"That was a masterpiece of destruction! A Nimbus 2001, for Merlin's sake! Only Malfoy's broom is still in one piece!" a senior Slytherin screamed, his voice cracking with a mixture of grief and pure, unadulterated saltiness.
The Ravenclaw team, still riding the high of their victory, pushed through the gathering storm of students. The atmosphere was thick with hostility. In the center of the chaos stood Severus Snape, his black robes billowing around him like an omen of death. His eyes were fixed on Allen with a cold, piercing intensity, but Allen didn't flinch. He met the Head of Slytherin's gaze with a calm, almost bored expression, his posture relaxed despite the dozens of students ready to hex him.
"What seems to be the trouble here?"
The crowd parted instantly as Albus Dumbledore approached. Beside him walked a man who looked like he had stepped out of a high-stakes business meeting rather than a magical school. He was roughly fifty, built with the compact power of a leopard, moving with a predatory grace that made the young wizards instinctively tighten their grip on their wands. He was bald, sporting a thick, well-groomed beard, and a massive cigar was clamped between his teeth, shifting rhythmically as he scanned the scene. Instead of the usual flowing robes, he wore a sharp, light-colored tweed suit that screamed 'Upper Class London' more than 'Hogwarts.'
Allen watched him closely. The man wasn't just a spectator; his eyes weren't looking at the broken wood—they were analyzing Allen, measuring him like a scout looks at a prized athlete.
"Severus," Dumbledore said, his voice mild but carrying an unmistakable authority. "You appear to have a grievance regarding the score?"
"Grievance, Headmaster? That's an understatement," Snape spat, his voice like sandpaper. "Ravenclaw's conduct today wasn't Quidditch. It was a systematic massacre. The damage to Slytherin property and the injuries to my players are beyond the scope of a school match."
The Slytherin students, emboldened by their Head of House, erupted in a chorus of complaints.
"He targeted us! He was hunting us down!" "Bole's eye is swollen shut!" "Marcus Flint might have a concussion!" "They're using Firebolts and breaking our 2001s—it's not fair! Madam Hooch is clearly biased!"
Dumbledore raised a hand, and the noise died down to a low simmer. He turned to the flying instructor. "Rolanda, your professional opinion?"
Madam Hooch looked like she was ready to snap her broom in half. Her yellow eyes were burning with insulted pride. "My opinion, Headmaster, is that I have never seen a more disgraceful display of sportsmanship than what Slytherin showed today. Every action taken by Mr. Harris was a direct response to a foul. My rulings were by the book. If anything, I was lenient."
Snape's jaw tightened, his thin lips disappearing into a straight line of repressed fury.
Allen stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back, looking every bit the composed scholar despite the sweat on his brow. "Professor Snape," he began, his voice smooth and carrying across the pitch. "If you find Madam Hooch's expertise lacking, perhaps we should settle this properly. We could invite Ludo Bagman from the Ministry to review the memory of the match. I'm sure the Daily Prophet would love a front-page story about Slytherin's... unique tactics. We could even include the details of our personal wager. Or is your current protest simply a way to avoid the reality of that bet?"
The silence that followed was deafening. The implication was clear: back down, or the whole wizarding world would see Slytherin's shame in print.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. He knew exactly what Allen was doing. "There's no need for the Ministry, Allen. As it happens, we have an expert right here. Geraldine, I believe you've seen enough to offer a verdict?"
The man with the cigar took a long drag and exhaled a cloud of thick, aromatic smoke. "Dumbledore, you know I don't sugarcoat things. If I speak, people usually end up crying."
"The truth is what we need, Geraldine," Dumbledore replied.
Geraldine Malthus, the head coach of the British National Quidditch team, stepped into the center of the circle. He twirled his cigar between two fingers and looked at the Slytherins as if they were a particularly disappointing batch of dragon dung.
"If you want the truth? This was the most pathetic display of junior Quidditch I've seen in a decade," Geraldine barked. "And I'm talking about the green team. Your fouling isn't just illegal; it's amateur. In a professional match, those stunts wouldn't just get you sent off; they'd get you banned for life. Players who rely on cheap shots like that never make it to the big leagues. They don't have the stomach for real competition."
The Slytherin players looked like they had been slapped. To be insulted by the National Coach was a death sentence for any professional aspirations they had.
"As for Mr. Harris," Geraldine turned to Allen, a glint of respect in his eyes. "His playstyle was aggressive, yes. But it was legal. He used the Bludgers to defend his team and neutralize threats that the referee was struggling to contain. If my Beaters had half his tactical awareness, we'd be favorites for the World Cup. Protesting his actions when you started the fire? That's not just despicable, it's cowardly."
Snape looked like he wanted to use a Dark Arts curse on Geraldine right then and there, but the man didn't even notice. He was too busy staring at Allen.
"Headmaster," Allen said, seizing the momentum. "To ensure that Quidditch at Hogwarts remains about skill and not just who has the deepest pockets, I've made a decision. I'd like to donate a full set of Nimbus 2001s to the school—enough for every house team to have a level playing field. I want to make sure no one can use 'broom advantage' as an excuse for poor performance again."
He turned and gave Madam Hooch a playful wink. "It'll mean more maintenance for you, Professor, but I think the quality of the games will be worth it."
The crowd gasped. A donation of that size was unheard of. Ron Weasley looked like he was about to faint, his mind likely calculating how many houses that much gold could buy. Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor captain, looked like he wanted to kiss Allen.
"Are you quite certain, Mr. Harris?" Dumbledore asked, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "That is a staggering amount of gold for a student to part with."
Allen nodded, his expression resolute. "Quidditch is a sport of spirit and talent. When Professor Flitwick and I were in the States, I came across a bit of luck—a prize that was more than I'll ever need. I'd rather see it used to turn Hogwarts into a breeding ground for world-class players. We Ravenclaws aren't afraid of a fair fight. In fact, we prefer it."
He turned back to the Slytherin team, his gaze turning icy. "But let me be clear. If I see anyone using these new brooms to pull the kind of garbage I saw today, I won't wait for a whistle. I'll break them faster than the ones I smashed today."
The 'Little Snakes' shrunk back. They realized that Allen wasn't just a talented player; he was a power player. He was holding the carrot and the stick simultaneously.
Geraldine watched the exchange, a smirk playing on his lips. He knew exactly why he was here—to scout for the upcoming World Cup. While Allen was young, his presence was already that of a veteran. The boy had the 'It' factor.
Professor Flitwick finally managed to wiggle through the crowd, his tiny face flushed with pride. "Severus! I believe you have a debt to settle? Our agreement was quite specific."
Snape's eyes were black pits of loathing. He looked at his dejected team, then at the smug Ravenclaws, and finally at Dumbledore.
"Slytherin withdraws from the House Cup race this year," Snape bit out, the words sounding like they were being ripped from his throat. "We are finished here. Move!"
As the Slytherins slunk away like beaten dogs, Malfoy tried to vanish into the crowd.
"Malfoy," Allen called out.
Draco froze. He turned around, trying to maintain his aristocratic sneer, but his knees were shaking. "I'll... I'll do it, Harris. I'll say it. Just not here."
Allen looked at him and laughed. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but one of genuine amusement. "Keep it, Draco. I don't care about the bet anymore. But honestly? Look at yourself. You talk about pureblood pride and noble blood, yet you play like a common thug and hide behind your father's name. If you want people to respect your bloodline, start acting like it actually means something. Where's the grace? Where's the dignity?"
Malfoy stood paralyzed. The words hit him harder than any Bludger could have. He watched Allen turn back to his cheering teammates, surrounded by the respect of the entire school. For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy realized that he had been chasing the wrong kind of power.
If he had just been a bit more like Allen Harris... things might have been very different.