The rustle of parchment filled the Charms classroom, but it was a heavy, concentrated sound. Usually, in Professor Flitwick's lessons, there was a certain level of airy excitement, a lightheartedness that came with making things levitate or change color. Tonight, however, the Ravenclaws were reading their handouts with the kind of grim intensity usually reserved for a final exam that determined their entire future.
Allen stood at the front, his shadow elongated by the flickering torchlight, watching the sea of blue-lined robes. He felt a swell of pride. This was his house—intellectual, disciplined, and when poked, remarkably ambitious.
Once the last of the seventh-years had lowered their notes, Allen cleared his throat, the sound echoing like a gavel.
"I need to be upfront with you all," Allen began, his voice dropping an octave to convey the gravity of the spell. "The Patronus Charm is a 'Master-level' piece of magic. It is technically classified as well beyond the scope of the Ordinary Wizarding Levels. In fact, many fully grown, practicing wizards in the Ministry couldn't produce so much as a puff of silver smoke if their lives depended on it."
He had intended for this to be a warning—a way to manage expectations so no one felt like a failure. But he had forgotten who he was talking to. The Ravenclaws didn't hear a warning; they heard a challenge. Eyes that were previously tired from a week of homework suddenly snapped wide, gleaming with a competitive hunger. To a Ravenclaw, "too difficult" was just another way of saying "more prestigious to master."
"A Patronus is not a simple shield," Allen continued, pacing the podium. "It is a projection of the very things a Dementor seeks to destroy—hope, happiness, the sheer, primal will to exist. Think of it as a spiritual substitute. The Dementor feeds on the Patronus instead of you. But because the Patronus is made of pure light and lacks a human soul's capacity for despair, the Dementor finds itself trying to eat the sun. It can't be harmed, and eventually, the Dementor simply loses interest or is repelled by the sheer brilliance of it."
He paused, looking at their determined faces. "But there's a catch. You can't fake it. You need a memory. Not just a 'good' one, but a memory that anchors your soul to the world. Think of the moment you felt most alive, most loved, or most triumphant."
For Allen, this was the easiest part of the lecture. Every time a system notification pinged in his mind, announcing a quest completion or a legendary reward, a surge of dopamine and genuine triumph flooded his veins. That feeling of progression, of becoming something more than a mere mortal, was his golden anchor.
"The incantation," Allen said, drawing his wand in a smooth, practiced motion, "is Expecto Patronum."
The room immediately descended into a rhythmic hum of practicing voices.
"Expecto Patro—no, wait, Patronum."
"Is the emphasis on the 'o' or the 'u'?"
"Focus, Michael! You're thinking about your dinner, not a memory!"
Suddenly, a few wisps of silvery vapor began to leak from the tips of several wands. They weren't full Patronuses—just ethereal ghosts of light that vanished as quickly as they appeared—but the excitement they generated was electric.
"Excellent start," Allen praised, though his eyes drifted to the back of the room. "But there is a vast difference between casting in a warm room and casting when the world turns cold. Are you ready to see the real thing?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He gestured toward the center of the room. "Line up. Keep the path clear. We're going to use the Boggart."
As the line formed, Allen noticed Luna moving toward the front. She was sandwiched between a group of tall seventh-years, looking small and somewhat fragile with her wand held in a white-knuckled grip.
The whispers started almost instantly.
"What is she doing? She's only a second-year."
"It's Loony Lovegood. She probably thinks she's summoning a Crumple-Horned Snorkack."
Allen's gaze shifted to Marietta Edgecombe, who was standing nearby with a group of her friends. She wasn't just whispering; she was wearing a look of pure, ugly anticipation, as if she were waiting for a car crash.
Allen didn't say a word to her. Instead, he caught Luna's eye and gave her a slow, encouraging smile—the kind of smile that said I know what you're capable of.
Allen stepped up to the cabinet first. He needed to set the stage. With a sharp flick of his wand, the lock clicked. The door creaked open, and for a heartbeat, the room was silent.
Then, Kayako crawled out.
The manifestation of Allen's lingering psychological shadows was visceral. The white burial dress, the disjointed, clicking movements of her limbs, and that long, black hair veiling a face of pure resentment. Even the older students gasped, several of them stumbling back.
Allen didn't flinch. He used his Occlumency to push the image of the ghost aside and focused entirely on the concept of his greatest fear: the Dementors.
The Boggart, sensing the shift in the "prey's" mind, underwent a violent transformation. With a sickening crack like breaking bone, Kayako's form twisted and grew. A tall, cloaked figure rose from the floor, its hood nearly touching the ceiling. A gray, slimy hand emerged from the folds of its robe.
The temperature in the classroom plummeted. The torches on the walls sputtered and died, leaving the room bathed in a sickly, gray twilight. The Dementor-Boggart began to glide forward, its rattling breath sounding like someone dying of a lung infection.
"Now," Allen called out, his voice sounding thin in the unnatural cold. He stepped to the side, casting a subtle Confundus on the Boggart. It was a clever trick; he wanted the creature to remain in its Dementor form and perceive everyone in the room as its target.
But as the upper-year students stepped forward, the reality of the creature hit them. The Boggart-Dementor was too good at its job. The first few students couldn't even get the words out. They stood frozen, their faces turning a ghostly white as their happiest memories were methodically stripped away by the creature's presence.
Penelope was already moving, moving between the students with chunks of honey-laced chocolate, her expression grim.
Then, it was Luna's turn.
Marietta Edgecombe practically shoved her way to the front to watch. She wanted to see the "Mad Girl" break.
As the Dementor turned its hooded void toward Luna, the girl's usual dazed, dreamlike expression shattered. It was replaced by a raw, naked terror that was painful to look at. Her large, silvery eyes grew wide, reflecting the darkness of the cloak. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead, and her wand arm shook so violently that it looked like it might snap.
"Expecto... Patronum..." Luna whispered. It was too quiet.
The Dementor surged forward, sensing her vulnerability.
"Expecto Patronum!" she tried again, her voice cracking.
She collapsed. Her knees hit the stone floor with a dull thud, and her blonde hair fell forward, masking her face. To the rest of the class, it looked like total defeat. Marietta let out a small, muffled snort of derision.
Allen moved. He was at Luna's side in an instant, his hand hovering near her shoulder. But just as he was about to banish the Boggart, something happened.
A faint, silver glow began to pulse from the tip of Luna's wand. It wasn't just vapor this time; it was thick, like moonlight. It struggled to take shape, swirling around her like a protective ribbon before flickering out under the weight of the Dementor's shadow.
Luna was shivering, her robes damp with cold sweat. She had touched the light, but the darkness had been too heavy.
"That's enough," Allen said firmly. Before he could help her up, Penelope had already stepped in, moving with a motherly efficiency. She scooped Luna up and pressed a large slab of chocolate into the girl's hand, guided her toward a chair.
Allen turned back to the Boggart, but something had gone wrong with his Confundus charm. Perhaps the Boggart was tired of being a Dementor, or perhaps it sensed Allen's sudden flash of protective anger.
With another crack, the Dementor vanished, and Kayako was back. This time, she didn't just crawl; she lunged. She flew toward Allen with a terrifying screech, her eyes wide and bloodshot.
It was a reflexive move. Allen didn't use a spell. He simply pivoted and delivered a powerful, frustrated kick.
The Boggart, in the form of the ghost, was sent spiraling across the room.
A piercing scream ripped through the air—but it wasn't the ghost's. It was Marietta's.
The Boggart had landed directly on top of her. Marietta was pinned to the floor, and Kayako was inches from her face, staring into her eyes with a terrifying, mocking "affection." Marietta's face was a mask of pure, hysterical horror, her mouth hanging open but no more sound coming out.
"Ah—my apologies. Lost my footing," Allen said, his voice entirely too calm as he walked over. He grabbed the "ghost" by the back of its dress and hauled it off the trembling girl.
Penelope's eyes flickered as she watched Allen. She knew him well enough to know that "accident" was a very relative term.
Luna, sitting in the corner, took a bite of her chocolate. A small, knowing smile played on her lips as she watched Marietta scramble backward on all fours, away from Allen.
"I think we should call it for tonight," Allen announced, looking at the pale faces of his classmates. "I may have overestimated how ready we were for the Boggart. This spell... it's a marathon, not a sprint. I shouldn't have pushed you into the deep end so soon."
"But Allen," a fifth-year called out, clutching a piece of chocolate like a lifeline, "the Dementors won't wait until we're 'ready' to attack us, will they?"
"He's right," Michael Corner added, looking remarkably focused despite his pale skin. "We need to keep going. Only practice will make that silver stuff stay."
"Is it just me," another student whispered, "or is that white-clothed ghost Allen uses actually scarier than the Dementor? I can still hear the clicking sound."
"You aren't the only one," a girl replied, shivering.
The students began to pack up, their conversations hushed and respectful. They looked at Allen with a new level of awe—not just for his magic, but for the fact that he seemed so casual about things that terrified them.
Allen stood alone at the front, still holding the "arm" of the Boggart-Kayako. He turned his head to look at her.
The Boggart was supposed to be a mindless shapeshifter. But as Allen looked into Kayako's eyes, she didn't look like a Boggart. She leaned in, her cold breath ghosting over his ear, and she smiled—a wide, unnatural grin that reached from ear to ear.
Allen's heart skipped a beat. A jolt of pure, icy adrenaline shot through his spine. It was a feeling of dread so profound it felt like his soul was trying to vibrate out of his skin.