Inside the side chamber, the silence was thick enough to choke on until Professor McGonagall finally let out a long, weary breath. Her gaze moved from the scowling Slytherins to the composed boy standing by the window.
"Mr. Harris," she began, her voice regaining its usual authoritative clip, "you didn't just prevent a brawl today. You likely saved several students from life-altering injuries. Your restraint, given the circumstances, was commendable. I believe fifty points to Ravenclaw is more than justified for such a timely intervention."
Allen bowed his head slightly. "Thank you, Professor."
A small, inward smile touched his lips. Fifty points was a tidy sum, but it was the look on Snape's face—a mixture of loathing and begrudging recognition—that was the real prize.
McGonagall then turned her sharp eyes toward Hermione, who was still catching her breath. "And Miss Granger, for your quick thinking in locating staff and providing a clear, concise report under pressure, ten points to Gryffindor. Well done."
Hermione's face flushed a brilliant crimson, the heat rising to her ears. She caught Allen's eye, and when he gave her a small, appreciative wink, the frustration she had felt over their ruined Hogsmeade date evaporated instantly. A few points and the respect of her favorite professor were a decent consolation prize for a missed butterbeer.
By the time dinner service began in the Great Hall, the news had traveled faster than a Firebolt. The "Battle of the Golden Mist," as some were already calling it, was the only topic of conversation.
"Did you hear? He took down ten of them with one flick!" one second-year Hufflepuff whispered loudly. "I heard Flint's eyes turned permanently gold," a Gryffindor replied, leaning in.
The fear of Slytherin's "unscrupulous methods" had turned into a wave of collective outrage. The realization that the House of Snakes had tried to systematically cripple the competition before the next Quidditch matches left a sour taste in everyone's mouth. If Allen hadn't been there, Cho Chang might have been out for the season, or worse.
Roger Davies was practically vibrating with fury when he finally caught up with Allen at the Ravenclaw table. He had seen the bandages on Cho's wrist, and for a Seeker-obsessed captain like Roger, that was a declaration of war.
"I'm going to flatten them, Allen," Roger growled, rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms corded with tension. "I don't care about the points. I'm going over to that table right now and—"
"You'll find them missing, Roger," Allen interrupted calmly, gesturing with his fork toward the unusually empty Slytherin benches. "Filch intercepted them at the door. I believe they're currently beginning their new career in manual labor. No magic allowed."
"Scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush?" Roger asked, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "Serves the bastards right. I hope Pringle makes them do the trophy room next. There's a lot of brass to polish."
The mood at the Slytherin table, however, was far from celebratory. The "old guard" had failed. Flint and his crew were not just losers; they were disgraced losers who had gotten the entire House penalized before next year even started.
Draco Malfoy sat at the center of a small cluster of younger students. His face was pale, his eyes darting toward the high table where Snape sat like a dark cloud. Finally, Malfoy stood up. He didn't look at anyone. He simply turned and walked out of the hall.
Slowly, one by one, the rest of the Slytherins rose. It was a silent exodus, a unified retreat that spoke of a shift in the internal hierarchy.
"Look at that," Roger muttered, his eyes narrowing. "Malfoy's actually leading them out. Since when did the little ferret become the king of the dungeons?"
Allen didn't answer. He watched the silver-and-green ties disappear through the double doors, thinking about the look in Malfoy's eyes earlier. Power abhors a vacuum, Allen thought. Flint is down. Someone had to step up.
Across the hall, the Gryffindor table was in a minor state of panic. Oliver Wood was standing on a bench, shouting for Harry.
"Has anyone seen him? Harry! We have practice scheduled for tomorrow morning! Potter!"
The whispers started again. Had the Slytherins gotten to Harry too? But he hadn't gone to Hogsmeade. The rumor mill began to churn—Harry was cursed, Harry was kidnapped, Harry was locked in a secret dungeon. Hermione stood up, looking worriedly at the empty space where Harry usually sat next to Ron. She knew Harry was safe from the Slytherins, but she also knew the state he'd been in when she last saw him. She slipped out of the Hall, following Wood into the corridors.
The following morning, the atmosphere changed completely. The weight of the term's studies was lifted as the students prepared for the Christmas holidays. The Hogwarts Express sat at the station, puffing white steam into the freezing air, a beacon of freedom.
Allen found a quiet compartment at the very rear of the train. He wanted a moment of peace to digest the events of the last few days. He pulled a thick, leather-bound book from his bag—a collection of traditional wizarding recipes that Luna had mentioned during one of their late-night chats in the common room.
Dirigible Plum Tart... Gurdyroot Infusion... He smiled. His mother, Mrs. Harris, was always looking for ways to spice up the family dinners. If he brought this home, she'd be occupied for at least a week, which meant the rest of the family would be treated to some "experimental" but likely delicious meals.
A sharp knock on the compartment door broke his concentration. He expected Penelope, perhaps looking for a break from her Prefect rounds. With a lazy flick of his wand, the door slid open.
It wasn't Penelope.
Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway. He was alone, which was a rarity. There was no Crabbe or Goyle looming behind him like prehistoric bodyguards. He looked tired, his usual arrogance replaced by a strange, hollowed-out expression.
"Can I come in?" Malfoy asked, his voice lacking its usual bite.
Allen gestured to the seat opposite him. Malfoy entered and made a point of sliding the door shut and drawing the blinds. He sat down, staring at his hands for a long moment. For a terrifying second, Allen wondered if the boy was about to have some sort of emotional breakdown or, worse, a confession.
"Allen," Malfoy said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
Allen tilted his head. He knew what Malfoy was referring to, but he kept his voice neutral. "You gave me the tip, Draco. I just acted on it. If anything, I should be thanking you for the heads-up."
"It's more than that," Malfoy said, looking up. His grey eyes were sharp now. "Flint and the others... they're finished. Snape won't even look at them. The younger years are looking to me now. My father will be pleased."
"Then congratulations are in order," Allen said, offering a small, genuine smile. "Being a leader is better than being a lackey, isn't it?"
The tension in Malfoy's shoulders seemed to bleed away. Allen's smile had that effect on people—it made the world feel a little less like a battlefield.
"I still owe you," Malfoy said, standing up and smoothing his expensive robes. He regained a bit of his haughty posture, tilting his chin up. "A Malfoy always pays his debts."
"Neither Hermione nor I will mention where the information came from," Allen added softly as Malfoy reached for the door. "Your secret is safe."
Malfoy paused, his hand on the handle. He didn't turn around, but a faint, whispered "Thank you" reached Allen's ears before the door clicked shut.
When the train finally screeched to a halt at Platform 9¾, the air was thick with the scent of coal smoke and excitement. Allen hauled his luggage onto the platform and was immediately nearly tackled by a small, blonde blur.
"Allen! You're back!" Emily shrieked, throwing her arms around his waist.
Allen laughed, ruffling her hair. "Easy, little bird. I've only been gone a few months."
He looked up and saw Aunt Josephine standing nearby. She looked as sharp and formidable as ever, dressed in a long traveling cloak and an absurdly wide-brimmed black hat adorned with purple velvet flowers that seemed to shiver in the wind. Her blue eyes, usually so piercing, held a rare warmth as she nodded at him.
"You've grown, Allen," she said, her voice rich and melodic. "A few more inches and you'll be taller than your father." She stepped forward and gave him a brisk, fragrant hug.
As they navigated the crowd toward the barrier, Allen was surprised to see his brother Albert waiting by the curb. He wasn't leaning against a broom or waiting to Apparate; he was standing next to a sleek, dark Honda.
"A car, Albert?" Allen asked, blinking in surprise. "Since when did we become a Muggle family?"
Albert grinned, tossing Allen's trunk into the back with a casual strength. "It's a Ministry vehicle, specially modified. I'm on a bit of a 'special assignment' at the moment. Very hush-hush. But the perks include a heater and a radio, so I'm not complaining."
Allen opened his mouth to ask more, but Albert tapped his nose significantly. "Confidentiality, little brother. But let's just say the Ministry is taking security very seriously this winter."
Aunt Josephine climbed into the back seat, her giant hat hitting the roof with a soft thump. She sat there, stiff and upright, looking like a queen who had been forced to travel by oxcart.
"Muggle inventions are fascinatingly cramped," she remarked as the car pulled away from the curb. She winked at Allen through the rearview mirror. "Though I suppose it beats flying through a blizzard on a Cleansweep. I heard you're making quite the name for yourself on the pitch, Allen. Your father and I were both Chasers back in our day, you know. It's in the blood."