The morning after Dumbledore's departure, Hogwarts didn't feel like a school anymore. It felt like a tomb.
The news had hit the student body like a physical blow. By breakfast, the Great Hall was buzzing with a frantic, low-frequency hum of anxiety. The golden plates and crystal goblets, usually symbols of abundance, seemed cold and hollow. Dumbledore was gone. The man who stood as the ultimate bulwark against the darkness had been escorted out of his own castle by the Ministry, and with him, the last shred of security the students felt had vanished.
"If they can take Dumbledore, they can take anyone," a third-year Hufflepuff whispered, her voice trembling as she stared into her porridge.
"Is the school closing? My mum says I should come home immediately," another boy chimed in, his face pale.
The corridors, once filled with the echoes of laughter and the occasional exploding snap, were now silent. Students moved in tight, huddled groups, glancing over their shoulders at every shadow. Even the sun, which had begun to warm the ancient stone walls with the promise of summer, seemed unable to penetrate the gloom. The light felt thin, failing to reach the corners of the drafty classrooms.
Following the spectacle of Gilderoy Lockhart's disgrace and arrest, the Ministry's hand had felt heavy on the school. But the removal of the Headmaster was a different kind of wound. It left a power vacuum that the students filled with their worst nightmares.
Allen found himself summoned to the Headmaster's office—now officially occupied by Professor McGonagall in her capacity as Acting Headmistress. Professor Flitwick was there as well, looking unusually grave, standing on a stack of cushions to reach the level of the desk.
"Mr. Harris, thank you for coming on such short notice," McGonagall said. Her voice was steady, but Allen could see the fatigue etched into the lines around her eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.
"Of course, Professor," Allen replied, his posture perfect, his expression unreadable.
McGonagall gestured to a thick, neatly stapled stack of parchment on her desk. Allen's sharp eyes caught the name at the top of the first page: Hermione Granger. It was a petition.
"The board of governors hasn't seen fit to provide us with a replacement for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position," McGonagall said, her lips thinning into a hard line. "And frankly, given the reputation of the post and the current... incidents... no qualified wizard is willing to step foot on the grounds."
Professor Flitwick piped up, his voice squeaky but earnest. "We've reviewed the student feedback, Allen. Specifically from your year. Dumbledore spoke very highly of your work as his assistant. He believed you had an 'intuitive grasp of the defensive arts' that surpassed many veteran Aurors."
McGonagall leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "The students are terrified, Allen. They are paralyzed by the unknown. Professor Flitwick and I believe that the best way to combat this fear is through structure. Your classmates trust you. More importantly, they respect you. We want you to take over the curriculum for the second-year Defense classes."
Allen felt a flicker of surprise, though he kept it off his face. "You want a student to teach the class officially?"
"Under supervision, naturally," McGonagall clarified, her tone stiffening as if she were convincing herself. "But yes. You are disciplined, your Transfiguration work is—dare I say—unmatched for your age, and your peers believe in you. We need someone who can relate to their anxiety while providing them with real, practical knowledge. Not the... fiction... that Mr. Lockhart provided."
Allen understood the subtext. The staff was stretched thin, patrolling the corridors and guarding the dormitories. They didn't have the manpower to teach every elective, and they needed a leader among the students to keep the peace.
"I'll do it," Allen said simply. "If it helps keep things stable, I'm in."
Flitwick beamed, looking immensely proud of his Ravenclaw protege. "I knew we could count on you, dear boy!"
The transition was smoother than anyone expected. When Allen stood behind the podium for the first time as a teacher, there was no jeering. Even the Slytherins, usually the first to mock any deviation from tradition, remained silent.
Respect in the magical world was often bought with power, and Allen had plenty of it. Draco Malfoy, who had been rescued by Allen from the horrors of the Acromantula nest in the Forbidden Forest, sat in the front row. While he still wore a smug expression when talking to his lackeys, he didn't breathe a word of protest against Allen. The Harris family was an ancient, respected pure-blood line, and in the hierarchy of Slytherin, that mattered as much as Allen's dueling prowess.
Allen didn't teach like Lockhart, and he didn't teach like Dumbledore. He was precise. He handed out detailed, typed-up study guides and focused on the mechanics of magic—the way intent shaped the spell. His lessons were fluid, his explanations profound yet accessible. For an hour a day, the second-years forgot about the monster in the walls and focused on the intricate dance of wand movements and incantations.
As the weeks passed, summer truly arrived. The grounds became a riot of color; flowers the size of cabbages blossomed in Sprout's greenhouses, and the lake turned a shimmering, violet-blue under the afternoon sun. But inside the castle, the walls felt like they were closing in.
Allen tried to visit Hermione and Penelope in the hospital wing, but he was blocked at the door.
"Absolutely not, Mr. Harris," Madam Pomfrey said, her face set in a grim mask. She only opened the door a crack, and Allen could smell the sharp, clinical scent of Mandrake Restorative Draft in the air. "The Headmistress has been very clear. We cannot risk the attacker returning to... finish what they started. The patients are under total isolation."
"I just wanted to check their progress," Allen argued softly.
"They are stable, but petrified," she snapped, though her eyes softened slightly. "Now, go back to your common room. It isn't safe for anyone to be alone in these halls."
The new safety regulations were suffocating. Students were forbidden from moving between classes without a teacher escort. They were herded like sheep from the Great Hall to the classrooms, and then back to their common rooms by six o'clock every evening.
While most students found comfort in the presence of the professors, Allen found it infuriating. It was impossible to move, impossible to investigate, and impossible to plan.
The only person who seemed to be thriving was Draco Malfoy. He strutted through the corridors with a newfound arrogance, as if he were the king of the castle. With Dumbledore gone and his father, Lucius, pulling the strings of the Board of Governors, Draco felt invincible. He knew he was 'safe' from the Heir of Slytherin, and he took every opportunity to remind the Muggle-borns of their precarious position.
"I wonder who'll be next?" Draco mused loudly as a group of Ravenclaws were led past him. "I hope it's someone with a bit of spirit. These last few have been so... dull."
Allen felt a surge of cold anger, his hand twitching toward his wand. He wanted to wipe that smirk off Malfoy's face, but he knew better. A fight now would only lead to more restrictions.
The Ravenclaw common room had become a gilded cage. After six, the blue-and-bronze chamber was packed to capacity. Every table was occupied by students whispering over ancient texts or playing tense games of wizard's chess. The constant chatter and the watchful eyes of the Prefects made it impossible for Allen to slip away.
He sat by the window, staring out toward the dark silhouette of the Forbidden Forest. He knew the Basilisk was out there—or at least, the entrance it used was. He needed to find that trail, to trace the movements of the beast back to its source.
He had the Cockatrice's body, he had the System's new reward, and he had the knowledge. All he lacked was the freedom to act.
As the clock struck midnight and the last of the studious Ravenclaws finally climbed the stairs to their dorms, Allen stayed by the fire, the orange light flickering in his eyes. He wasn't just a student anymore; he was a teacher, a protector, and a hunter. And hunters didn't wait for permission to strike. He just needed one opening—one crack in the castle's defenses—and he would find his way back to the shadows where the real answers lay.