"So, besides the gloom and doom, did Professor Trelawney offer any actual evidence for this 'Grim'?" Allen asked, trying to steer the conversation away from Hermione's near-collision and toward the lighter, if more absurd, topic of the day.
Hermione, still smoothing down her robes and looking slightly flustered from Allen's expert repair job, let out a huff that sent a stray curl bouncing off her forehead. "Prophecy? It was more like a dramatic performance, Allen. She stared into a pile of tea dregs like they were the secrets of the universe and decided that because Harry's leaves looked a bit like a shaggy dog, he was destined for the cemetery."
"Hardly the most scientific method," Allen remarked, leaning against the podium as the enchanted handouts began to sort themselves into neat stacks.
"Unreliable doesn't even begin to cover it!" Hermione crossed her arms, her eyes flashing with academic indignation. "The whole subject is built on guesswork and 'vibes.' One person sees a dog, another sees a bowler hat. How can we call that a branch of magic? It's just... it's medieval!"
She paused, narrowing her eyes at him. "You're a Ravenclaw, Allen. You don't actually buy into this 'inner eye' nonsense, do you?"
Allen smiled, a calm and measured expression. "In a room filled with thirty nervous teenagers, with incense burning and the sun blocked out? Even a true Seer would struggle to filter out the noise. Prophecy requires a stillness of the soul that Hogwarts—especially a third-year Divination class—rarely provides. So no, I don't think Harry needs to start picking out his headstone just yet."
"Exactly!" Hermione beamed, her smile wide enough to show her slightly prominent front teeth. For a second, she looked self-conscious and moved her hand to cover her mouth, but Allen was already looking down at a parchment, pretending to be deeply fascinated by a list of charm components.
"I will say this, though," Allen added thoughtfully. "Dumbledore doesn't hire people for no reason. Trelawney might have a spark of genuine talent buried under all that lavender and silk, even if she doesn't know how to control it. But her 'death-of-the-week' routine? That's just theatre."
"Even Dumbledore makes mistakes, Allen. He's brilliant, but he's human. Look at Gilderoy Lockhart!" Hermione sighed, and for the first time, Allen saw a crack in her unwavering devotion to authority.
Allen blinked, genuinely impressed. To hear Hermione Granger, the girl who treated the school rules like a holy text, suggest that the Headmaster could be "deceived" was like hearing a priest question the heavens.
"You know, Hermione," Allen said, his voice warm with genuine respect, "that right there? That's why you're a Gryffindor. It's not just about bravery in a fight; it's the courage to think for yourself and question the giants when they stumble. You've got a sharp mind and a spine of steel. You're going to do incredible things."
Hermione's eyes sparkled. It wasn't the usual pride of getting an 'O' on a test; it was the glow of being seen by someone she considered an equal. She opened her mouth to reply, but the sound of scuffling feet interrupted them.
A group of Ravenclaws had arrived early, and seeing Allen and Hermione alone in the room, they exchanged that peculiar, knowing look that teenagers everywhere have mastered. Hermione's blush returned with a vengeance.
"I—I should go. See you later, Allen!" she stammered, grabbing her lightened bag and practically fleeing into the corridor.
Allen didn't miss a beat. As the room filled with his housemates, he gave a flick of his wand, and the handouts took flight like a flock of paper birds, settling perfectly onto each desk before the students even sat down.
The Charms lesson that followed was a breeze for Allen. Professor Flitwick spent half the class using Allen's recent performance as a benchmark, eventually awarding Ravenclaw ten points with a squeaky cheer.
"Ten points? Honestly, Professor, giving him a hundred wouldn't be enough," Edward whispered to Allen as they packed up. "I still can't believe you pulled off a Patronus on the Express. A full, corporeal one! Most of the seventh years can't even manage a silver mist."
"It's just practice, Edward. Memory and intent," Allen said modestly.
Edward stopped, his expression turning uncharacteristically solemn. "Allen... I've been thinking. And I'm not the only one."
He looked around. The other Ravenclaws in the room had stopped talking. They were hovering, listening.
"The Dementors are on the grounds now," Edward said, his voice low. "They're at the gates, they're hovering over the Quidditch pitch, and they almost got you and Penelope on the train. We aren't all like you, Allen. We don't have that kind of power. If one of those things decides to wander into the castle... we're defenseless."
He looked Allen straight in the eye, his gaze pleading. "I know your time is worth more than gold. You're probably working on three different independent studies right now. But could you teach us? Not just the theory, but the actual spell? We need to know how to fight back."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. "Please, Allen," a second-year girl whispered. "I haven't slept properly since the train."
Allen looked at the faces surrounding him. They weren't just asking for a tutor; they were looking for a leader. For a long time, Allen had been the "prodigy"—the boy who lived in the library and performed miracles in silence. But as he looked at Edward and the others, he realized that being outstanding wasn't just about his own achievements. It was about lifting the people around him.
"Alright," Allen said, and the word seemed to ring through the room. "If you're willing to put in the work, I'm willing to teach. But I'm not going to go easy on you. The Patronus Charm is the most difficult defensive spell in existence. It requires more than just waving a stick."
A cheer broke out, loud enough to make the suit of armor in the hallway rattle.
Allen didn't waste time. He immediately sought out Professor Flitwick in his office, tucked away behind a tapestry of dancing pixies. When Allen explained the request, the tiny professor nearly fell off his stack of books in excitement.
"An extracurricular defense group? Run by my best student? Oh, Allen, this is marvelous! Simply marvelous!" Flitwick squeaked, wiping a tear of pride from his eye. "Most students wait for the teachers to force-feed them knowledge. To see this kind of initiative... it warms my heart."
"We'll need a place to practice, Professor. Somewhere secure," Allen noted.
"The Charms classroom is yours," Flitwick declared, waving a hand dismissively. "I'll speak with Albus tonight. We can keep it open until ten in the evening. I'll even drop by to offer some pointers—though I suspect you've got the basics well in hand!"
He paused, a thoughtful finger tapping his chin. "You know, Professor Lupin has a Boggart in a crate for his upcoming lessons. A Boggart is excellent for Patronus practice because it can take the shape of a Dementor. You might ask to borrow it."
"Thank you, Professor. That would be a huge help," Allen replied, though his mind was already calculating. Lupin would likely be using that Boggart for Harry's private lessons. He couldn't rely on it being available all the time.
By dinner, the "Blue-Gold Intensive" was the only thing being talked about at the Ravenclaw table. The news had traveled through the common room like a lightning strike. Third years, fifth years, even a few seventh years looking for N.E.W.T. prep were leaning in, trying to catch a word from Allen.
"Is it true?" Penelope Clearwater asked, sliding into the seat next to him. Her hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and she looked ready for business. "You're starting a training circle?"
"It seems I've been drafted," Allen said with a grin. "And I was hoping I could draft you in return. You've produced a Patronus before, Penelope. I'll need a teaching assistant to help manage the different year levels."
Penelope clinked her goblet against his. "Consider me signed up. It'll be good for the house morale. People are twitchy."
"Professor Flitwick suggested the Boggart," Allen told her, "but Lupin might be busy with it. I was thinking we could ask the House-elves if they've spotted any others hiding in the castle. There's always one in an old wardrobe or a dusty corner."