The sheer audacity of Draco Malfoy was almost impressive, in a twisted sort of way.
By Thursday, the "survivor" had finally made his grand return to the castle. He didn't just walk into the Great Hall; he staged an entrance. His right arm was swathed in layers of pristine white bandages, held aloft by a silk sling that looked suspiciously expensive. Flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, who were doing their best impressions of mindless gargoyles, Malfoy wore an expression of tragic endurance—as if he'd personally wrestled a dragon and lived to tell the tale.
Allen watched from across the hall, a faint, cold smile playing on his lips. Having felt Buckbeak's warmth and seen the creature's regal soul, he found Malfoy's performance not just annoying, but pathetic. The boy had poked a sleeping giant and was now crying because he got a scratch.
However, as Allen turned back to his own table, the irritation faded, replaced by genuine confusion.
The Ravenclaw table, usually a hub of intellectual debate and lighthearted banter about Arithmancy proofs, was shrouded in a heavy, suffocating gloom. It wasn't the usual quiet study atmosphere; it was the kind of silence you find in a hospital waiting room.
Even more unsettling were the looks he was getting. Younger students were whispering behind their hands, their eyes wide with a mix of pity and morbid fascination. They looked at him as if he were a ghost who hadn't realized he was dead yet.
"Alright, someone spill it," Allen said, setting his fork down. "Did I grow a second head while I was sleeping, or is there a bounty on my life I wasn't informed about?"
Edward, sitting across from him, looked like he hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. He hesitated, his knuckles white as he gripped his goblet of pumpkin juice.
"Allen... you really need to start taking things seriously. Just for once," Edward said, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. "I know you think everything is a logic puzzle that can be solved with a clever spell, but some things... some things are written in the stars."
Allen raised an eyebrow. "The stars? Edward, you're a Ravenclaw. Since when do we rely on celestial navigation for our daily schedule?"
"Since Professor Trelawney looked into the Great Beyond and saw your funeral!" Edward hissed, leaning over the table.
Allen blinked. "Professor Trelawney? The Divination teacher? I'm not even in her class. I chose Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. My schedule is full of logic, not tea leaves."
"That doesn't matter!" Michael Corner piped up from a few seats down, his dark hair messy from what looked like a lot of nervous tugging. "She didn't need you there to see it. Today, in our first lesson, she went into a sort of... well, a trance. She said that the 'brightest light of the generation' is destined for a sudden, violent eclipse. She spoke of a giant, shaggy black dog—the Grim. It's an omen of death, Allen. The most powerful one there is. And it's hunting the most 'outstanding' student in the castle."
Michael looked around the table, gesturing to the silent, nodding Ravenclaws. "Think about it. Who else fits that description? You've faced the heir of Slytherin, a thousand-year-old serpent, and walked away from a Dementor's kiss without blinking. You're the outlier. You're the one the universe is trying to balance out."
The logic was flawless in its own skewed, superstitious way. To these students, Allen was a magnet for trouble.
Allen looked at the genuine fear in Edward's eyes and felt his annoyance melt away. These were his friends; they weren't being dramatic for the sake of it—they were truly terrified for him. He offered a soft, reassuring smile, the kind that usually calmed a panicked animal.
"I appreciate the vote of confidence in my 'outstanding' nature," Allen said gently, "but I think you've got the wrong guy. Truly."
"How can you be sure?" Edward asked, sounding desperate. "The omens—"
"Because Trelawney's 'prophecies' are like a broken clock—occasionally right, but mostly just making a lot of noise," Allen replied, pouring himself a fresh glass of juice. "If you go over to the Gryffindor table and ask around, you'll find that Harry Potter had a very similar experience this morning. In fact, he's the one who actually sat in the chair and had his tea dregs analyzed. To her, Harry is the one the Grim is following."
A ripple of motion went through the Ravenclaws as they all turned, as one, to look at the Gryffindor table. There sat Harry, looking exceptionally miserable, staring into his plate as Ron and Hermione argued over him.
"Harry?" Michael Corner sounded skeptical. "I mean, he's famous and all, but... outstanding? Compared to you?"
"Maybe the 'Grim' prefers the Boy Who Lived over the Boy Who Studies Too Much," Allen joked, trying to lighten the mood. "Or maybe, just maybe, she tells every 'promising' student they're going to die because it's good for business. Death is a great motivator for paying attention in class."
"But you've actually seen weird dogs, haven't you?" Edward pressed.
"I've seen a lot of things, Edward. Most of them tried to eat me, and none of them were omens. They were just hungry," Allen said firmly. "Now, can we please talk about something more uplifting? Like the third-year Charms syllabus?"
The tension broke, though a few lingering glances suggested that Ravenclaw wouldn't be fully convinced until the school year ended with Allen still breathing.
After lunch, Allen didn't head to the common room. Instead, he made his way toward the fourth floor. Professor Flitwick had taken a liking to Allen's organized mind and had essentially "drafted" him as a teaching assistant. It was an honor, albeit one that came with a heavy stack of parchment.
As he rounded the corner near the Charms corridor, a flurry of movement caught his eye.
CRASH.
A small, bushy-haired whirlwind collided with him. Books, heavy and thick enough to be used as masonry, exploded across the stone floor.
"Oh! No, no, no!" a panicked voice cried out.
Allen looked down to see Hermione Granger on her knees, frantically scrambling to gather a library's worth of texts. Her hair was more chaotic than usual, and there were dark circles under her eyes that spoke of a deep, soul-crushing exhaustion.
As she reached for a copy of Intermediate Transfiguration, Allen noticed her other hand darting toward her neckline, tucking something shiny and gold beneath her robes with a speed that bordered on the supernatural.
"Hermione, take a breath," Allen said, reaching out to help.
"I'm sorry, Allen! I didn't see you—I'm late, I'm so late, and the bag just gave out—" She was breathless, her movements jerky and erratic.
"It's alright. Stay still," Allen said, drawing his wand.
"Allen, wait! You can't use magic in the corridors! You'll lose points!" she squeaked, even as she clutched three books to her chest.
Allen gave her a mischievous wink. "Technically, we're standing in the doorway of the Charms classroom. It's an extension of the learning environment."
With a fluid motion, he pointed his wand at the scattered mess. "Accio magic books."
The heavy volumes zoomed through the air, stacking themselves in a perfect, alphabetical tower on the nearest desk inside the room. Next, he gestured toward her tattered satchel, which looked like it had been through a war zone.
"Reparo. Fortify. Plumaveita."
The leather mended itself instantly, the seams glowing briefly with a blue light as they reinforced. The "Plumaveita" charm was a personal touch—it would make the bag feel as light as a feather, regardless of how many encyclopedias she crammed into it.
"There. Good as new, and hopefully easier on your shoulders," Allen said, handing it back to her.
Hermione's face went a brilliant shade of crimson. "Thank you, Allen. You... you shouldn't have. I could have managed."
"Hermione," Allen said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. "I've seen your schedule. Or rather, I've seen you appearing in three different places at once. Even for the brightest witch of our age, this is too much. You're going to burn out before Halloween."
Hermione bit her lip, her eyes darting toward the door as if checking for an escape route. "I just want to learn everything, Allen. There's so much... I don't want to miss a single thing."
"I get it," Allen said softly. "But some things aren't worth the price of your sanity. Muggle Studies, for instance? You grew up in that world. You could teach that class."
"But it's fascinating to see it through a wizard's lens!" she insisted, her scholarly pride flaring up.
"Okay, fair point. But what about Divination?" Allen tilted his head. "From what I hear, Trelawney spent the morning telling people they were going to die. Is that really worth a third of your day?"
Hermione's expression shifted to one of pure, unadulterated disdain. "She's a fraud, Allen. She told me my 'inner eye' was clouded and that I lacked the 'subtle vibrations' required for the craft. She's... she's making it all up as she goes along!"
Allen let out a genuine laugh. "See? Even you know it's nonsense. If it's bothering you that much, drop it. Spend that time in the library, or better yet, sleeping."
Hermione looked at the stack of books Allen had neatly arranged, then back at her reinforced bag. For a moment, the stubborn glint in her eyes wavered.