The buzz in the Ravenclaw Tower had reached a fever pitch. It wasn't just Allen and his close-knit circle of friends; every third-year student was vibrating with a nervous, manic energy that only a combination of impending freedom and a sugar addiction could produce. For those who had spent their entire lives within the stone walls of Hogwarts, this wasn't just a shopping trip—it was a rite of passage.
The common room noticeboard had become the center of the universe. One by one, students pinned their permission slips—scrawled with the hurried signatures of parents or guardians—to the cork. As soon as the parchment touched the surface, it vanished with a soft, musical whoosh.
"Professor Flitwick really is a genius," Michael remarked, watching a stray corner of a form disappear. "Most people think of him as just the Charms Professor or the guy who used to win dueling trophies, but his utility spells are on another level."
Allen nodded in agreement. The "Transfer" spell Flitwick had woven into the board was elegant and efficient, a testament to a master who understood that magic was best used to solve life's little inconveniences. It made Allen realize that being a "Great Master" wasn't just about the flashy, destructive spells; it was about the seamless integration of magic into the mundane.
On the morning of the trip, the castle felt different. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of dead leaves and woodsmoke, and nobody—literally nobody—wanted to sleep in. When Allen returned from his usual morning routine in the Room of Requirement, the Great Hall was already packed. It was a sea of civilian clothes; cloaks had been traded for heavy sweaters, scarves, and boots.
Even Edward, who usually had to be dragged out of bed by his ankles, was sitting at the Ravenclaw table, looking remarkably conscious.
Allen's eyes drifted toward the Gryffindor table. There, amidst the sea of excited red and gold, sat Harry. He looked like a man attending a funeral while everyone else was at a carnival. He was poking at a plate of kippers, his shoulders slumped, while Ron and Hermione hovered over him like worried parents. They were talking rapidly, likely trying to distract him from the fact that he was the only third-year without a signed slip.
Allen felt a pang of something complicated, but he didn't walk over. He knew the look on Harry's face; it was a mixture of resentment and isolation. Instead, Allen took his seat among his own housemates.
"Don't fill up on the toast, Allen," Penelope warned, sliding a small piece of jam tart his way. She looked radiant in a deep blue coat that matched her house colors. "If you eat a full breakfast now, you'll have zero room for the samples at Honeydukes, and trust me, you'll regret that for the rest of the term."
Michael and Edward nodded like bobbleheads, their focus already miles away in the aisles of a candy shop.
When the time finally came to depart, the crowd descended upon the entrance hall. Filch was there, looking as miserable as ever, holding a long, yellowed roll of parchment. He was checking every face against his list, his eyes darting around as if he expected a hoard of stowaways to burst from the shadows at any moment.
"Still hanging around, Potter?"
The voice was like a cold splash of water. Malfoy stood nearby, flanked by the ever-present shadows of Crabbe and Goyle. He looked impeccable, his expensive winter cloak pinned with a silver brooch. "What's the matter? Afraid the Dementors might find you too tasty if you leave the safety of the castle?"
Penelope glanced at Allen, her brow furrowed with concern. She expected Allen to jump in, to provide the shield Harry so clearly needed. But Allen remained still, his expression unreadable.
He felt the awkwardness of the silence. It was strange; he and Harry hadn't had a blowout. There were no shouted words or dramatic falling outs. But ever since Allen had told him "no" regarding the Patronus training, a wall had materialized between them.
For two years, the pattern had been simple: Harry got into trouble, and Allen provided the solution. Allen was the strategist, the older brother figure, the one who smoothed the path. Now that the pattern was broken, Harry didn't know how to act, and Allen didn't feel like apologizing for setting a boundary.
Malfoy, sensing the lack of intervention, smirked wider. He leaned in, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "Well, well. It looks like the Golden Boy's knight has finally hung up his armor. Left all alone in the castle... how tragic."
Harry didn't fire back. He didn't even look at Allen. He simply turned on his heel and began to climb the marble staircase, his figure retreating into the shadows of the upper corridors.
"Honestly, Allen," Malfoy said, turning his attention to him. He folded his arms, his tone shifting from mockery to something strangely instructional. "You were never really one of them. You'll eventually realize that families like ours don't mix with... well, the riffraff."
Hermione and Ron bristled instantly, their hands twitching toward their pockets. Penelope's hand was already on her wand, her eyes narrowing at the Slytherin.
"I think I'm perfectly capable of identifying the riffraff on my own, Malfoy," Allen replied, his voice like dry ice. "And usually, they're the ones talking the loudest."
Malfoy's pale face flushed slightly, but he didn't snap back with an insult. Instead, he leaned a little closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If I were in your position, I'd be watching my back. Being a 'sidekick' to the savior is a dangerous occupation. People are starting to look for connections, and some connections lead to very dark places."
He paused, his eyes flickering with a meaning Allen couldn't quite grasp. "Just... stay away from the shadows, Ravenclaw."
Allen was stunned. Was that... a warning? A peace offering? Malfoy had every reason to hate him after the beating he'd taken last year, yet here he was, speaking in riddles that sounded suspiciously like advice. It was as if the boy had seen a ghost—or perhaps a Nightmare—that had rearranged his priorities.
"Are you lot moving or do I start handing out detentions for loitering?" Filch growled, tapping his foot.
Malfoy gave Allen one last, unreadable look before pivoting and heading out into the cold air with his goons.
"The Malfoy family has a very keen sense for survival," a dreamy voice drifted into the conversation. Luna Lovegood had appeared beside them, her hair adorned with a few stray silver sequins. "They are like Nargles in a gale; they always know which way the wind is blowing so they don't get swept away. Even if they are terribly unpleasant to look at."
Allen nodded slowly. He didn't care much for the Malfoys' motives; as long as they stayed out of his way, he was content to let them play their games.
The walk to Hogsmeade was brisk, the path lined with trees that had shed their leaves like old skin. But as they rounded the final bend, the village came into view, looking like something off a Christmas card. Stone cottages with thatched roofs were huddled together, and the smell of roasting nuts and magic filled the air.
At Michael's insistent, almost frantic request, their first stop was Honeydukes.
They weren't alone. It seemed half the school had the same idea. The shop was a sensory overload. Every inch of wall space was occupied by shelves groaning under the weight of sweets that defied the laws of physics and nutrition.
There were slabs of creamy, sunshine-yellow fudge that melted at a touch; shimmering pink coconut ice that looked like frozen clouds; and toffees the color of dark forest honey. There were barrels overflowing with Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans and Fizzing Whizzbees that hummed with a low-frequency vibration.
One wall was dedicated entirely to "Special Effects" confectionery. Allen watched a younger student blow a bubble with 'Drooble's Best Blowing Gum' that turned into a purple balloon large enough to lift him off his heels.
"Try the Mint Imps," Penelope suggested, pointing to a jar of vibrating green candies. "They don't just freshen your breath; they make you breathe actual steam for ten minutes. Very useful in this weather."
There were Pepper Imps that made you smoke at the ears, Ice Mice that made your teeth chatter, and the famous 'Jelly-Float Balls.'
"If you eat one of those," Penelope added, pointing to the translucent, springy white spheres, "you'll find gravity becomes more of a suggestion than a rule."
Michael didn't need any more convincing. He began stuffing his pockets with a reckless abandon that suggested he was planning for a long-term siege.
"We need to be quick," Penelope said, her voice dropping as she pointed to a small, official-looking parchment pinned behind the shop counter.
MINISTRY DECREECustomers are reminded that, until further notice, Dementors will patrol the streets of Hogsmeade starting at sunset. This measure is for the protection of the public and will remain in effect until the apprehension of Sirius Black. Please conclude your business before the sun goes down.
The mood in the shop dipped for a fraction of a second as the students read the notice. The reminder of the world outside—the cold, soul-sucking reality of the guards—pushed everyone into a frenzy.
Allen moved to the counter and placed a massive order of the shop's premium dark chocolates, the kind that were infused with actual restorative magic. He asked the owner, a burly man who looked like he'd been dusted in powdered sugar, to have them sent directly to Ravenclaw Tower.
The shopkeeper beamed, his bald head reflecting the shop's warm lights. "For a customer like you? I'll pick the freshest batches from the morning's pull, lad. They'll be in your common room by dinner."
By the time they stepped back out onto the High Street, the group looked significantly wider than when they had entered. Every pocket was bulging, and Michael was already chewing on something that made his eyes water.
"Seriously, Michael," Edward laughed, eyeing his friend's distended pockets. "How much did you actually manage to eat in there?"
Michael tried to answer, but his mouth was a graveyard of sugar. He made a vague, triumphant gesture with his hand, but suddenly his face went pale. He stopped chewing, his eyes widening in panic.
"Uh, Michael?" Edward asked.
Michael didn't answer. His boots, which had been firmly planted in the mud a second ago, slowly lifted. One inch. Three inches. A foot.
"He ate the Jelly-Float Balls!" Penelope cried out, half-laughing and half-horrified.
Michael flailed his arms like a grounded bird, drifting higher and higher until he was level with the shop's sign. He looked down at them, a half-chewed peppermint toad still visible in his mouth, as he began to float toward the chimney of the neighboring house.