As Allen gathered his cauldron and secured his vials of perfectly brewed Swelling Solution, the heavy silence of the dungeons was shattered. From the floors above, a cacophony of slamming doors, rhythmic pounding of running feet, and high-pitched, jagged screams filtered down through the stone.
The Ravenclaws, still scrubbing the floors or staring dejectedly at their ruined potions, jumped as if they'd been hit by a Stinging Hex. Necks craned toward the ceiling, eyes wide with a mix of fear and desperate curiosity. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly from academic misery to raw, primal nerves.
"Sit down!" Snape's voice didn't just command; it hissed, cutting through the overhead noise like a blade. His face was a mask of pale fury, his eyes darting toward the door with an intensity that suggested he knew exactly what was happening. "If anyone so much as thinks about leaving this room before their cauldron is spotless, I will ensure your Christmas holidays are spent in this very dungeon, scrubbing dragon dung. Am I understood?"
Allen offered a respectful nod to the Professor, caught the envious but appreciative looks of his housemates—who were now comfortably deflated thanks to his work—and slipped out of the classroom.
The moment he cleared the heavy oak doors, the noise intensified. He took the stairs two at a time, his boots echoing on the damp stone. He wasn't just curious; he was calculating. He had a feeling the "heir" had struck again, and the timing was far too close to the end of term for comfort.
He reached the upper corridors just in time to hear a sound that made his skin crawl. It was a scream, but not a human one. It was the frantic, high-decibel shriek of Peeves the Poltergeist.
"He's done it! He's done it again!" Peeves was zooming through the air like a demented firework, his face a grotesque mask of glee and feigned terror. "No one is safe! Not the meat-sacks, not the soul-sacks! Run for the hills! Lock your doors! The monster is out for blood and ectoplasm!"
Peeves did a triple backflip in the air, cackling as he threw a handful of moldy chalk at a group of terrified Hufflepuffs who had just spilled out of their common room.
Allen pushed through the gathering crowd, his height allowing him to see over the heads of the younger students. He had expected to see another student petrified, but the scene that greeted him was far more surreal and disturbing than anything he had imagined.
Justin Finch-Fletchley lay sprawled on the floor, his body as rigid as a fallen statue. His face was a frozen portrait of pure, unadulterated horror—mouth open in a silent scream, eyes wide and sightless, staring up at the ceiling as if he could still see the monster that had taken his breath away.
But it was what lay beside him that stopped Allen's heart.
Nearly Headless Nick was there, too. But the ghost was no longer the shimmering, pearly-white figure Allen knew. He had turned a smoky, opaque black. He was suspended six inches off the floor, horizontal and motionless, looking like a charred shadow of his former self. His head, still attached by a mere thread of ghostly sinew, hung at an impossible angle, mirroring the same expression of frozen terror that Justin wore.
"A ghost?" Allen whispered to himself, his mind racing. "How do you petrify something that's already dead?"
The crowd was becoming a mob. Students were pushing and shoving, some trying to get a look, others trying to flee in the opposite direction. Allen felt himself being shoved toward the blackened form of Nick, but a firm hand caught his shoulder, steadying him.
The teachers arrived in a whirlwind of colorful robes and shouting. Professor McGonagall was at the front, her face as white as chalk. Allen was surprised to see Snape appearing from a side corridor almost instantly—the man must have practically teleported from the dungeons.
Even with Snape standing right there, not a single Ravenclaw from the Potions class had dared to follow Allen up. They knew the man too well; Snape's shadow was long, and his threats were never empty.
"Return to your dormitories! Now!" McGonagall's voice was amplified by a silent sonorous charm. She waved her wand, creating a loud BANG that echoed like a cannon blast through the hallway, finally silencing the hysterical whispering.
Allen caught Snape's dark, searching eyes for a moment. He knew when to fold. He turned and began the long climb toward Ravenclaw Tower. As he navigated the turning staircases, he caught sight of Harry Potter standing in a shadowed alcove. Harry looked like he'd seen a dementor; he was trembling, his face drained of all color, looking small and utterly lost.
Allen felt a pang of sympathy, but he didn't stop. He knew Harry was innocent—Dumbledore knew it, too—but the court of public opinion was a much harsher judge. Right now, Allen had his own preparations to manage. He had a flight to catch, and a dark mystery to solve.
Back in the safety of his dorm, Allen sat down to write. The ink flowed smoothly as he composed a letter to his mother, Morgan le Fay Harris. He explained the situation—not the petrifications, but the opportunity. Professor Flitwick had invited him to America for an exchange program over the winter break.
The reply came faster than expected via a very stout, very determined owl. His mother wasn't just "okay" with it; she was ecstatic. Having spent most of her life within the borders of Britain, only occasionally traveling to the Harris ancestral lands with her husband Owen, she saw this as the ultimate proof of her son's brilliance. To be hand-picked by a Professor for international travel at his age was, in her eyes, a crowning achievement.
The packages arrived shortly after.
The first was a massive crate of homemade cakes, preserved with stasis charms so they smelled as if they'd just left the oven. The second was a heavy bundle of clothes. Allen unwrapped it to find a collection of hand-sewn garments. His mother clearly struggled with the nuances of modern Muggle fashion. There were sweaters with patterns that defied logic and trousers that sat somewhere between "Victorian schoolboy" and "modern pajamas."
"The thought counts," Allen muttered, stuffing the neon-patterned, gender-ambiguous sweaters into the deepest corner of his storage trunk. He wouldn't wear them if he were being interrogated by the Dark Lord himself, but they were a mother's love in knitted form, and that made them priceless.
Then there was the money. A heavy leather sack clattered onto his bed. When he tipped it out, a literal mountain of gold, silver, and bronze spilled across his duvet. It was more than Allen had ever seen in one place—far exceeding his usual allowance. His mother's note was clear: 'Poor at home, rich on the road. Don't be a miser, but don't be a fool.'
The final touch came from his older brother, Albert. A magical, reinforced envelope arrived, glowing with protective runes.
"Takes a bit of effort to get into this one," Allen grunted, using a precise surgical spell to unravel Albert's security charms. Inside were two thousand American dollars—crisp, green, and smelling of Muggle ink. Albert had even included a note about exchange rates and the best places to find decent coffee in New England.
With his finances and wardrobe (mostly) sorted, Allen had one final piece of business. He looked at the book sitting on his nightstand: Secrets of the Soul.
This book had tried to swallow his mind. It had nearly succeeded.
He didn't trust himself to handle it in the common room. He slipped under his Cloak of Invisibility and made his way to the Room of Requirement. He needed a place where his magic wouldn't be disturbed.
The room provided a quiet, sterile workshop. Allen took out Merlin's jewel—the brilliant, pulsing sapphire he'd acquired—and fixed it to a sturdy blue headband. He tied it around his forehead, the jewel resting exactly between his eyebrows, right over his Third Eye.
"Alright," he whispered, feeling the cooling, stabilizing energy of the jewel flood his nervous system. "Let's see what you really are."
He opened the book. This time, there was no pull. No siren song. No feeling of his consciousness being dragged into a bottomless well. With the jewel protecting his mental "anchor," the book was just a book.
He performed every diagnostic he knew. "Revelio... Speculans... Signum Mentis..."
Nothing. The book appeared perfectly ordinary. But Allen knew better. He remembered the nightmare. He remembered the cold, invasive presence that had whispered to him in the dark.
"Fine," Allen said, his voice cold. "If I can't find you, I'll just remove the medium."
He didn't want to destroy the knowledge within—he had already memorized the contents—but he wouldn't leave a ticking time bomb in the Hogwarts library. He opened his System Interface.
The System had a "storage and absorption" function. Usually, he used it for materials, but it was capable of breaking down magical constructs into raw energy or data.
"Absorb," Allen commanded.
A faint, ghostly shriek—so high it was almost beyond hearing—echoed in the Room of Requirement as the System's light enveloped the book. For a second, a dark, oily smoke tried to rise from the pages, but the System was an apex predator. It didn't just kill the consciousness; it digested it.
When the light faded, the book remained, but the "weight" was gone. It felt light, hollow, and utterly mundane.
Allen removed the headband and flipped through the pages one last time. The text was the same, but the soul was gone. He felt a wave of relief. He had effectively exorcised a book.
He made his way to the library to return it. Madam Pince was at her desk, her sharp eyes scanning for any smudge or dog-eared page.
"Finished with it, Harris?" she asked, her voice like dry parchment.
"Yes, Madam Pince. It was... enlightening," Allen replied, handing it over.
She tapped the cover with her wand. A glowing Hogwarts crest appeared, sinking into the leather—the library's seal of return. She nodded, satisfied that the "Forbidden" item was intact, and glided toward the back of the library to return it to the darkness of the Restricted Section.
Allen watched her go. He was clean. He was ready. America was waiting, and for the first time in weeks, his mind was entirely his own.