The shift in the school's atmosphere was almost physical. While the Slytherins slunk through the corridors like ghosts of their former selves, Allen Harris's reputation had transcended the usual house rivalries. He wasn't just the Ravenclaw Seeker anymore; he was the "Score Controller," the "Benefactor," and to many, the unofficial King of Hogwarts.
"Did you hear? He's actually doing it. The order for the brooms went out this morning," a Hufflepuff third-year whispered as Allen passed by.
"He's got more gold than sense, but Merlin, I'm not complaining. Finally, a fair game," her friend replied, looking at Allen with something bordering on worship.
In the midst of the crowd, Hermione Granger felt a strange warmth chest. Her face was flushed a light pink as she watched Allen navigate the sea of admirers with effortless poise. "He's incredible," she murmured, almost to herself. "It's not just the money. It's the principle. He's the most brilliant student this school has seen in generations."
Harry Potter, standing beside her, nodded enthusiastically. His mind was already on the next season. With the equipment gap closed, he could finally test his skills against the best without worrying if his broom would literally fall apart mid-air. "He's a legend, honestly. I don't think anyone else would have thought to do that."
"Oh, please," a voice snorted from behind them. Ron Weasley was leaning against a stone pillar, his arms crossed and his face twisted into a sour grimace. "He's got a mountain of Galleons, we get it. But let's be real, Hermione—you're a Gryffindor. Why are you acting like his personal cheerleader?"
Harry and Hermione both turned, surprised by the venom in Ron's voice. Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion. "What is that supposed to mean, Ron? I'm recognizing talent and generosity. It has nothing to do with house colors."
Ron let out a sharp, hollow laugh. "Generosity? It's a PR stunt. He buys a few dozen brooms, and suddenly he's the 'best student'? It's a bit desperate, isn't it? He's literally buying your loyalty, and you're falling for it head-over-heels."
"If being the top of every single class and reinventing how Quidditch is played doesn't make him the best, then what does, Ron?" Hermione snapped, her voice rising in pitch. "The only thing 'desperate' here is you trying to find a reason to hate someone who's actually accomplished something."
Ron's face turned a shade of red that rivaled his hair. The sting of the truth made him lash out. "Maybe he's just good at 'tactics,' like Geraldine said. Using his gold to seduce little witches like you and keep everyone quiet about his ego. Why don't you just go to Slytherin if you love that kind of manipulative rubbish so much?"
"Me? In Slytherin?" Hermione's voice was a shrill whistle now. "I'm not the one talking behind my friend's back because I'm too lazy to do my own homework! If you hate excellence so much, maybe you're the one who doesn't belong in the house of the brave!"
"Fine! You're so smart, you're so perfect—why aren't you in Ravenclaw then?" Ron roared, ignoring the stares of passing students. "You could spend all day with your precious Allen Harris and take that bloody monster of a cat with you! Get out of my sight!"
"What does Crookshanks have to do with this?" Hermione shouted, her eyes filling with tears. The suddenness of the attack, the unfairness of bringing her cat into it, it was too much.
Harry looked back and forth between his two best friends, feeling like he was standing in the middle of a crossfire. "Guys, come on... Ron's a Gryffindor, Hermione. He's just... frustrated. And Ron, you know she's right about Allen—"
"Oh, brilliant. Stand with him then!" Hermione sobbed, clutching her bag to her chest. "I knew you'd take his side. Fine! Go play your games. Don't bother me, I have actual work to do!" She turned on her heel and sprinted toward the library, her robes fluttering behind her.
"Ron, you really stepped in it this time," a voice said. Ginny Weasley had appeared from the shadows of the corridor, looking at her brother with deep disappointment. "You're just jealous. It's pathetic, really. Allen Harris has everything you want, and instead of working for it, you just get grumpy."
"Shove off, Ginny! It's none of your business!" Ron snapped, but the conviction was leaving his voice.
"Whatever," Ginny said, tossing her hair back. "But don't come crying to me when Hermione stops talking to you for a month. You're going to regret this." She walked away with a haughty air, leaving Ron and Harry standing in an awkward, heavy silence.
As the weeks crawled toward December, the castle underwent its usual transformation. The stones grew colder, the fires in the common rooms grew larger, and the tension of the Quidditch match began to fade into the background—except in the Potions dungeon.
Professor Snape had seemingly doubled down on his misery. Since the Slytherin withdrawal from the House Cup, his mood had become positively nuclear. He treated Ravenclaws with the same biting coldness he usually reserved for Gryffindors. He hovered over cauldrons, whispering critiques that felt like stabs from a dagger, and his grading had become borderline impossible.
"He's taking it out on us," Roger Davies groaned after a particularly brutal double session. "I've never seen him this focused on being a nightmare."
Allen, who was packing his scales, looked at his exhausted teammates. "Look at the silver lining. Our technique has actually improved because we're so terrified of making a mistake. He's pushing us to be perfect, even if his motivation is pure spite."
In class, Snape had adopted a strange new strategy regarding Allen: total erasure. He didn't dock points, he didn't ask questions, and he didn't even look in Allen's direction. It was as if Allen Harris had ceased to exist in his world. Allen didn't mind. It was peaceful. He continued to brew his Draught of Living Death with surgical precision, ignoring the dark cloud looming at the front of the room.
By mid-December, the drizzling rain had turned into a crisp, biting frost. The Great Hall was being decorated with twelve towering Christmas trees, and the smell of roasting chestnuts began to drift through the corridors.
One morning, Luna Lovegood skipped up to Allen, her eyes wider and more dreamy than usual. She held out a piece of parchment that was folded into the shape of a rabbit. As Allen took it, the rabbit's ears twitched, and it appeared to be chewing on a tiny paper carrot.
"An invitation?" Allen asked, unfolding the 'carrot.'
"The Quibbler Gourmet Tasting Event," Luna explained, her voice airy. "You remember Helga Hufflepuff's book? The food charms were a huge hit. My father published a few recipes in a special edition, and now he wants to host a dinner for the most... open-minded readers."
Allen read the text. The invitation was charmingly eccentric, promising dishes that might "stimulate the third eye" or "prevent Gulping Plimpies from entering the digestive tract."
"It would be lovely if you could come, Allen," Luna said, her silver eyes searching his. For a moment, the dreaminess faded, replaced by a genuine hope that made Allen's heart soften.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world, Luna," he said, and the way she beamed at him made the cold morning feel significantly warmer.
Later that day, Allen found himself in the library, trying to finish a particularly dense essay on Ancient Runes. He noticed Hermione sitting a few tables away, practically buried under a mountain of books. Her hair was a wild nest, and the dark circles under her eyes were so pronounced they looked like bruises.
"You look like you haven't slept since the Quidditch match," Allen said, sitting down across from her.
Hermione jumped, nearly knocking over her inkpot. "Oh! Allen. I... I'm just catching up. There's so much to do, and the holidays are coming, and I need to be prepared..."
Allen gently reached out and closed the book she was reading—A Comprehensive History of Centaur Politics. "Hermione, it's Christmas. You're going to burn out before the new year."
Hermione sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I'm staying at the castle this year. I told Harry I'd help him with some research. Ron's staying too, though we haven't spoken in days. He's staying because he can't stand being around Percy for two weeks."
Allen watched her for a moment. He knew about the rift in the trio. "Why don't you come with me instead? My family is spending Christmas at my Aunt Josephine's house. She has a private library that would make the Restricted Section look like a bookshelf. It's quiet, the food is incredible, and I think she'd really appreciate having someone who actually reads the books instead of just using them for height."
Hermione looked at him, and for a second, he saw the longing in her eyes. The idea of a quiet library and a warm house away from Ron's sour moods was clearly tempting. But then, she thought of Harry sitting alone in the Gryffindor common room, and her expression hardened with loyalty.
"I... I can't, Allen. But thank you. Truly. I promised Harry. He doesn't have much, you know? I can't leave him alone with just Ron when they're barely speaking."
Allen nodded, respecting her choice. "The offer stands if you change your mind. Don't kill yourself over the homework, Hermione."
As the term drew to a close, Allen noticed two things. First, Ron Weasley's glares had become more frequent, though they were now tempered with a strange sort of shame. Second, Draco Malfoy seemed to be following him.
Every time Allen turned a corner, there was Malfoy, standing awkwardly, looking like he was about to say something important before losing his nerve and scurrying away. It was an interesting development. The 'Score Controller' had not just won a game; he had shifted the very social fabric of Hogwarts, and the ripples were only just beginning.