It is one thing for a student to passively absorb a lecture, but quite another to distill one's own uncertainties into concrete questions, a true test of intellectual engagement and self-awareness.
Hearing Professor Dumbledore's invitation, Allen paused, his mind sifting through the chaotic events of the night. He focused on the single most baffling moment:
"Professor, regarding the end... despite striking Voldemort's physical vessel with a Stunning Curse, why did the spell fail to deliver a true stunning effect?" Allen's tone held a hint of genuine embarrassment; he hadn't managed a proper magical incapacitation, only a crude, painful blow.
Dumbledore slowly adjusted his half-moon spectacles, his expression turning grave and thoughtful. "While I was not privileged to observe your skirmish directly, I can offer two educated hypotheses. Firstly, although Voldemort was certainly severely weakened—reduced to a parasitic shade—his innate magical potency remains vast, far surpassing that of any first-year student, even one of your exceptional ability."
He continued, "Secondly, and I suspect this is the key, the turban Professor Quirrell wore likely bore a subtle but powerful defensive charm. Given Voldemort's cunning, he would never have permitted his host to wander the corridors of Hogwarts entirely unprotected. Therefore, your excellent spell did not take its full, intended effect upon the host body."
Allen nodded, absorbing the complex explanation. It confirmed the necessity of his chosen path: mastering advanced magical defenses and strengthening his power was non-negotiable.
"Child, is there anything further you wish to inquire about?" Professor Dumbledore asked, playfully spearing a plump piece of candied pineapple with his fork and popping it into his mouth.
"I am curious about Professor Quirrell's current state, and what the consequences will be for his actions," Allen pressed, curious about the legal and magical ramifications. Dumbledore hadn't transported Quirrell with them; what if the man awoke from the curse and escaped?
Dumbledore sighed, the light in his eyes dimming slightly. "A great tragedy, Allen. Though Quirrell managed to regain consciousness twice, he was likely attempting to resist Voldemort in those final moments of possession. His own soul energy was almost entirely depleted in the horrific internal struggle against that powerful, evil spirit. Coupled with the severe magical burns he sustained upon touching Harry's inherent protective charm, it is my estimation that despite the best efforts of Bobby—Madam Pomfrey—it is simply too late. He is gravely afflicted, and his physical body is unlikely to withstand the resulting collapse. He will likely not be with us much longer. Of course, Professor Snape is currently overseeing him."
A profound sadness touched Allen. "Professor, that news seems to distress you deeply." Allen was genuinely moved. Dumbledore, the man of unwavering light, could forgive the path of darkness taken by Professor Snape, a former Death Eater. He wondered, fleetingly, if Quirrell had survived, would he too have been granted Dumbledore's immense capacity for forgiveness and redemption?
The prospect of death always brought with it a flood of complex emotions. Learning of Professor Quirrell's likely fate, and recalling the vivid, if timid, scenes of him diligently teaching young wizards Defense Against the Dark Arts theory, a deep sorrow settled over Allen. It felt like watching an exceptionally bright candle flicker out prematurely, a Ravenclaw of great potential utterly ruined.
Professor Quirrell, in truth, had been a fundamentally good teacher. While he was too weak-willed to resist Voldemort's lure, his command of defensive theory was undeniable. For first-years, who needed foundational knowledge more than practical dueling, his lessons were remarkably solid.
"Professor Quirrell was once a gifted, yet deeply timid, boy," Dumbledore reminisced, staring into the middle distance.
"Throughout his school years, he faced ridicule for his pervasive shyness and crippling nervousness. This left him profoundly dissatisfied with his own image, driving him to seek validation. Perhaps this is why he travelled so widely, consciously seeking to enhance his defensive skills. Like many who feel insignificant, even foolish, the naive Quirrell simply wanted the world to see his value. It was precisely because of his talent and dedication that I appointed him your Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. It is a genuine pity; he would have become a truly remarkable, if eccentric, academic had it not been for the curse of Tom Riddle."
Dumbledore spoke at length, and Allen sensed the Headmaster's sincere, deep regret for the tragic life lost.
Seeing Dumbledore continuously sipping his honey lemonade, Allen felt a sudden surge of exhaustion and decided it was time to leave.
He made his polite farewells and hurried through the quiet, torch-lit corridors, eventually reaching the familiar entrance to the Ravenclaw dormitory. He climbed the stairs and looked at Edward, who was already deep in slumber.
The wave of fatigue and adrenaline crash was overwhelming. Allen simply collapsed onto his own bed, unwilling to process the night's events and heavy emotions. He was asleep the instant his head hit the pillow.
What Allen didn't know was that a short while after he departed, Professor Dumbledore changed into his rather flamboyant, large red azalea-patterned pajamas. He settled comfortably behind his massive desk and began conversing with the portraits of the former Headmasters that adorned the circular office walls.
"A truly insightful, highly talented boy," Dumbledore mused aloud, addressing the silent canvas faces. "But he possesses such an admirable foundation of kindness, principle, modesty, and tact. He didn't even attempt to inquire about the true purpose or future plans for the Philosopher's Stone."
Phineas Nigellus Black, a portrait notorious for his sneering disdain, sniffed audibly from his frame. "You once declared Tom Riddle the most intelligent and talented student you had ever encountered, Albus. Now another child receives a similar assessment from you. Even without the gift of prophecy, I must confess, I harbour profound doubts about the magical world's ability to maintain stability with such prodigious youth running rampant."
"Allen is different, Phineas. As he himself stated, he is a person with unique experiences and deeply felt emotions. Not everyone chooses the dark path," Dumbledore responded patiently, his eyes twinkling.
"I see a soft heart, intertwined with his intelligence, his extraordinary magical facility, and his heroic spirit. For instance, his genuine compassion for poor Filch, the Squib, and his deep pity for Quirrell. I do not believe he will ever become the next Dark Lord."
"Sentiment, Albus, is the very quality that leads great wizards to ruin," sneered Dilys Derwent. "You are blinded by hope. That kind of talent is a terrifying magical engine, and if he doesn't use it for selfish gain, someone else will eventually attempt to control him. Your boy is a target, not a saviour."
Dumbledore merely smiled serenely, sipping his lemonade. "Perhaps. But one must always place faith in the purity of the human heart, Dilys. Allen's first instinct, even when faced with the Dark Lord, was to protect others. He asked about the failure of his spell, not the location of the Stone. His concerns are for control and technique, not for power and dominance. He is a work of art in progress, and I am merely an appreciative admirer."
The portraits continued their hushed, ancient debate, with Dumbledore stubbornly defending Allen's character and potential, a testament to the deep impression the young wizard had made in just a single conversation.
Allen, meanwhile, was oblivious to the high-stakes assessment of his character. He was simply too tired.
His exhausted mind slipped uncontrollably into a terrifying dream. He found himself standing alone in a world utterly shrouded in monochromatic grey, devoid of life, warmth, or any trace of colour. The air was heavy, thick, and difficult to draw in.
An intense, profound feeling of despair, like a physical weight, constantly pressed down, subtly draining his body of all positive emotions, leaving only an echoing emptiness.
In the distance, an impossible wall of dark clouds surged toward him, moving not like weather, but like a malicious, rising tide of solidified shadow.
After what felt like hours of standing motionless, Allen peered closer and realized that within those churning, dark shadows lurked countless horrors—creatures that belonged only in the deepest pits of forgotten nightmares. They were not beasts he could categorize from Fantastic Beasts; they were amorphous, constantly shifting embodiments of fear and malicious intent.
In the back of his mind, Allen knew this was a nightmare, but he was terrifyingly unable to wake up. He desperately reached for his wand, clutched it tightly, and attempted to cast even the simplest, most fundamental charm.
But the wand felt cold, inert, and utterly useless. He commanded, he pleaded, he willed his magic forth, but no spark, no light, no warmth materialized. The feeling of utter powerlessness in the face of absolute, encroaching evil was perhaps the greatest horror of the dream.
He tried to run, but his legs were sluggish, moving through the thick grey air as if underwater. The creatures in the shadows began to coalesce, their forms solidifying into impossible shapes—spindly legs supporting colossal, eyeless bodies; mouths lined with hundreds of needle teeth that whispered obscenities in a language not meant for human ears.
The sense of hopelessness intensified, transitioning from a mere emotion to a searing, internal physical pain. It felt as though something was physically tearing the joy, the ambition, the very light out of his essence. He heard a familiar, chillingly high voice laughing softly within the shadow tide, a sound that promised eternal agony.
The grey world compressed. The walls of shadow were closing in. Allen fought with the last remnants of his will, not against the creatures, but against the insidious, paralyzing despair that threatened to consume his consciousness.
He desperately needed to find his magic, his strength, his light, but the cold, inert wand in his hand was a stark testament to his current, terrifying vulnerability. He was trapped, sinking deeper into the abyss, and the high-pitched, mocking laughter was getting louder.