"Remarkable work, Harris. Truly," Professor Snape said, his voice lacks its usual bite as he peered into the shimmering green depths of Allen's cauldron. He gave a single, stiff nod, though he made no move to reach for the hourglasses to award Ravenclaw any more points.
Allen didn't mind. He moved with practiced ease, ladling a perfect sample into a crystal vial and sealing it with wax. He walked to the front of the classroom and placed the bottle on the obsidian-black podium.
"He's being stingy," Edward whispered under his breath as Allen returned to their shared workstation. "That brew was textbook perfect. He should have given us at least ten points."
"Points are just numbers on a board, Edward," Allen replied, a small, indifferent smile playing on his lips as he began to clean his silver scales. "I got the result I wanted. That's enough for today."
Across the aisle, the atmosphere was far more desperate. Ernie Macmillan was sweating profusely, his wand-hand trembling as he tried to salvage the caterpillar situation. Beside him, Hannah Abbott had abandoned all pretenses of being a 'proper lady.' Her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and she was plunging her hands into the ingredients, her face set in a mask of grim determination. She didn't even flinch when the sticky, translucent juice of the leeches coated her fingers.
Snape was prowling the back of the room, his eyes fixed on Allen with a look of deep-seated suspicion. It was as if he were waiting for the boy to slip up, to show a hint of the 'rule-breaking' arrogance he saw in other talented students.
Allen, however, remained a picture of innocence. He looked back at Snape with wide, calm eyes, the very image of a dedicated scholar.
While Snape was focused on this silent staredown, Allen caught Michael Corner's eye a few rows back. With a subtle flick of his fingers against the table—a signal they'd practiced during their study sessions—Allen signaled the move. Michael, understanding immediately, leaned over and slid a handful of his own perfectly sliced caterpillars onto Ernie's board.
"Allen, can I borrow your brass scales for a second?" Edward asked, his voice tight with anxiety. The sand in the giant hourglass at the front of the room was running dangerously low. "Mine keep sticking on the ounce mark."
"Of course. Take them," Allen said, sliding the scales over. Along with the instrument, he nudged a small pile of his leftover, pre-chopped daisy roots toward Edward.
They shared a fleeting, knowing glance. No words were needed. Edward ducked his head, his hands flying as he integrated the superior ingredients into his brew.
As the final minutes ticked down, the dungeon felt like a pressure cooker. Even the pickled specimens on the walls seemed to be watching with bated breath.
"Everyone, cease your bumbling and gather 'round," Snape's voice cut through the steam. His dark eyes glinted with a predatory light. "Let us see if the Hufflepuff 'talents' have produced a potion or a pesticide. We shall test it on these two mice. If the solution is correct, they will shrink to their neonatal state. If you have failed—as I suspect—these creatures will likely suffer a rather agonizing cardiac collapse. In which case, Hufflepuff's house cup standing will suffer a twenty-point... adjustment."
The silence was deafening. Even the dripping water in the corner sounded like a hammer on an anvil.
Snape plucked a grey mouse from a cage, gripping it firmly in his left hand. He dipped a long silver spoon into Ernie's cauldron, which had finally turned a passable shade of green, and forced a few drops down the mouse's throat. He repeated the process with Hannah's potion and a second mouse.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The mice simply stared, whiskers twitching. Then, they both let out a tiny, high-pitched gasp. With two distinct pops—like the sound of air escaping a balloon—the mice vanished into the folds of Snape's palm. When he opened his hand, two tiny, pink, hairless creatures were wriggling blindly against his skin.
A cheer erupted from the Hufflepuff side of the room. The Ravenclaws joined in with appreciative claps and grins.
Snape's expression soured instantly. It was the look of a man whose evening plans for a public execution had been ruined by a last-minute pardon. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small vial of clear liquid, and splashed it onto the tiny mice. In an instant, they ballooned back to their original size and scurried back into their cage.
"Hufflepuff," Snape said, his voice dripping with spite, "five points from your total."
The cheers died in their throats. "For what?" someone whispered.
"For the appalling lack of hygiene at your station," Snape pointed a long, pale finger at the floor beneath Hannah and Ernie's cauldrons. Several splashes of bright green potion stood out vividly against the dark stone. "A potioneer who cannot keep their workspace clean is a danger to themselves and others. Class dismissed."
The climb from the dungeons to the Great Hall felt significantly lighter for the four friends, despite the point deduction. Ernie and Hannah were practically vibrating with relief, trailing just behind Allen and Edward.
"Allen, seriously, if you hadn't left those roots and signaled Michael—" Ernie started, his voice thick with gratitude.
"I didn't do anything, Ernie," Allen interrupted, pressing a finger to his lips and glancing around the crowded corridor. "You and Hannah brewed that potion. It was your hard work that saved those mice. Remember that."
Ernie stopped talking, but his eyes shone with a new level of respect.
"Still," Edward grumbled as they dodged a group of Rowdy Gryffindors, "five points for a few splashes? That's just Snape being Snape. One 'Scourgify' and it's gone."
"We're just happy it wasn't twenty," Hannah said, her face finally losing its frantic paleness. She looked at Allen with a gaze that bordered on reverent. She had seen how he navigated the most dangerous teacher in the school without breaking a sweat, and she realized he was operating on a completely different level than the rest of them.
Since the Potions class had run over—Snape's dramatic pauses tended to do that—they had to sprint across the grounds to Greenhouse Two.
The moment they saw the warm, dirt-smudged face of Professor Sprout, the tension finally bled out of the Hufflepuffs. For them, Herbology was a sanctuary. There were no poisoned mice or venomous insults here—just the smell of damp earth and the rustle of magical flora.
"Alright, everyone! Grab a bucket," Sprout chirped. "Today we're shelling Puff-pod beans. Mind your grip!"
Allen, Edward, Hannah, and Ernie formed a tight-knit circle around a large crate of branches.
"I've got this," Hannah said, her confidence returning. Her nose was still a bit pink from the dungeon chill, but her hands were steady now. She began plucking the plump, vibrant pink pods from the branches, popping them open to reveal shiny, pearl-like beans.
Compared to the slimy, wriggling caterpillars of the morning, the Puff-pods were delightful. Hannah worked with a feverish intensity, as if she were trying to physically scrub away the memory of the dungeon.
"Excellent form, Miss Abbott! Quick and clean," Professor Sprout praised, pausing by their station.
Hannah beamed, her cheeks turning as pink as the pods. However, the sudden praise made her hand jump. A shiny bean slipped through her fingers and hit the stone floor with a sharp clack.
"Careful, dear! Watch out!" Sprout shouted.
Before Hannah could reach for it, the bean exploded into a riot of color, blooming into a full, vibrant flower right before their eyes. The class laughed, and the tension of the morning finally vanished in the fragrance of the new blossom.
Lunch in the Great Hall was a study in contrasts. The Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables were relatively peaceful, filled with the low hum of students discussing their successful brews and botanical mishaps.
The Gryffindor table, however, was a mess of whispers and grim faces. People were leaning in close, their eyes darting toward Harry, who looked like a man who had just seen his own obituary. There was a pall of gloom hanging over them that even the smell of roast beef couldn't penetrate.
Allen ate his lunch in silence, observing the room but offering no questions. He knew the 'Grim' rumors were flying, and he had no interest in adding to the superstition. For him, the real highlight was yet to come: Transfiguration.
When they entered Professor McGonagall's classroom, the air felt charged. The Ravenclaws had arrived early, their eyes bright with the kind of intellectual hunger that only the topic of Animagi could provoke.
McGonagall didn't disappoint. She spoke with a passion that made the complex theory of human-to-animal transformation feel like poetry. When she stood at the front and, with a subtle shimmer of magic, transformed herself into a sleek tabby cat with spectacle-shaped markings around her eyes, the room erupted.
It was a masterclass in control. But as the students began their preliminary exercises, the excitement was quickly tempered by reality. Becoming an Animagus wasn't just a spell; it was a grueling, psychological and physical marathon that most wizards would never complete.
By dinner, the castle's rumor mill had reached a fever pitch. Penelope Clearwater sat down next to Allen, her plate piled with salad, looking uncharacteristically somber.
"Have you heard?" she asked, leaning in. "Malfoy's in the hospital wing. He's pretty banged up."
Allen paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. A cold knot formed in his stomach. "Malfoy? How? I... I thought Hagrid was prepared."
He looked toward the Slytherin table. It was like a beehive that had been kicked. Pansy Parkinson was practically wailing, and a large group including Crabbe and Goyle were huddled together, their expressions a mix of fury and fear. Draco's seat was empty.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were in a heated discussion, their faces etched with worry.
"Apparently," Penelope said, picking at her food with an air of indifference, "he decided to show off during Care of Magical Creatures. He provoked a Hippogriff. Insulted it, I think. The thing nearly took his arm off."
She looked at Allen's furrowed brow and sighed. "You're too soft, Allen. Worrying about Draco Malfoy? Madam Pomfrey probably had his arm back together before the blood even hit his robes. He'll be fine."
"I'm not worried about Draco," Allen said, his voice tight. "I'm worried about Hagrid. This was his first class. A student injury—especially a Malfoy—is the worst thing that could have happened."
He stared at his plate, the appetite he'd worked up in Transfiguration completely gone. He had tried to steer the ship, had given Hagrid the warnings, and had even tried to account for Draco's ego. But the 'plot' seemed to have a gravity of its own, pulling everyone back toward the original tragedy.
Lockhart was gone, yes. He had changed that. But could he save Hagrid? He needed to know exactly what happened in that clearing.