If there were such a thing as a potion of regret in this world, Allen wouldn't hesitate to trade his nearly empty wallet for it. Unfortunately, no such miracle existed.
Classes used to be somewhat of a safe haven, but ever since their Quidditch team crushed Ilvermorny's, that "benefit" had all but vanished.
After all, the professors were Ilvermorny faculty first and foremost. While they wouldn't go so far as to outright harass Allen, they certainly weren't going to give him a warm welcome either. As for the students?
Forget it. They were mostly at the peak of adolescence, middle schoolers, essentially, and subtlety wasn't exactly in their vocabulary. This was the age where emotions were worn loud and proud on sleeves. There was no nuance, no pretending. You liked someone or you didn't, and Allen was firmly in the "did not" category today.
At this moment, Allen felt like he was sitting on a bed of nails.
If looks could kill, he would've been torn apart a hundred times over by now.
The only saving grace was that Annie had been too engrossed in some fairy tale she was reading and had gone to the library on her own this afternoon. At least she wasn't here to share in this awkward, suffocating silence.
The professor was clearly giving it his all with the lecture, but Allen couldn't absorb a single word. The tension was too thick, the stares too piercing. If not for basic courtesy, he would've bolted from the room ages ago.
Unfortunately, that hesitation cost him.
Bullying didn't start with the word itself, it existed long before. And in this case, the usual victims were those who stuck out like sore thumbs.
Right now, Allen fits the profile perfectly. The moment the professor left the classroom, he was surrounded. The room was filled entirely with fourth-year Ilvermorny students… and the very same ones who had witnessed Allen's outrageous stunt the day before.
Walking into this class had been like walking into a wolf's den. No, worse. Like sending a chicken to wish a weasel happy holidays.
Unsurprisingly, the Ilvermorny students united swiftly in a rare moment of solidarity. They formed a semi-circle around Allen, clearly with less-than-friendly intentions.
The ringleader, a short wizard with a sly grin, leered at Allen, who was shorter still. His beady eyes darted over Allen, scanning him like a piece of meat.
Allen figured they were probably eyeing his raised middle finger from yesterday, but in the magical world, a broken finger wasn't a serious injury. At best, it was a minor inconvenience. No, to satisfy this group, they'd probably settle for breaking an entire arm.
Allen considered this from their perspective, and concluded that, if the roles were reversed, he'd probably want to break something too.
So before the smug wizard could unleash whatever cringy, melodramatic line he'd been preparing, Allen responded… with action.
Sure, he might've miscalculated the guy's opening line, but it didn't really matter. Their intentions were obvious enough.
They hadn't gathered to wish him a merry Christmas, that was for sure, so why should he waste time letting them talk?
Villains always died because they monologued too much, Allen wasn't going to fall for that trap. He didn't even want to hear their dramatic threats.
He'd already wasted an entire period. He should be on his way to the library right now, not stuck listening to edgy kids spout nonsense they didn't even understand themselves.
So, before the Ilvermorny student could even say his name, before he could deliver his rehearsed speech, Allen reached out, grabbed him, and slammed him into another boy beside him, knocking both unconscious.
The whole scuffle was completely underwhelming. No heat, no drama, no adrenaline-pumping duel. Allen took down the entire group in under half a minute.
Seriously, where had these kids learned to fight?
They were wizards, not Muggles!
No matter how confident you are, facing an unknown wizard with your wand tucked away is just plain stupid!
Forming a half-circle like a bunch of Muggle punks? What was next, rainbow-colored hair and edgy nicknames?
A proper human wall should be impenetrable, these kids were more like a row of bean sprouts.
And when it came to hand-to-hand combat? Allen could confidently boast: "I'm not exaggerating, every single wizard here, even Dumbledore himself, would be trash in a fistfight compared to me!"
…Not that it meant much. Who the hell fought with fists in the wizarding world?
Still, this group clearly wanted to represent melee magic, and Allen, obligingly, turned them from bean sprouts into stir-fried veggies. No spells involved. Just his fists.
Stretching his joints as he walked out of the classroom, Allen was feeling pretty relaxed, until he found himself face-to-face with someone he really didn't want to see.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.
Yep. The same professor who had walked out barely five minutes ago.
His face was dark, grim, so dark, it reminded Allen of the bottom of that old cauldron in the Hufflepuff common room, the one used for magical cooking experiments.
Allen tightened his grip on his wand. You couldn't be too careful.
Even though Allen's actions were technically self-defense, there was no way the professor would ignore a classroom full of his students laid out on the floor.
This wasn't Hogwarts, where teachers were cursed or replaced every year. Ilvermorny's DADA professor wasn't some expendable temp, he'd probably personally taught those kids for four straight years.
And four years of effort? That was enough to soften even the hardest rock.
Worse still, how would it look that a bunch of his own students were beaten up by a single second-year from Hogwarts?
What a joke. How was he supposed to show his face as a professor? What had he been teaching them, embroidery?
They'd be kicked out of the staff group chat for sure, "Sorry, your teaching standards are too low. Please leave." –Signed, Principal Charlid, Ilvermorny Headmaster.
Just as Allen prepared for the storm, the professor finally spoke. His voice was flat, expression unreadable, but surprisingly, there was little anger:
"…Fine. You won."
"I don't consider this Dark Arts defense, but… you've still earned my recognition. This is what you wanted, right?"
He handed Allen a piece of paper, signed with the professor's full name.
"Take it. And leave."
"Oh, and don't bother coming to my class again."
With that, the professor stepped back into the classroom, leaving Allen standing dumbfounded in the corridor, staring at the signed letter of recognition in his hands.
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