The echoes of Pansy's high-pitched screeching and the wet thwack of pumpkin porridge hitting the floor were still vibrating through the Great Hall when a new set of footsteps approached. They were light, rhythmic, and carried a certain weary grace.
Professor Lupin had just stepped through the double doors, his amber eyes scanning the chaos with a mixture of bewilderment and mild amusement. He looked like a man who had seen his fair share of schoolyard scraps, though perhaps none involving a bald Slytherin and a literal lake of breakfast cereal.
"Now, now," Lupin said, his voice calm enough to cut through the tension. "I'm fairly certain 'Porridge Wrestling' isn't on the official curriculum this year."
With a casual, almost lazy flick of his scarred wand, the thick yellow sludge covering Goyle and Crabbe vanished instantly. One moment they were human pumpkins; the next, they were just two very soggy, very angry boys.
Allen didn't miss a beat. He didn't want to give the faculty any reason to look at his new 'Magic Silver Shield' too closely, so he tapped the air with his own wand. "Reparo."
It was a display of precision. The shattered porcelain plates and silver cutlery didn't just mend; they performed a choreographed dance, leaping off the floor and snapping back into their designated spots on the long tables. Almost as soon as the ceramic was whole, the house-elves—perceptive as ever—sent fresh batches of steaming food up through the tables to replace what had been lost.
Lupin's eyebrows shot up. He looked at the perfectly restored table, then back at Allen. "A remarkably clean casting, Mr. Harris. Most students your age would have ended up with a few mismatched fork tines."
"Just tidying up the mess, Professor," Allen replied, tucking his wand away.
"Professor! He attacked us!" Malfoy finally managed to scramble to his feet, clutching his shoulder and wincing as if he'd just survived a dragon attack. "It was unprovoked! Look at Pansy! She's... she's aerodynamic!"
"That's a lie and you know it, Malfoy!" Michael Corner snapped, stepping forward. "They were harassing a younger student. Parkinson fired the first curse. We were just defending our own."
Lupin rubbed his chin, looking between the two groups. He seemed to be weighing the situation with a fairness that was rare in Hogwarts. "I see. The classic 'he-said, she-said' scenario, framed by a very public display of magical combat in the dining hall." He sighed, looking genuinely regretful. "Regardless of who threw the first spark, the rules are quite clear about dueling in the Great Hall. I'm afraid I'll have to deduct twenty points from both Slytherin and Ravenclaw."
"Twenty points?" Malfoy's voice cracked in indignation. "We're the ones who need a trip to the Hospital Wing! You can't be serious!"
Lupin opened his mouth to respond, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees in a single second. A shadow fell across the group, cold and oppressive.
"I believe I am still the Head of Slytherin House, Remus."
Professor Snape had arrived. He moved like a bat across the stone floor, his black robes billowing behind him like a funeral shroud. His dark, bottomless eyes swept over the scene, lingering for a fraction of a second on the bald Pansy Parkinson before settling on Lupin with a look of pure, unadulterated loathing.
"If my students have transgressed," Snape continued, his voice a low, dangerous silk, "I shall be the one to determine their penance. I do not require assistance from... outside parties."
Malfoy's face transformed instantly from a mask of pain to a smirk of pure triumph. He shot a look at Allen that said, 'You're dead.'
Lupin, however, didn't flinch. He met Snape's gaze with a tired, polite smile. "And how do you intend to handle this particular breach of conduct, Severus? It was quite the spectacle."
"That," Snape hissed, "is entirely my business. Malfoy, Parkinson—move. My office. Now."
He didn't give them a choice. With a final, lingering glare at Allen—a look that promised a very difficult year in Potions—Snape turned on his heel and swept away. The Slytherins followed him like scolded puppies, though Pansy was still sobbing into her hands, trying to cover her shiny scalp.
Lupin watched them go, then turned back to the Ravenclaws. The sternness in his eyes had evaporated, replaced by a conspiratorial glint.
"Well," Lupin mused, "since Professor Snape has decided to handle his house internally and hasn't actually issued a formal point deduction... I suppose it would be terribly inconsistent of me to punish Ravenclaw alone. Consider this a warning, Mr. Harris. Try to keep the dueling for the designated clubs."
"Thank you, Professor," Allen said, matching Lupin's smile.
As Lupin walked toward the staff table, Michael Corner practically collapsed onto the bench next to Allen. "Unreal. Malfoy actually thought he could play the victim. Does he think the 'weaker' side is always the right one?"
"He's used to Snape's protection," Allen said, reaching into his pocket. "But Snape can't be everywhere."
Penelope Clearwater approached them then, looking worried. As a Prefect, she'd heard the commotion from the other end of the hall. "I heard there was a brawl. Is everyone okay? Where's Luna?"
"Right here," Luna said, appearing as if she'd drifted in on a breeze. She sat down across from Allen, her wide, silver eyes fixed on the items Allen was pulling out of his pockets.
Allen laid out the gold tablets he had crafted the night before. They caught the light of the enchanted ceiling, shimmering with a premium, polished glow.
"What are those?" Michael asked, reaching out to touch one. "Wait, is this real gold?"
"Pure gold leaf," Allen confirmed with a mischievous grin. "Go ahead, Michael. Give it a bite if you don't believe me."
Michael actually looked like he might try it before Allen pulled it back. "They're communication tools. I've linked them using a modified Protean Charm. If you channel a bit of magic into the surface and think of a message, the text will appear on every other tablet in the network. They'll also vibrate and heat up slightly to let you know a new message has arrived."
He handed one to Penelope. "For the Ravenclaw network. We need a way to stay coordinated that isn't dependent on owls or finding each other in the corridors."
"This is incredible, Allen," Penelope whispered, tracing the runes on the edge. "It's like... a private newspaper."
Luna took hers, turning it over in her small hands. "Does it work if I want to talk to the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks?"
"Only if they have a gold tablet and a decent grasp of magical syntax," Allen joked.
He picked up a wrapped sandwich from the platter, peeling back the foil.
"What's in that one?" Luna asked suddenly, her eyes tracking the sandwich with strange intensity.
Allen peeked under the bread. "Tuna salad. Standard Hogwarts fare. Why?"
Luna looked at her own identical sandwich. "Mine is also tuna. Want to trade?"
Allen paused, his hand halfway to his mouth. He looked at his sandwich. Then at hers. They were from the same platter, made by the same house-elves, wrapped in the same foil. "Luna... they're exactly the same. Why would we swap?"
Luna didn't answer. She just continued to stare at his sandwich with a look of profound, silent seriousness.
"I didn't realize you two had become such close 'trading partners'," Penelope noted, giving them a curious, knowing look.
Allen and Luna shared a brief, silent glance. Neither mentioned the Mirror World, the ghosts, or the three-headed monster. Some secrets were better kept between those who had bled for them.
"It's just a sandwich, Penelope," Allen said, finally handing his to Luna and taking hers. As he took a bite, he frowned. For some reason, the tuna did taste slightly better. Was it the "trading" effect, or was Luna just right about everything?
"I can help you with your hair after breakfast, Luna," Penelope offered, looking at the jagged locks Allen had seen her hack off in the mirror. "It's a bit... adventurous right now."
Allen expected Luna to drift away or give a cryptic answer about hair-eating moths, but she simply nodded. "I'd like that, Penelope. Thank you."
The two girls left together shortly after, leaving Allen to finish his breakfast in peace. He had a busy morning ahead—Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was the class everyone was talking about.
As he walked toward the classroom, he spotted a familiar trio of Gryffindors. Ron was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Allen! That was legendary!" Ron shouted, nearly tripping over his own feet to reach him. He aimed a celebratory punch at Allen's shoulder, which Allen avoided with a subtle step to the left. "I heard Parkinson's head is so smooth you can see your reflection in it! We've been wanting to do that since first year!"
"He had it coming," Harry added, his eyes bright. "Malfoy looked like he'd swallowed a toad when Lupin didn't take the points."
"It was a team effort," Allen said modestly. He looked past them to Hermione, who was trailing behind, looking unusually frazzled. Her hair was bushier than normal, and she was clutching her bag as if it contained the Crown Jewels.
"Hi, Hermione. Ready for Charms?" Allen asked.
"Charms?" Ron interjected, looking confused. "We don't have Charms today, Allen. It's Transfiguration first."
"Oh!" Hermione jumped, her face turning a deep shade of pink. "I... I must have... I got mixed up. Silly me." She frantically began stuffing a thick blue textbook back into her bag, but not before Allen caught the title: The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4.
Allen watched her. He knew she was taking more classes than humanly possible. He knew about the Time-Turner. But seeing her look so panicked by a simple question made him realize just how much of a toll the time-skipping was taking on her.
"We better hurry," Hermione said, her voice strained. "Professor McGonagall hates it when people are late. She's... she's very strict about punctuality." She practically ran off toward the Transfiguration classroom.
"Is it just me," Ron muttered, watching her go, "or is she acting even weirder than usual? I swear I saw her in the library ten minutes before breakfast, but then she walked into the Great Hall from the opposite direction."
"Maybe she's just fast," Allen suggested, though his eyes remained on the spot where she'd vanished.
When Allen finally made it to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, he found it already half-full. He took a seat near the middle, opening his notebook and waiting. The room felt different this year. It lacked the garlic-soaked paranoia of Quirrell or the sickeningly sweet narcissism of Lockhart.
A few minutes later, Professor Lupin entered. He wasn't carrying a stack of self-congratulatory books. He was carrying a battered, scuffed trunk that looked like it had survived a war.
He placed it on the desk with a heavy thud. The trunk let out a sudden, violent rattle, making several students jump.
"Good morning," Lupin said, a genuine, warm smile lighting up his tired face. "Please put your textbooks back in your bags. You won't be needing them today."
A ripple of excitement went through the Ravenclaws.
"Today," Lupin continued, his eyes twinkling, "is a practical lesson. All you'll need are your wands—and perhaps a bit of imagination."