."
"Just be careful, Harry," Allen warned, his tone shifting to something more serious. "That Bludger wasn't just 'rogue.' It was targeted. Someone wanted you in that hospital bed tonight, and I don't think they're going to be happy that you're walking around with both arms intact."
"Malfoy," Ron spat. "It's got to be him. I bet he spent the whole summer learning how to hex sports equipment."
As they exited the castle into the cooling evening air, the rest of the Gryffindor team intercepted them. They were covered in mud and smelled like wet dog, but they were grinning from ear to ear.
"Harry! You're a legend!" George shouted, clapping him on the back. "Flint is absolutely losing it. He was screaming at Malfoy for ten minutes because the Snitch was right in front of his nose and he was too busy looking at his own reflection in the rain."
"Allen, mate, that was some quick thinking," Wood said, stepping forward. "We're heading to the common room for a victory feast. Why don't you join us? We've got enough butterbeer to drown a centaur."
Allen smiled politely but shook his head. "I appreciate the offer, Wood. Truly. But I think Roger would have me court-martialed if I was caught celebrating a Gryffindor victory. Besides, I've got a 'date' with the Forbidden Forest tonight."
The punishment loomed. At eleven o'clock, Allen made his way to the Entrance Hall. The rain, which had teased a stop in the afternoon, had returned with a vengeance. It was a cold, driving downpour that turned the castle grounds into a marsh.
He wasn't the only one there. Standing by the great oak doors were Penelope Clearwater, looking remarkably composed, and the duo of Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy. The two Slytherins looked like they wanted to be anywhere else on earth. Malfoy was shivering, his expensive cloak already damp.
It seemed Snape's "potions lesson" hadn't been enough to cover the sheer scale of the brawl. This was the "extra credit" punishment.
"Move it, you lot," Filch wheezed, handing them over to a towering, lantern-bearing Hagrid. "The Forest doesn't like intruders, and frankly, neither do I. If you get eaten, don't expect me to come looking for the scraps."
The patrol was brutal. The Forest was a wall of black, dripping ancient trees and the smell of rot. Every time a branch snapped or the wind howled through the canopy, Malfoy jumped as if he'd been struck by a hex.
Allen walked with Penelope. As the Ravenclaw Prefect and Head Girl, she felt a certain responsibility to lead, but the mud was making her struggle. Allen quietly stepped ahead, using his strength to push aside the heavy, water-logged branches that threatened to swat her in the face.
"You're very familiar with these paths, Allen," Penelope noted, her voice hushed. "Most students can't even find the Great Hall without a map, yet you're navigating the Forest in a storm like you're walking to the library."
"I like the quiet," Allen replied vaguely.
They reached a fork in the path. Hagrid, ever the optimist, split them up. "Malfoy, Flint—you're with me and Fang. Allen, Penelope—take the eastern trail. If you see anything red or glowin', sparks up, alright?"
As they moved deeper, Penelope pointed toward a small, hidden clearing. "Should we check there? It looks like a good place for something to hide."
"No," Allen said firmly, stopping her. "Venomous Midges. They love the humidity after a storm. They won't kill you, but they'll turn your face into a topography map of blisters. I saw the Weasley twins come out of there once looking like they'd caught a magical form of chickenpox."
Penelope stared at him, her eyes narrowing in the darkness. "You definitely come here too often. Even 'Crazy' Lovegood doesn't know the insect habits of the deep forest."
"Luna's just looking for things that aren't there," Allen shrugged, shifting the conversation. "I prefer focusing on the things that are."
The rain began to taper off, leaving the forest in a state of eerie, dripping silence. Allen was stuck. He needed to visit the Occamy, but Penelope was sticking to him like glue. He looked at her—her sharp mind, her surprisingly steady nerves. Could he trust her?
Before he could decide, a pale, ethereal light began to pulse from the undergrowth.
Gaia, the unicorn, stepped into the path. She was glowing with a soft, moonlight radiance that made the rain-slicked trees look like silver pillars. Penelope gasped, stumbling back, her hands flying to her mouth in awe.
"Allen!" Gaia's voice echoed in his mind, melodic and urgent. "Did you come for Tina too? The little one is restless."
Allen felt Penelope's gaze burn into the side of his head. He looked at Gaia, then at the stunned school president.
Gaia tilted her head, her large, intelligent eyes scanning Penelope. "Who is this? Her heart is... complicated. But if she is your shadow, then she must follow. Come. The storm was heavy, and I fear the nest is flooded."
Without a word, the unicorn turned and trotted into the deep brush. Allen sighed, knowing there was no going back now. "Keep up, Penelope. And try not to scream."