The aftermath of the Quidditch match had a curious effect on the Ravenclaw House. Usually, losing two hundred points in a single stroke would have plunged the House of the Eagle into a month-long mourning period of bitter silence and academic isolation. Instead, the "War Against Hufflepuff" had acted like a shot of adrenaline to their collective pride.
Suddenly, the common room wasn't just a place for quiet study; it was a war room. Young wizards who had previously spent their evenings moping were now hunched over their desks, scribbling furiously. There was a silent, house-wide agreement: if they couldn't get the points back through sports, they would bleed the professors dry through sheer academic brilliance.
Even Edward, usually the first to groan about Professor Lockhart's theatrics, had undergone a change of heart. When the "Gilderoy-the-Great" called on him to role-play a particularly dim-witted troll or a swooning damsel, Edward didn't even roll his eyes. He performed with the stoicism of a professional actor. He knew the script: endure five minutes of Lockhart's self-congratulatory drivel, get a pat on the head, and walk away with ten precious House points. It was a dirty job, but someone had to do it for the leaderboard.
While the rest of Hogwarts was a boiling cauldron of paranoia and whispers about the Chamber of Secrets, Ravenclaw remained an island of terrifying productivity. It wasn't that they weren't scared—everyone had seen the writing on the wall—it was just that their schedules were too packed for a full-blown existential crisis. When you have a three-foot essay on the properties of Moonstone due by midnight, you simply don't have the luxury of wondering which of your classmates is trying to murder you.
In the other three houses, however, the atmosphere was deteriorating. The hallways were no longer filled with the usual boisterous laughter. First-year students moved in tight, nervous packs, their eyes darting toward every shadow. A booming black market for "protective" items had sprung up overnight.
If you walked through the corridors of Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, you'd smell it before you saw it: garlic. Huge, pungent bulbs of it were being traded for Galleons under desks. Amethyst shards, "blessed" talismans, and even bits of dried salamander skin were being sold as foolproof defenses against the "Monster of Slytherin."
The Ravenclaws, despite their skepticism, weren't immune to the trend. Logic told them a piece of purple rock wouldn't stop an ancient evil, but survival instinct told them it couldn't hurt. Allen, watching this chaos from the sidelines, found the whole spectacle both amusing and deeply concerning. Garlic wouldn't do a thing against a Basilisk, but it certainly made the Great Hall smell like a failing Italian restaurant.
Allen knew the real danger wasn't just the monster; it was the way the monster killed. A direct gaze from a Basilisk was an instant ticket to the morgue. Reflection, however, was a different story. Petrification was a nightmare, but at least it was a reversible one.
Working through Penelope—who had become a sort of unofficial logistics manager for his more "charitable" ventures—Allen placed a massive anonymous order for high-quality crystal goblets and mirrors. He didn't just give them to Ravenclaws; he ensured they were distributed as "complimentary study aids" to anyone who wanted them. If a student was looking at the world through the bottom of a thick crystal glass or the reflection of a polished silver tray, they might just survive the day.
As December rolled in, Hogwarts was transformed into a silver-white wonderland. The first heavy snow covered the grounds, muffling the sounds of the castle and making the fireplaces in the common rooms feel like the only safe places left on earth.
Amidst this cozy isolation, Allen had been keeping busy. Professor Flitwick had taken him under his wing for three private dueling sessions. To Flitwick's delight, Allen was a sponge. He didn't just learn spells; he learned the rhythm of combat. He understood that a duel wasn't a shouting match; it was a dance of movement, timing, and psychological pressure.
"Your technique is flawless, Allen," Flitwick had squeaked during their last session, hopping onto a pile of cushions to look him in the eye. "Your problem isn't skill. It's that you haven't been punched yet. You need the chaos of a real fight. You need someone who doesn't play by the textbook."
The opportunity for that chaos arrived on Thursday morning.
A crowd had gathered in the entrance hall, buzzing with an energy that hadn't been seen since the Quidditch match. A large parchment was pinned to the bulletin board, the gold ink shimmering in the torchlight.
"A Dueling Club!" Edward shouted, nearly knocking over a Hufflepuff third-year to get a better look. "First meeting is tonight! Allen, this is it! You can finally show off what Flitwick's been teaching you!"
Allen looked at the notice and felt a slow smirk spread across his face. He didn't expect any of the second-years to provide much of a challenge, but the prospect of the club held a very specific appeal: Gilderoy Lockhart. He had been waiting for a legitimate reason to see that man get knocked down a peg, and a dueling stage was the perfect venue.
At eight o'clock that evening, the Great Hall had been transformed. The long house tables were gone, replaced by a raised, gilded platform that ran down the center of the room. Hundreds of candles floated above, their light flickering against the velvety black ceiling.
"Who's going to be the instructor?" Edward asked, his voice tight with excitement as they squeezed through the crowd of students, all of whom were clutching their wands like lifelines. "You think it's Flitwick? He was a champion, right?"
"Just look at the stage, Edward," Allen replied, his eyes gleaming. "Ask yourself: which professor has the biggest ego? Who would jump at the chance to stand in a spotlight in front of the entire school?"
Edward's face fell. "Oh, no. Please, not him."
Right on cue, Gilderoy Lockhart strode onto the platform. He was wearing robes of deep, vibrant crimson, his blonde hair perfectly coiffed to catch the candlelight. Behind him, however, were two other figures that changed the dynamic entirely.
Professor Snape followed, looking like an overgrown bat in his sweeping black robes, his face set in its usual mask of cold disdain. Beside him was the diminutive Professor Flitwick, who looked surprisingly sharp, his wand already out and twirling between his fingers.
"Three of them?" Edward whispered, his excitement returning tenfold. "This is going to be legendary!"
Allen caught Flitwick's eye. The tiny professor gave him a subtle, mischievous wink. Allen understood immediately—Flitwick wasn't just there to assist; he was there to make sure Allen had someone worth fighting.
The atmosphere was electric. Colin Creevey was darting around the edge of the stage, his camera flashing incessantly. Lockhart, ever the professional celebrity, turned toward the flashes, flashing a blindingly white smile that made some of the younger girls swoon. Snape looked like he wanted to use the camera as a blunt instrument, while Flitwick simply ignored the boy, focusing on the magical wards around the platform.
Lockhart raised his hands for silence.
"Gather round! Gather round!" his voice echoed, amplified by a quick Sonorus flick from Flitwick's wand. "Now, can everyone see me? Can everyone hear me? Excellent!"
He beamed at the crowd, the quintessential showman. "Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little club to equip you with the skills you need to protect yourselves. As I've detailed in my many books—available at Flourish and Blotts, naturally—self-defense is an art form I have mastered over many years of harrowing adventures."
"We've already bought the books, get to the magic!" someone muttered from the back.
"Now," Lockhart continued, undeterred, "we are honored to have Professor Flitwick with us as an advisor. While I myself am quite the formidable duelist, one should never pass up the chance to learn the... older, more traditional methods from a former champion like Filius."
The Ravenclaws blinked in unison. Lockhart? Being humble?
"He's terrified," Edward whispered to Allen. "He saw Flitwick's trophies in the display case and realized he's outclassed."
"And," Lockhart added, his voice dropping an octave as he gestured to the dark figure behind him, "I have recruited Professor Snape to be my assistant. He tells me he knows a thing or two about the dueling arts himself. He's kindly agreed to help me provide a short demonstration before we begin. Now, don't worry, youngsters—I promise to return your Potions Master to you in one piece when I'm through with him!"
Snape's upper lip curled into a sneer that promised a very different outcome. Allen and Edward shared a look of pure anticipation. They knew that expression well. It was the look Snape gave right before he turned a student's life into a waking nightmare.
Lockhart might have been a "hero" in his books, but in the real world, he was about to step into a cage with a very hungry cobra. Allen leaned back against a pillar, crossing his arms. Tonight was going to be very, very entertaining.