The remnants of the nightmare still clung to the corners of Allen's mind like spiderwebs in an attic. His heartbeat was erratic, and the cold sweat on his neck felt like a physical weight. Knowing he couldn't simply "will" himself back to a peaceful sleep after such a psychic assault, he reached into his system storage and withdrew a small, ornate wooden box.
Inside lay Merlin's Jewel.
It was a sapphire of such impossible clarity and depth that it seemed to contain a miniature galaxy within its facets. This wasn't just a pretty gemstone; it was a relic of ancient magic, gifted to him by Matilda, the Queen of the Centaurs, during his first year. It had been a gesture of profound gratitude after Allen had presented their tribe with a moonstone—a trade of celestial energies that now served as his ultimate safety net.
Allen sat on the edge of his bed and pressed the cool, shimmering stone against his forehead.
The effect was instantaneous. A wave of tranquil, sapphire-blue energy radiated from the contact point, seeping through his skin and washing over his nervous system. It felt like stepping into a warm bath after being caught in a blizzard. The jagged edges of the nightmare—the screams of the soul-fragments and the crushing darkness—were smoothed over by the jewel's ancient, grounding power. His Origin Qi, which had been turbulent and frayed, began to circulate in a steady, rhythmic cycle once more.
Enveloped in this protective aura, Allen finally succumbed to a dreamless, restorative sleep.
The next morning, the sun streaming through the Ravenclaw tower windows found a completely different Allen Harris. He was refreshed, his magical reserves topped off, and his mind as sharp as a freshly honed blade. He tucked Merlin's Jewel back into its silk-lined box with a silent note of thanks. He made a vow then: The Secrets of the Soul would remain locked away until he had built a mental fortress strong enough to withstand its corruption. For now, the knowledge was archived in his memory, but he wouldn't let it touch his spirit again.
After a grueling morning workout that left his muscles humming and a breakfast of smoked kippers and porridge, Allen headed to the fourth floor for Charms. Beside him, Edward was already grumbling about the weight of their textbooks.
"Miranda Goshawk must have used a Lead-Weight Charm on this edition," Edward huffed, shifting the Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 under his arm. "My biceps are getting a better workout than my wand hand."
They entered the classroom to find Professor Flitwick in a state of high spirits. The diminutive Head of Ravenclaw was bustling around his desk, which was piled high with mysterious, brightly wrapped boxes. With a sharp flick of his wand, Flitwick levitated a stack of heavy tomes onto the floor, hopped onto them to gain some height, and then performed a series of elegant 'Flying Spells' that sent the gift boxes darting across the room like birds.
The boxes landed with pin-point precision in front of each student. Allen watched the magic with a critical, appreciative eye. Most students just saw a cool trick; Allen saw the incredible control required to split one's focus and allocate specific amounts of magical momentum to a dozen different objects simultaneously. Flitwick was a dueling champion for a reason.
"Welcome, welcome!" Flitwick squeaked, his eyes twinkling behind his thick glasses. "Today, we tackle a spell of supreme utility: Finite Incantatem. It is the general counter-spell, the 'off switch' for minor charms and magical effects. Essential for daily life, and even more essential if you have friends who enjoy pranks!"
The class chuckled, but the atmosphere quickly turned to one of intense focus. In Ravenclaw, magic wasn't just a hobby; it was a pursuit of perfection.
"Pens out, everyone! Watch the wrist movement—it's a sharp flick and a steady pull back. Pronunciation is key: Fi-ni-te In-can-ta-tem. Don't mumble it, or you'll end up with a singed eyebrow instead of a cancelled spell!"
For the next hour, the room was a chorus of rhythmic chanting and wand-swishing. Magic, as Allen knew, was a delicate balance of intent, incantation, and internal energy. Even for the 'brightest house' in Hogwarts, success wasn't immediate. Most students struggled with the timing, their wands producing nothing more than a faint spark or a puff of grey smoke.
Allen, however, felt the magic click into place almost instantly. He focused on the purple silk ribbon binding his box, visualized the magical threads holding the knot together, and spoke the incantation with a calm, resonant voice.
"Finite Incantatem."
The ribbon didn't just loosen; it dissolved as if the magic holding its form had simply decided to go on vacation. The lid of the box popped open slightly.
"Splendid! Absolutely flawless!" Flitwick cried, clapping his hands. "First successful cast: Allen Harris! Five points to Ravenclaw for a perfect execution on the first try!"
A ripple of admiration and mock-exasperation went through the room. The Ravenclaws were used to Allen leading the pack, but his effortless grace still commanded a high level of respect.
Inside his box, Allen found two pieces of parchment. He picked up the first one and felt a jolt of excitement.
"Come to my office tonight at seven. It's time we started your formal dueling coaching. Bring your A-game. – Filius Flitwick."
Allen looked up and met the Professor's gaze. Flitwick gave him a knowing, sharp little nod. The 'junior' stuff was over; the real training was about to begin.
"What's the other one?" Edward whispered, leaning over.
Allen opened the second slip of parchment and felt his eyebrows shoot toward his hairline.
"Whoa," Edward breathed, his eyes wide. "That's... that's the Holy Grail."
"Professor?" Edward called out, raising his hand while waving the parchment. "May I read this aloud? For motivation?"
Flitwick chuckled. "By all means, Mr. Caxton. Let them see what excellence earns."
Edward stood up and cleared his throat dramatically. "Homework Exemption Card: This document entitles the holder to bypass three separate homework assignments of their choosing in Charms class. No questions asked!"
The classroom erupted. Flitwick's homework was legendary for its length—he expected scrolls that could be used as carpets. Three exemptions were essentially a gift of time itself.
"I'm going to be sick," a boy in the back groaned, redoubling his efforts to unbind his own box.
The incentive worked like a charm—pun intended. By the time the bell rang, the room was full of opened boxes. Edward managed to snag a 'Punishment Exemption Card,' which would clear him of any future detentions, while others found 'Grade Boosters'—charms that could magically bump a 'Troll' or 'Dreadful' score up to a passing grade on a single test.
As they walked out of the classroom, Edward was still eyeing Allen's homework card with pure envy.
"You don't even need that!" Edward grumbled. "You get 'O's on everything anyway. You're basically skipping work you would have done perfectly in ten minutes. My detention card, though? That's a life-saver for someone with my luck."
"It's about the principle, Edward," Allen joked, tucking the card safely away. "The principle of doing absolutely nothing for a change."
The lighthearted mood followed them to the Quidditch pitch that afternoon. Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Captain, was in a state of manic ambition. He had the entire team assembled, their Seven Nimbus 2001s gleaming in the autumn sun.
"This is our year," Roger declared, pacing in front of them like a general before a campaign. "Look at these brooms. We have a speed advantage that Gryffindor and Hufflepuff can't even dream of. We aren't just going to play; we're going to blitz them."
He turned to Cho Chang, their Seeker. "Cho, your agility is our secret weapon. With the 2001 under you, you'll be on the Snitch before Harry Potter even realizes the game has started. We finish the matches fast, we rack up the points, and we bring that Cup home."
"Slytherin has the same brooms, Roger," Penelope Clearwater pointed out, crossing her arms. "Malfoy's father bought the whole team the 2001. We can't rely on speed alone against them."
Roger waved a hand dismissively, a sneer curling his lip. "Malfoy? Malfoy is a walking bank vault with no talent. You can buy a broom, but you can't buy Cho's instincts or Allen's tactical mind. Slytherin plays dirty, but we play faster."
He turned back to the team, his voice rising with fervor. "Hufflepuff is flying on ancient wood that belongs in a fireplace. And Potter? He's still on a Nimbus 2000. It's a relic compared to what we're holding. This season isn't a competition; it's a coronation."
Allen watched his teammates' faces light up. Roger was laying it on thick, perhaps a bit overconfidently, but it was working. The team was buzzing with an electric energy. As they took to the sky for practice, diving and weaving through the crisp air at speeds that made the ground a blur, Allen couldn't help but catch the fever.
Between Flitwick's private dueling lessons and a Quidditch season that promised to be legendary, the "Secrets of the Soul" felt like a distant, dark memory. But as Allen spiraled high above the pitch, he knew the darkness was just waiting for the right moment to resurface.