"You honestly believe that's what he heard?" Ron asked, his voice low and thick with skepticism as they trudged through the stone corridors.
"What else could he have heard? You were standing right there, Ron. You heard me clearly enough," Harry replied, his anxiety bubbling over. He felt like he was walking on eggshells with his own friends.
Ron stopped walking and looked at Harry with a complicated expression. "Harry, I heard you hissing. It wasn't English; it was snake-talk. For all we know, you could have been egging it on. I mean, the look on your face... the way your voice sounded... it was cold. Justin looked like he was staring at his own executioner. It was haunting, mate."
Harry felt a cold lump form in his stomach. He hadn't even realized he'd switched languages. To him, it felt like shouting at a dog to "Sit!" or "Stay!" but to everyone else, it was the dark, rhythmic sibilance of a wizard calling upon an ancient terror. He had no defense against a perception he couldn't even see.
"The evidence says otherwise," Allen intervened, his voice calm and analytical as he walked alongside them. "Harry didn't move toward Justin; he stayed his ground. The snake was agitated because Lockhart decided to play hero with a spell he clearly didn't understand. Once Harry spoke, that cobra didn't just stop—it relaxed. If Harry wanted him dead, Justin would be in the hospital wing right now. Facts don't care about how 'creepy' a language sounds."
Harry shot Allen a look of profound gratitude. In a school where everyone was currently whispering behind their hands, having someone who looked at the logic instead of the legend was like finding an anchor in a storm.
The next morning, the seasons finally decided to turn. Behind the leaded glass of the tower windows, the sky had turned the color of a bruised plum. Then, the first flakes began to fall—huge, lazy feathers of white that swirled and danced in the updrafts between the castle walls.
Allen stood by a high window in the Ravenclaw tower, leaning out slightly. He held out a hand, catching a single, perfect crystal. For a heartbeat, it sat there, a masterpiece of natural geometry, before the warmth of his skin turned it into a clear bead of water that quickly vanished into his palm.
"Trying to catch the wind, Allen?" Penelope's voice drifted over his shoulder, light and amused.
"Just seeing if I could keep one," Allen murmured, not looking back. "They're beautiful, but they don't last long enough to appreciate."
"Well, beauty doesn't have to be fleeting if you have a wand," Penelope said. She stepped up beside him, the cold wind tossing her blonde hair. With a graceful, almost daring motion, she leaned half her body out the window, her wand held high. "Glacius!"
She caught a cluster of flakes in her left hand and froze the air around them. When she pulled back inside, she held several tiny, ice-sculpted snowflakes that sparkled like diamonds. They didn't melt.
Allen watched her, momentarily struck by the image. With the winter gale blowing behind her and the defiance in her eyes, she looked less like a prefect and more like a Valkyrie. However, Allen's more practical, "safety-first" instincts took over. He leaned out the window immediately after her.
"What are you doing?" Penelope asked, her "cool" persona faltering into a look of sheer confusion.
"Checking to see if you dropped any ice on a passing first-year's head," Allen said earnestly. "A frozen snowflake to the eye is a quick way to lose house points."
Penelope's expression shifted from confusion to a sort of annoyed constipation. "You really know how to kill a moment, don't you, Harris?"
Allen chuckled, realizing he'd probably been a bit too "Ravenclaw" about the whole thing. To make amends, he drew his own wand. With a precise flick and a murmured Transfiguration incantation, he began to pull the moisture from the air and the snow from the sill. The white powder swirled, turning translucent and hardening until he held a delicate, open-mouthed glass jar made of enchanted ice.
"Put them in here," he instructed.
Penelope, still looking a bit miffed but impressed by the craftsmanship, placed her frozen flakes inside. Allen then sealed the mouth with a thin layer of permanent frost and handed it back to her. Through the clear walls of the jar, the snowflakes sat in a perfect, eternal bloom.
A few stray real flakes had settled in Penelope's hair, standing out against the gold. Against the backdrop of the pale stone and the winter light, she looked radiant, though Allen was already thinking about his next class.
The storm outside intensified by the hour, turning into a full-blown blizzard that rattled the castle's ancient bones. By the following day, the Great Hall was filled with the envious groans of the Ravenclaws. They had just learned that the Gryffindors' Herbology lesson had been scrapped.
Professor Sprout was apparently busy dressing the Mandrakes in tiny, hand-knitted scarves and socks to keep them from catching a chill. It was a delicate, motherly task she refused to delegate, as the maturity of those plants was the only thing standing between the petrified victims and a permanent state of stonework.
But for Ravenclaw, the schedule was less merciful. Their final lesson of the day was Potions.
The dungeons were never pleasant, but during a Scottish blizzard, they were borderline uninhabitable. The air was damp and bitingly cold, smelling of wet stone and stagnant vinegar. Professor Snape stood at the front of the room, his black robes making him look like a giant bat silhouetted against the dim torchlight.
"The Swelling Solution," Snape announced, his voice a low drawl that cut through the shivering of the students. "A simple potion, yet one that requires a modicum of discipline—something I realize many of you find... elusive."
He paced the room, his eyes scanning the class like a predator. "Anyone who fails to produce a passable draught by the end of the hour will remain here until they do. Or, perhaps, I shall let you test your failures on yourselves. Considering we have no more Deflating Draught in stock—the Gryffindors and Slytherins having been particularly... exuberant with their mistakes yesterday—I suggest you don't mess up."
It was a classic Snape threat: subtle, terrifying, and completely effective.
Twenty cauldrons soon began to simmer, sending up a thick, yellowish fog that smelled like burnt rubber and dried nettles. Allen worked with his usual mechanical precision. He ground the dried nettles until they were a fine, consistent dust, counted his pufferfish eyes with clinical accuracy, and timed his stirring to the second.
To his left, Edward was struggling. Edward was a decent student, but the cold and Snape's hovering presence were getting to him. His potion was looking thin and watery, more like a weak tea than the potent golden-brown syrup it was supposed to be.
Snape appeared behind Edward like a bad omen. "Is this a potion, Edward, or are you trying to wash your laundry in the middle of my classroom? It's pathetic."
Edward's ears turned bright red. He kept his head down, his hands shaking slightly as he reached for his wand to perform the final thickening charm. The frustration of the cold, the insults, and the pressure of the deadline finally reached a breaking point. Instead of a sharp, controlled flick, Edward swung his wand in a wide, desperate arc.
CRACK-BOOM!
The explosion was far more violent than anything Neville Longbottom had ever managed. It wasn't just a pop; it was a pressurized eruption. Edward's cauldron disintegrated, sending a tidal wave of boiling, half-finished Swelling Solution across the entire front half of the classroom.
The classroom descended into instant, screaming chaos.
Allen, sensing the shift in pressure a split second before the blast, managed to duck his head and shield his face with the back of his hand. He felt the hot, sticky liquid splash against his skin.
He wasn't the only one. The room was filled with the sounds of wet slaps and horrified gasps. Within seconds, the effects took hold.
Students were staggering around, their noses inflating like red balloons until they couldn't see past them. One girl's ears grew to the size of dinner plates, flapping uselessly as she tried to cover them. Another boy's hands swelled into massive, meaty pumpkins, making him look like a cartoon character.
Professor Snape, who had been standing right next to Edward to deliver a final insult, was caught directly in the line of fire. His famous, hooked Roman nose began to quiver and expand. Within seconds, it had transformed into a giant, pulsating peach-like growth that occupied the center of his face, making his voice sound like he was speaking through a thick wool blanket.
"Silenth! Silenth!" Snape bellowed, or tried to, his words muffled by the enormous protrusion on his face. "Don't you dare move!"
Allen looked at Snape, ignoring the stinging pain in his own hand, which was now twice its original size. A dark, intrusive thought crossed his mind: If Voldemort ever wants to grow a nose back, he should probably look into this recipe. It's remarkably effective.
Since Snape had already stated there was no antidote left, the class was in a state of sheer panic. But Allen didn't stop. He ignored the throbbing in his hand, reached for his own stable cauldron, and began to work.
He didn't move toward the exit. He reached for the bat spleen, added it to the mix, and stirred four times counter-clockwise. He wasn't just finishing his Swelling Solution; he was already pivoting. Using the base of his successful potion, he began to rapidly modify it into the Deflating Draught.
He worked like a man possessed, his movements a blur of efficiency. While the rest of the class was weeping and clutching their oversized limbs, Allen completed his first bottle of Swelling Solution, set it aside, and then focused on the large-scale batch of the antidote.
Minutes later, just as Snape had managed to brew a small vial of antidote for himself, Allen stepped forward with a steaming cauldron.
"I have enough for everyone, Professor," Allen said, his voice calm despite the chaos.
The relief in the room was palpable. Students scrambled toward Allen's table like they were reaching for a lifeline. One by one, the swellings subsided. Noses shrunk, ears returned to normal, and the muffled cries turned back into regular sobbing.
Once the room had settled, Snape walked over to Edward. He touched his own nose—now back to its regular, hooked self—with a lingering sense of gingerly suspicion.
"Twenty points from Ravenclaw," Snape hissed, his eyes narrowed to slits. "Your incompetence has endangered the entire class and wasted an hour of my time."
He then turned his gaze toward Allen. There was no warmth in his eyes, but there was a flicker of something that might have been professional respect.
"However," Snape continued, "Harris showed the presence of mind to actually use his brain. He successfully brewed both the assignment and the remedy under duress. Ten points to Ravenclaw."
Snape swept his gaze across the rest of the miserable-looking students. "Harris is dismissed. The rest of you... scrub the floor. Then, you will start your potions again from scratch. You will not leave until you get it right."