Easter at Hogwarts was usually a time of relief, but for the second-years, it brought a different kind of weight: the burden of the future. The parchment distributed by the Heads of House wasn't just a list of classes; it was a roadmap for their careers. In the wizarding world, your third-year electives were the foundation upon which your N.E.W.T.s—and thus your adult life—were built.
The atmosphere in the Great Hall shifted from academic curiosity to a sort of low-grade panic. Muggle-born students looked like deer in headlights. Without a family history of magical careers to guide them, they hovered near anyone who looked like they knew what they were doing, trying to eavesdrop on the merits of Arithmancy versus Divination.
On the other hand, the students from established wizarding families weren't having it any easier. Their breakfast was often interrupted by a barrage of family owls, carrying letters filled with "suggestions" that read more like commands.
"My father says if I don't take Ancient Runes, I can forget about a job at the Ministry," one boy groaned, staring at a three-page letter from his grandfather.
"My mum wants me to take Divination because she thinks I have 'the Sight' whenever I find her lost keys," a girl replied, rubbing her temples. "I just want to take Care of Magical Creatures so I can pet something that doesn't talk back."
The stress reached a breaking point for some. Allen watched in mild amusement as a Hufflepuff student, overwhelmed by the choices, simply closed his eyes, spun his wand over the parchment, and stabbed at the list. Wherever the tip landed, that was his destiny. It was certainly one way to handle the pressure.
Allen's own approach was far more surgical. He wasn't restricted by gold or family expectations. His father, Lenn, had made it clear that Allen's intellect was the family's greatest asset, and he trusted his son's judgment implicitly. Allen's greed wasn't for gold—the Harris family had plenty—it was for the raw power that came from ancient, untainted knowledge.
Most students chose two electives to maintain their sanity. Harry Potter had opted for Care of Magical Creatures and Divination—the path of least resistance. Hermione Granger, true to her nature, had chosen every single subject on the list. The boys looked at her as if she'd grown a second head, but Allen understood her hunger. He just didn't agree with her methods.
"Taking everything is a trap," Allen mused, looking at his own shortlist. He knew about Time-Turners. He suspected that was the only way Hermione could pull off such a schedule. But he also knew the cost: the constant fatigue, the psychological toll of living more than twenty-four hours in a single day, and the accelerated aging. Hermione would likely graduate having lived an extra year or two of life compared to her peers.
Ravenclaw Tower already provided him with most of what he needed. The Tower's internal library was a living entity, constantly transcribing and updating itself with modern magical theory. He didn't need a classroom to learn the basics of Muggle Studies or the dry formulas of Arithmancy.
"Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures," Allen told Professor Flitwick.
Ancient Runes was the key to understanding the oldest wards and enchantments—the stuff of real power. Care of Magical Creatures offered a practical connection to the natural magic of the world. As for the rest? He'd self-study. He only needed the O.W.L. certificates, which he planned to sweep with straight 'O's in his fifth year. Why waste hours in a classroom doing redundant homework when he could be in the Tower, truly mastering the arts?
With his curriculum settled, Allen's focus shifted to the Quidditch pitch. Ravenclaw was slated to face Gryffindor, and the stakes felt higher than usual.
Roger Davies had become a man possessed. He scheduled training sessions every evening after dinner, pushing the team to their limits under the cold spring stars. "Coordination is everything!" he would shout, his voice echoing off the stands. "I don't care if you can fly like a hawk if you can't think like a hive mind!"
The intensity was grueling, but the results were undeniable. The Ravenclaw team had never been this sharp. Their maneuvers were fluid, their communication almost telepathic. By Friday night, as they packed up their brooms, there was a quiet, dangerous confidence radiating from the group. They didn't just want to play; they wanted to dominate.
Saturday morning arrived with a sky so blue it looked painted. The sun was warm, the breeze was gentle—perfect conditions for a seeker.
In the Great Hall, the Gryffindor team was already gathered. They looked surprisingly upbeat. Oliver Wood was practically vibrating with energy, piling food onto his teammates' plates as if he were preparing them for a siege.
"Eat up, Harry! You need the reflexes," Wood encouraged, looking like he'd memorized every chapter of "How the Team Won."
Harry, however, looked like he hadn't slept. His eyes darted around the Hall, landing frequently on the staff table. He looked preoccupied, burdened by something far heavier than a Quidditch match.
The Ravenclaws arrived in a bronze-and-blue wave. They ate with a focused silence, the calm before the storm. When eleven o'clock approached, the Great Hall emptied as the entire school poured toward the pitch, a river of robes and excited chatter.
The atmosphere at the pitch was electric. Thunderous cheers erupted as the players took the field. Roger Davies and Oliver Wood met in the center, and the tension between them was almost visible—like two live wires touching. Their eyes locked with an intensity that promised a brutal game.
Madam Hooch stood ready, her hand on the crate containing the balls. The Ravenclaw team huddled together one last time, whispering final adjustments to their formation.
Allen gripped his broom, his muscles coiled and ready to spring. He took a deep breath, the scent of grass and magic filling his lungs. But just as he moved to mount his broom, the air was cut by a voice that didn't belong on the pitch.
"The match is cancelled!"
The words came through a massive, magically amplified purple megaphone. Professor McGonagall was sprinting across the grass, her face a mask of grim determination.
The stadium went silent for a heartbeat, then exploded in a chorus of boos and indignant shouts.
"You can't do that!" Wood yelled, looking like his world was collapsing. "We're ready to play! The weather is perfect!"
"Silence!" McGonagall's voice boomed over the crowd. "All students are to return to their House common rooms immediately. Your Heads of House will provide further information. Do not linger. Move now!"
The severity in her tone acted like a bucket of ice water. This wasn't about a scheduling conflict. This was something dark.
Allen's heart felt like it had been dropped into a well. He had spent the last few months immersed in training and study, his guard lowered by the false sense of peace that had permeated the castle. He had forgotten the timeline. He had forgotten that before the end, there was always one more victim.
The Ravenclaws marched back to the Tower in a tense, confused silence. Once inside the common room, Roger Davies slumped into a chair, his Quidditch robes looking dull in the afternoon light. "I don't believe it," he muttered. "All that training... for nothing."
But the older students weren't thinking about Quidditch. They were looking at the door, waiting for Flitwick. When the tiny Professor entered, he didn't climb onto his usual stack of books. He stood on the floor, his shoulders slumped.
"An emergency decree has been issued by the school," Flitwick began, his high-pitched voice strained and trembling. "As of six o'clock this evening, all students must remain in their common rooms. No one is to leave for any reason. You will be escorted to your classes by teachers. There will be no more Quidditch. No more evening study. The castle is under lockdown."
A collective gasp swept through the room.
"Why?" someone whispered.
Flitwick's lip trembled. With a flick of his wand, he projected a shimmering, translucent image into the center of the room. It was a view of the hospital wing.
There, lying on a bed, was Penelope Clearwater.
She wasn't sleeping. She was frozen. Her skin had the texture of cold marble, her eyes wide and fixed in a look of absolute, petrified terror. She looked less like a girl and more like a statue designed to warn travelers of a curse.
"Prefect Clearwater was attacked this morning," Flitwick said, his voice cracking. "She has been Petrified."
The silence that followed was absolute. For the first time, the "clever" Ravenclaws had nothing to say. The danger wasn't a rumor anymore; it had walked into their Tower and taken one of their own.
Allen sat deep in a plush armchair, his eyes fixed on Penelope's image. He knew exactly what had happened. He knew about the Basilisk. He knew about the pipes. He knew that Penelope had likely seen the reflection of the monster's eyes in a mirror or a puddle.
He felt a cold, calculating anger rising in his chest. He was a Parselmouth; he could open the Chamber himself. He could walk into that bathroom and command the beast. But he wasn't a fool. A twelve-year-old wizard, no matter how talented, was just a snack for a thousand-year-old Basilisk.
And then there was the "Sword" issue. The Sword of Gryffindor was the only weapon capable of truly ending the threat, but it wouldn't come to a Ravenclaw. The ancient magic of the school was biased toward its own archetypes.
"I need Harry," Allen thought, his fingers drumming on the armrest. "And I need the bird."
Without Fawkes and the Sword, the Basilisk was an apex predator that couldn't be touched. But there was something else. Tina's words from the previous year echoed in his mind—the warning she had given him about the "monsters" in the plural.
"There is more than one," she had said.
Was the Basilisk just the beginning? Was there something even deeper in the foundations of Hogwarts? Before he made his move, before he joined forces with the "Boy Who Lived," Allen knew he had to return to the Forbidden Forest. He needed to speak with Gaia, the ancient soul of the woods. He needed to know exactly what was lurking in the dark, because if there were two monsters, his current plan was half-finished—and in the wizarding world, a half-finished plan was just a fancy way of committing suicide.