The roar that erupted from the Ravenclaw table was enough to rattle the windowpanes of the Great Hall. It wasn't just a cheer; it was a collective sigh of vindication. Fifty points—a massive windfall that shifted the scales of the House Cup in a single afternoon.
"Fifty points! He actually did it!"
"Is there anything Allen can't win? Seriously, the guy's a cheat code," a third-year Ravenclaw laughed, clapping his friends on the back.
As the formal session dissolved, the tension that had gripped the room began to bleed out into a chaotic, buzzing energy. Professors Snape and Flitwick made their exits—Snape with a final, lingering glare at Harry, and Flitwick with a spring in his step that suggested he might go have a celebratory glass of sherry.
In the middle of the retreating crowd, two voices rang out in an accidental, jarring harmony.
"Congratulations, Allen!"
Harry and Draco froze. They had both approached Allen at the exact same moment, driven by two very different types of respect. Draco respected power; Harry respected the fact that Allen hadn't humiliated him in front of the whole school.
The moment they realized they had shared a sentiment, the air between them soured. Draco's face twisted into a sneer, and Harry's jaw tightened. They both grumbled something unintelligible and snapped their heads in opposite directions, looking anywhere but at each other.
Allen watched the exchange, a dry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Honestly, he thought, it's a good thing the witches at Hogwarts haven't discovered the concept of "shipping" yet. The fanfiction about these two would be unbearable.
"Magnificent! Simply divine! You've really captured my essence, haven't you, Allen?"
Lockhart appeared like a colorful ghost, draping an arm around Allen's shoulder with a familiarity that was entirely unearned. "I see a lot of myself in you, dear boy. A bit of polish, a few more front-page features, and you'll be taking the wizarding world by storm! Just like yours truly."
Lockhart tried to pull Allen into a more photogenic position, clearly aiming for a 'Mentor and Protégé' shot. However, Allen wasn't Harry. He didn't let himself be moved like a chess piece. He planted his feet, applying a subtle bit of weight to his stance. Lockhart tugged once, twice, and then nearly stumbled over his own flamboyant robes when Allen didn't budge an inch.
Allen blinked, offering the professor a look of wide-eyed innocence. Lockhart quickly adjusted his lopsided hat, cleared his throat, and flashed his signature, thousand-watt grin toward a specific corner of the room.
Following the man's gaze, Allen saw Colin Creevey. The boy was practically vibrating with excitement, his camera clicking like a machine gun as he captured every angle of Lockhart, Allen, and the hovering Harry.
If Harry wasn't the Boy Who Lived, Allen mused, Colin would definitely be Lockhart's favorite student. They're like a teapot and a cup—one lives to be seen, the other lives to look.
"And let's not forget our runners-up! Draco, Harry—you both showed... well, you showed potential!" Lockhart reached into his inner robe pocket and pulled out a fresh, pristine copy of his latest autobiography, Magical Me. He produced a peacock-feather quill from thin air, scribbling a sprawling, overly ornate signature across the cover.
Seeing the bewildered expressions on the students' faces, Lockhart tilted his head and gave a conspiratorial wink. "A man of my stature must always be prepared, boys. You never know when the public will demand a piece of history! You'll understand when you're older."
Harry looked like he'd just been told he had to eat a bowl of slugs. Lockhart, ever the optimist, interpreted Harry's stunned silence as overwhelming envy.
"Now, now, Harry. Don't try to imitate me just yet. It's far too early for you to be carrying a signing quill. You've got years of obscurity ahead of you before you reach my heights. I know, I know—it's easy for me to say, being an internationally acclaimed magical icon and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award... but everyone has to start somewhere!"
He thrust the signed book into Allen's hands, patted him on the cheek, and sauntered off toward the staff table, his cape swishing with a rhythm that suggested he was hearing a victory march in his own head.
Allen looked down at the cover. Lockhart's animated portrait was currently checking its teeth in a small hand-mirror. The sheer, unadulterated gall of the man was almost impressive.
"Here," Allen said, turning around and handing the book to Penelope Clearwater, who had just navigated through the crowd to reach him.
"Oh! Allen, I came to say—" Penelope started, but the book landed in her lap before she could finish. She looked at the cover, made a face like she'd just smelled something sour, and snapped the book shut.
"Thanks, I think," she said, her voice dry. "I'm not exactly a member of the fan club, but since this is your trophy, I suppose I'll keep it in the common room archives. For posterity. Or for when we need a laugh."
She clutched the book to her chest and turned to leave, nearly colliding with George Weasley and Percy, who were lingering nearby. Penelope didn't stop to offer a "sorry." She simply lifted her chin, gave a sharp, regal sniff, and marched past them.
George watched her go, his mouth slightly agape. "She's got a bit of a temper, doesn't she?"
Percy, however, looked like he'd been hit by a Confundus Charm. Even though Flitwick had removed the literal curse Penelope had placed on him, he was clutching his chest, his face a strange shade of crimson.
"My heart," Percy muttered, staring at the spot where she'd vanished. "I think the residual magic is... interfering with my pulse. I should probably see Madam Pomfrey. Yes. That's the only logical explanation."
Allen and George exchanged a knowing look. It wasn't magic interfering with Percy's pulse, but they weren't about to be the ones to tell him.
Their attention was quickly diverted by a sharp escalation in the argument nearby. The Slytherins and Gryffindors were clashing again, and this time, the venom was personal.
"So, you're a Parselmouth," Malfoy sneered, his voice carrying over the din of the hallway. He looked at Harry with a mixture of fear and intense jealousy. "Do you actually think that makes you the Heir of Slytherin? Please. Our Founder would never have an incompetent, scar-headed Gryffindor for an heir. We'll see who the real power is in this school, Potter."
He turned on his heel, gesturing for Crabbe and Goyle to follow. Crabbe was still gingerly dabbing at his nose, looking like he wanted to cry.
Harry stood there, looking more confused than insulted. "What did he call me? What's a... Serpent Tongue?"
"It means you can talk to snakes, Harry," Allen explained softly, stepping closer. "It's a very rare gift."
"Is that all?" Harry asked, looking relieved. "So what? I'm sure plenty of people can do it. It's just like talking to a dog, isn't it?"
"Hardly," Hermione whispered, her face tight with worry. "Harry, talking to snakes was Salazar Slytherin's most famous ability. It's why the house symbol is a serpent. It's almost unheard of in the wizarding world."
Harry's relief vanished instantly.
"Exactly," Ron added, looking uncharacteristically somber. "And now the whole school is going to think you're his great-great-great-whatever-grandson. They're going to think you're the one who opened the Chamber."
"But I didn't! I've never even seen the Chamber!" Harry's voice rose in a panic.
"That's going to be a hard sell to a bunch of terrified twelve-year-olds," Hermione said gently. "Slytherin lived a thousand years ago. Bloodlines get messy. For all we know, you might actually be related to him."
The look on Harry's face was one of pure, unadulterated horror.
Allen reached out and placed a steadying hand on Harry's shoulder. He knew the weight of secrets, and he knew how easily a "gift" could become a "curse" in the eyes of the public.
"Listen, Harry," Allen said, his voice firm and grounding. "An ability is just a tool. It's like a sword. A sword doesn't choose to be used by a murderer or a hero—the hand wielding it makes that choice. Speaking Parseltongue doesn't make you evil any more than being good at Potions makes you Snape."
Harry looked at Allen, some of the tension leaving his frame.
"It might be Slytherin's trademark," Allen continued, "but he wasn't the only one in history to have it. It's a genetic fluke. Maybe some distant ancestor of yours lived in Greece or Africa and picked it up. It doesn't define who you are."
Harry took a deep breath, nodding slowly. He desperately wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe that the voice in the walls and the snake on the stage didn't mean he was becoming something monstrous.
"I'm a good person," Harry insisted, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. "I once accidentally released a python at the zoo, and it thanked me! And today... I wasn't egging that cobra on. I was telling it to back off! I was trying to save Justin!"