The morning sun filtered through the high, enchanted windows of the Great Hall, casting long shadows across the four house tables. Allen Harris had just returned from his usual morning routine—a habit of physical and magical exercise that kept his mind sharp and his reflexes even sharper. However, as he stepped through the massive oak doors, the usual hum of breakfast chatter didn't just dip; it transformed into a focused, vibrating silence.
It wasn't just the Ravenclaws. Students from Hufflepuff and even a few older Gryffindors had stopped mid-bite, their eyes tracking him with a mix of awe and intense curiosity. To them, Allen was no longer just the brilliant "teaching assistant" or the top student of his year; he was the wizard who had stood his ground against a Dementor while everyone else was drowning in their own worst memories.
Allen resisted the urge to check if he had accidentally left a smudge of dirt on his face. He kept his stride steady, making a beeline for the blue-and-bronze draped table.
"You should know, most people find it impossible to look away from a source of warmth in a cold room."
The voice was ethereal, drifting like a breeze. Allen slid into his seat and found himself sitting next to Luna Lovegood. The first-year—no, she was a second-year now—was currently occupied with a bowl of oatmeal and a straw that looked thick enough to be a plumbing pipe.
"Morning, Luna," Allen said, blinking at her choice of utensil. "News travels fast, I see."
"The air is very thin today. Secrets leak out of the cracks in the stone," Luna replied vaguely. She took a long, loud slurp of her porridge through the straw, her silver eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"I have to ask... why the straw? Is that a new Ravenclaw trend I missed over the summer?"
Luna lowered the straw and gave him a look of profound pity. "It's for the Wrackspurts, Allen. They're particularly invisible today, and if you breathe too deeply while eating, they fly straight into your brain through your mouth. They make your thoughts all fuzzy. Using a straw keeps the intake narrow. It's basic safety, really."
Allen paused. His magical senses were honed to a razor's edge, capable of detecting the faintest ripple of a concealment charm or the residue of a dark curse, but he felt absolutely nothing. No invisible pests, no fuzzy aura. Just a young girl with radish earrings and a very vivid imagination.
"Wrackspurts," Allen repeated, testing the word. "I'll have to keep an eye out for them."
Luna beamed at him, reaching into her bag and pulling out a brightly colored, somewhat chaotic-looking magazine. "You should read this. My father is the editor. Most people find the truth a bit too loud, so they call it nonsense, but you seem like someone who likes to hear everything."
Allen took The Quibbler. He flipped through a few pages, seeing headlines about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and secret conspiracies involving the Minister of Magic and a private army of fire demons. While most would dismiss it as the ramblings of a madman, Allen knew that in a world of magic, the line between 'impossible' and 'undiscovered' was incredibly thin. Xenophilius Lovegood might be eccentric, but he was one of the few people looking outside the Ministry-approved box.
"I'd like to subscribe," Allen said sincerely. "It's always worth seeing the world through a different lens."
Luna stared at him for a long time, her unblinking eyes searching his face. "You have a very solid soul, Allen Harris. Most people have edges that are too sharp. Yours are smooth." Without another word, she hopped off the bench and drifted away, her hummed tune echoing faintly in the sudden gap she left.
"You aren't actually going to pay for that rubbish, are you?"
Penelope Clearwater sat down on Allen's other side, her expression one of utter disbelief. She was clutching a stack of morning schedules, the stress of being a Prefect and a high-achiever already etched into her brow.
"Why not?" Allen tucked the magazine into his bag. "It's better than reading the same dry headlines in the Prophet every morning. Besides, the girl is harmless."
"Harmless, yes. Loony? Absolutely," Penelope sighed, pouring herself some juice. "She's a Ravenclaw, Allen. We're supposed to be the house of logic and proven facts. That magazine is the antithesis of everything we stand for. It's a waste of perfectly good parchment."
Allen smiled but didn't push the point. He knew Penelope's worldview was built on structure and merit. Arguing the merits of "imaginary" creatures with her was a battle he wasn't interested in winning.
"You're always so diplomatic," Penelope muttered, though she didn't sound truly annoyed. "One day, that patience of yours is going to run out, and I hope I'm there to see it."
The Great Hall was reaching its peak morning volume now. At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy was the center of a raucous circle. He was standing up, his face contorted in a mock-grimace of terror, his hands clawing at the air.
"And then—" Malfoy shrieked, making a fainting motion that had Pansy Parkinson and a half-dozen other Slytherins howling with laughter. "The big, scary Dementor came in, and poor, brave Potter just went... whump!"
In his theatrical display, Malfoy stepped backward blindly, intending to collapse into Crabbe's waiting arms. Instead, he collided squarely with Luna, who was walking past with her head tilted back to look at the rafters.
Malfoy lost his balance, his arms windmilling as he hit the stone floor with a dull thud. The laughter in the hall shifted from mocking to genuine amusement as the 'prince' of Slytherin ended up on his backside.
Pansy Parkinson's face turned a mottled purple. She lunged forward, not to help Malfoy, but to vent her fury on the girl who had ruined the moment. She gave Luna a violent shove. "Watch where you're going, you filthy little freak!"
Luna stumbled, her thin frame nearly toppling over a nearby bench. She looked more surprised than hurt, her wide eyes blinking in confusion as if she couldn't understand why the air had suddenly turned so hostile.
Allen's eyes darkened. He set his spoon down with a soft clack that seemed to resonate louder than the shouting.
"Penelope," Allen said, his voice dropping an octave, "you wanted to see what happens when my patience runs out? Keep watching."
Before Penelope could respond, Allen was on his feet. He didn't run; he walked with a measured, predatory grace that cleared a path through the students naturally.
Pansy was still screeching at Luna, her face pinched and pug-like. "Maybe if you spent less time looking for imaginary bugs and more time looking at the floor, you wouldn't be such a nuisance!"
Allen stepped between them, his presence acting like a physical wall. He stood a full head taller than Pansy, and the cold aura radiating from him was palpable.
"That's enough," Allen said. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that silenced the immediate area. "It isn't your place to put hands on a member of my house."
Pansy recoiled, her eyes widening. "Allen! Don't tell me you're defending this... this loony? Are you trying to play the knight in shining armor now?" She sneered, though it looked forced. "I didn't know your tastes ran so... low-class."
Allen ignored her entirely, turning his gaze to Malfoy, who was being hauled up by Goyle. "Malfoy. Is this the standard of behavior for your house now? Knocking into people and letting your friends do the dirty work?"
Draco's face was a mask of irritation and simmering fear. He remembered the train. He remembered the way the light from Allen's wand had felt like a physical blow. "It was an accident, Harris. The girl walked into me. Tell your little pet to watch her step."
"Actually," Allen replied, his eyes narrowing, "in my eyes, if you bully a Ravenclaw, you're making it my business. And I'm very thorough when it comes to my business."
By now, several Ravenclaws had stood up, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. Penelope had moved to Allen's side, her Prefect badge gleaming.
"Pansy, Draco," Penelope said sharply. "You were both remarkably quiet last night when the Dementors were actually in the room. Strange how your courage only returns when you're picking on someone half your size."
"Since when did the Head Girl start acting like a bodyguard for Harris?" Pansy snapped, her voice trembling with rage.
"Since she realized that some people need to be reminded of their place," Penelope retorted. "And right now, your place is back at your table, before I decide to see how many points I can take for physical harassment."
Pansy went for her wand, her fingers trembling over the holly wood. Draco quickly caught her wrist, his eyes never leaving Allen's. He saw the way Allen's hand was resting casually near his own wand, the posture of someone who wasn't just ready for a fight, but expecting one.
"Forget it, Pansy," Draco hissed. He looked at Allen, his jaw tight. "For old times' sake, Harris, I'll let this go. But don't think you can play protector for every freak in this school."
With a final, venomous look at Luna, Malfoy led his group away, their exit looking far more like a retreat than they would ever admit.
At that moment, Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked into the fray. They had seen the tail end of the confrontation. Malfoy, needing someone to vent his bruised ego on, made a loud, exaggerated swooning motion as he passed Harry.
"Watch out, Potter! Wouldn't want you to faint again! The Dementors might hear you!"
Harry's face flushed red, his fists clenching. Hermione immediately grabbed his arm, her grip iron-tight. "Don't, Harry. He's not worth the detention. Just ignore him."
The trio slumped down at the Gryffindor table, Harry looking thoroughly miserable. George Weasley leaned over, sliding a parchment toward him. "Cheer up, mate. It's the new timetable. Could be worse—could be double Potions first thing."
"Malfoy's a git," Ron summarized, stabbing a sausage with unnecessary violence.
George looked over at the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was still performing his 'fainting' act for a new audience. "He's just loud because he's scared. Most of the people laughing were shaking like leaves last night. Dad told us about Azkaban once—said the Dementors turn the bravest men into shivering wrecks. Fainting is the least of what they can do to you."
"Yeah," Fred added, leaning in. "Wait until the first Quidditch match. Gryffindor versus Slytherin. We'll see how 'brave' Malfoy is when he's looking at the back of Harry's Firebolt."
Back at the Ravenclaw table, Penelope was still buzzing with leftover adrenaline. "That was... well handled, Allen. I didn't think you had that much 'not-gentle' in you."
Allen didn't answer immediately. He turned to Luna, who was staring at a spot of spilled juice on the table as if it were a map of the stars. "Are you okay, Luna?"
Luna looked up, a dreamy smile on her face. "Oh, yes. I think the Wrackspurts moved over to the Slytherin table. They seemed very confused. Thank you for the magazine subscription, Allen. I'll make sure yours is the first one off the owl."