The carriage ride up to the castle was a test of endurance. The path was uneven, rutted by years of heavy rain and carriage wheels, and the ancient suspension groaned with every jolt. Ginny was sitting on the edge of her seat, her knuckles white as she gripped the handrail. Every time the carriage lurched over a particularly deep pothole, she would tip precariously toward Allen, her face turning a deep shade of crimson as she struggled to maintain a dignified distance.
Opposite them, Luna Lovegood sat with a stillness that was almost eerie. Her large, protuberant eyes didn't seem to blink as they flicked between Allen and Ginny, as if she were reading the invisible threads of energy connecting them.
As they reached the summit of the hill, the magnificent wrought-iron gates of Hogwarts loomed out of the mist. They were flanked by towering stone columns, each topped with a winged boar that looked fierce and unyielding in the downpour. But it wasn't the masonry that caught their attention—it was the two hooded figures standing guard on either side of the entrance.
The Dementors were motionless, their tattered cloaks barely fluttering in the wind. As the carriage passed between them, that familiar, soul-sucking cold washed over the occupants again. It was a wave of pure misery, a reminder of the darkness lurking just outside the school's protection.
Ginny didn't even try to hide it this time. She shrank into the seat, leaning into Allen's shoulder and squeezing her eyes shut until the unpleasant sensation faded. The carriage accelerated then, the horses—or rather, the Thestrals—picking up speed as they trotted up the long, winding driveway toward the castle.
Allen leaned his head out of the small window. The turrets and towers of Hogwarts were silhouetted against the stormy sky, their windows glowing with a warm, inviting light that promised sanctuary. When the carriage finally swayed to a halt at the foot of the stone steps, Allen was the first to jump down, offering a hand to Ginny and then to Luna.
A commotion erupted near the front of the line. Draco Malfoy was surrounded by his usual gang, his voice carrying clearly over the rain. He was mocking Harry, his words dripping with a nasty, calculated venom.
"She trusts you quite a bit, you know," Luna's ethereal, sing-song voice whispered right in Allen's ear, making him jump slightly. She was looking at Ginny, who had already sprinted off toward the noise. "But she admires Harry Potter even more. It's a very bright, very loud kind of admiration. Like a firework in a small room."
Allen couldn't help but chuckled at the description. He knew Ginny's "admiration" for Harry was more than just a fan-girl crush; it was a deep-seated affection that had survived some of the darkest moments of her young life.
"Did you faint again, Weasley?" Malfoy's smug drawl drifted back to them. "Did the scary old Dementor make you wet your pants? I heard you hit the floor like a sack of potatoes!"
Allen considered stepping in, but then he saw Professor Lupin climbing out of a nearby carriage, clutching his battered suitcase. The Professor's presence was enough to deflate Malfoy's bravado; the Slytherin knew better than to push his luck with a teacher who looked like he'd already seen the worst the world had to offer.
"Let's get inside," Allen said, his tone gentle as he steered Luna toward the entrance. "The Great Hall is waiting, and I think we've all had enough of the rain for one night."
They followed the throng of students up the stone steps and through the majestic oak doors. The Entrance Hall was a cavernous space, lit by burning torches that cast long, flickering shadows against the marble. To the right, the doors to the Great Hall were wide open, revealing the enchanted ceiling. Tonight, it mirrored the chaos outside—a dark, swirling vortex of heavy clouds and occasional flashes of silent lightning.
The Ravenclaw table fell into a hush as Allen entered with Luna in tow. It was a bizarre sight: the house's golden boy, the genius who had mastered the Patronus, walking beside the girl who wore Butterbeer corks as jewelry. The contrast was so sharp it was almost comical, but Allen didn't seem to notice—or care.
"Allen! A word, if you please!"
The high-pitched, recognizable voice of Professor Flitwick cut through the chatter. The tiny Charms professor was standing on a high step, looking frantic, with Professor McGonagall standing like a stern sentinel behind him.
Allen excused himself from Luna and walked toward them. The Ravenclaws parted like the Red Sea, their eyes trailing his every move.
"Allen, my boy! I've just had word from the train," Flitwick squeaked, his eyes shining with pride as he patted Allen's arm. "A full Patronus? At thirteen? Absolutely marvelous! I'm bursting with pride, truly. But I must dash—the first years are about to arrive by boat and I need to lead them in. You're to follow Professor McGonagall."
He scurried off before Allen could get a word in. Professor McGonagall, her hair in its usual tight bun and her square glasses glinting under the torchlight, didn't offer a congratulatory smile. She was scanning the crowd with a sharp, predatory focus.
"Potter! Granger! I want to see both of you! Now!" she barked.
Harry and Hermione, looking bewildered and slightly guilty, squeezed through the crowd. Unlike the Ravenclaws, the Gryffindors weren't quite as quick to make way, resulting in a bit of a struggle that clearly irritated the Transfiguration professor. Her lips thinned into a hard, straight line.
"There's no need for those looks," she said as they approached. "I just need a word in my office. Follow me."
The office was small but cozy, the air thick with the smell of old parchment and the warmth of a roaring fire. McGonagall gestured for the three of them to sit. Allen took a seat by the window, while Harry and Hermione sat tentatively in front of her desk.
"Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead," McGonagall started, her voice softening just a fraction. "He said you were... unwell on the train, Potter."
Harry's face turned a violent shade of red. He looked down at his knees, the embarrassment of fainting in front of his friends clearly still raw. Before he could stammer out an excuse, the door opened and Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse, bustled in with her usual no-nonsense energy.
"And you, Allen," McGonagall said, turning her sharp gaze toward him. "I didn't expect to hear that a third-year was capable of driving off a pack of Dementors single-handedly. Professor Lupin was quite descriptive."
Madam Pomfrey stopped in her tracks, her eyes widening as she looked Allen up and down. "A pack? Poppy, Professor Lupin says this boy cast the Patronus Charm three times in rapid succession. Check him over, please. That kind of magical output at his age is... taxing, to say the least."
"Three times?" Madam Pomfrey leaned over Allen, her fingers checking his pulse and her eyes searching for signs of magical exhaustion. "Incredible. When I was your age, I was still struggling to keep a Levitation Charm steady for more than a minute. You're a bit of a marvel, aren't you?"
Allen tried to wave off the praise, his face heating up. "Thank you, Madam Pomfrey, but really, I feel fine. The chocolate helped."
"Chocolate! Precisely," she muttered, though she didn't stop her examination. "Even so, to face Dementors head-on... it's not just about the magic, it's about the mental toll. But you seem remarkably stable. Your pulse is steady, your eyes are clear. You're made of stern stuff, Mr. Harris."
She turned her attention to Harry, who was still trying to look invisible. "And Potter. He fainted, did he?"
Harry looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. "I... I just got a bit dizzy."
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Madam Pomfrey said absently, feeling his forehead. "He's cold and clammy, Minerva. Dementors are foul things. The effect they have on those who are... sensitive... is quite profound."
"I'm not sensitive!" Harry snapped, his frustration finally boiled over.
"Of course not," she said, continuing her work without missing a beat. "You're just reacting to a very specific kind of darkness. Does he need the Hospital Wing, Poppy? Or should we just send him to bed?"
"Chocolate is the best cure for now," Madam Pomfrey decided. "But he should be monitored."
"I've already had some," Harry said quickly. "Allen gave it to us. He had a whole stash of it."
"Did he now?" Madam Pomfrey looked at Allen with even more approval. "Prepared and knowledgeable. A rare combination in a student. Well done, Mr. Harris."
McGonagall adjusted her glasses. "Very well. If you're sure you're feeling better, Potter, you and Allen may head down to the feast. I need to speak with Miss Granger about her... rather complex timetable for the year."