Allen stood rigidly next to Professor Dumbledore, the newly placed gold medal cool and weighty against his chest. He maintained a polite, composed expression, effortlessly navigating the blinding flashes of the press photographers.
He felt a moment of familial connection as he glanced at Lenn, who was standing at attention, proudly displaying the culmination of weeks of secret practice: a dazzling, handsome, and utterly captivating smile directed straight at the clicking lenses.
Allen couldn't resist mimicking the gesture with a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips, but the action, performed by his still-youthful face, only served to make him look more charmingly self-conscious and endearing to the camera operators.
Once the gold medals had been safely pinned around everyone's necks, the presenters and the proud recipients stood together for the final, official group portrait.
As the press finally began to lower their cameras, Professor Dumbledore placed a gentle, warm hand on Allen's shoulder, his eyes twinkling intensely behind the half-moon spectacles. "Congratulations, my son," he said, his voice dropping slightly to a kind, confidential murmur. "You have, quite astonishingly, become the youngest wizard in modern history to receive the Order of Merlin, Third Class. A record, I believe, that may stand for a very long time."
"Thank you, Professor," Allen replied, his response perfectly calibrated—polite, humble, and utterly disarming. "It was truly a stroke of good luck, nothing more. My contribution was insignificant; the victory was entirely thanks to the unified efforts and strategic direction of my family."
"You are being far too modest, Mr. Allen Harris," a cheerful, slightly booming voice interrupted. Ogilvy Scamander, the President of the Wizards' Guild, approached with a wide, professional smile, his words heavy with admiration and the weight of official recognition.
"Professor Flitwick just confirmed the details with me. Not only have you accomplished this feat at such a tender age, but you are also the youngest wizard at Hogwarts with the most individual house points earned in a single academic year, and you are only a first-year student! It speaks volumes of your potential, young man."
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Professor Flitwick bustled forward, his excitement causing him to bounce slightly on the balls of his miniature feet. He had clearly sought Allen out to deliver his own heartfelt congratulations.
Upon hearing Scamander's enthusiastic leakage of his student's records, Flitwick was far from upset. Instead, he nodded repeatedly, his small face glowing with pride. "True, absolutely true. Allen is unequivocally the most naturally gifted and diligent student I have had the pleasure of teaching. A real credit to Ravenclaw, and indeed, to the whole school."
The moment of collective, flattering praise was abruptly shattered by a sharp, highly exaggerated voice that cut through the low hum of conversation. The voice was unsettlingly theatrical, carrying an air of aggressive, manufactured urgency.
"Ah! President Ogilvy, Professor Dumbledore, Professor Flitwick, good heavens, a pleasure! I must apologize for the interruption, but might I steal away our brilliant young hero for a quick, exclusive interview?"
Allen looked up in the direction of the voice and instantly identified the speaker: Rita Skeeter. She was a spectacle of bad taste and over-the-top glamour, her blonde hair styled into gravity-defying, intricate curls, framed by thick, jeweled glasses that reflected the room's artificial light.
With a smile that she clearly believed was irresistibly charming—but which Allen judged to be predatory and carnivorous—she waved a long, perfectly manicured finger at him.
Professor Flitwick, ever the supportive former Head of House, leaned in and provided context for Allen in a high-pitched, conspiratorial whisper.
"This is Miss Rita Skeeter, the chief reporter for the Daily Prophet. Allen, Miss Skeeter was once a member of our Ravenclaw House, you know. She's extremely talented at what the Ministry calls 'public relations'—though I think 'creative license' might be more accurate."
"Thank you for the flattering memory, Professor Flitwick," Rita Skeeter replied, her laugh exaggeratedly loud, yet somehow ringing hollow in the quiet room. Her expression was fixed, but Allen's sharp gaze caught a tiny, almost instantaneous flicker of genuine, unmasked insecurity in the corner of her eye—a brief moment of vulnerability beneath the polished façade.
Everyone has a weakness, even if that person is publicly regarded as the very worst villain of the press, Allen observed internally. He stored the observation away, recognizing the high-pressure environment of the Ministry as her true hunting ground.
However, Allen's internal alarm bells went off the moment he watched Rita Skeeter reach into her crocodile-skin handbag and pull out a long, dark green quill. He knew this was no ordinary writing instrument; it was the dreaded Quick-Quotes Quill, a deeply unethical stenography quill that automatically recorded and sensationalized everything said in its presence, transforming mundane statements into surreal, melodramatic, and often bizarre sentences that drove newspaper sales.
"Allen, please allow me to address you this way—after all, we share the prestigious Ravenclaw heritage, don't we?" Rita Skeeter said, adjusting her jeweled spectacles to catch the light. "Now, the moment you encountered that monstrosity of a Sea Serpent, what was the very first, terrifying thought that flashed through your courageous mind?"
"What is this?" Allen asked, his tone measured and completely deadpan, fixing his eyes not on the reporter, but on the nefarious quill.
Rita Skeeter was genuinely thrown off balance. She paused, her smile faltering, the heavily feathered quill hovering mid-air. "Pardon me? What was that, dear? What are you asking?"
"What is this?" Allen repeated, perfectly neutrally, tilting his head slightly as if perplexed by the question itself.
"What? What are you talking about?" Skeeter's thick, fleshy fingers gripped the quill tightly, astonishment momentarily overcoming her practiced composure. She was already mentally crafting a headline about the "Boy Hero's Humble Confusion."
Allen then straightened, finally delivering his intended answer with a slight theatrical pause, ensuring his response was both truthful and utterly useless for the Quill's purpose.
"When I first saw that gargantuan Sea Serpent, my actual, very first thought, before any action could be taken, was a question of classification. It was precisely, and I quote myself, 'What is this?'—a creature of unprecedented size demanding immediate identification." He then proceeded to explain the detailed procedure for determining a Sea Serpent's threat rating to the visibly bewildered reporter.
Skeeter rapidly tried to pivot. "Weren't you scared out of your wits when you saw such a colossal Sea Serpent? Why did you rush into the fight? Wasn't that a tad... overconfident for a boy your age?" she pressed, injecting drama into her voice to encourage a suitably sensational response.
"Actually, I didn't just 'rush in'," Allen corrected calmly, detailing the strategic reality. "First, I immediately secured communications by sending my owl to deliver the message to the Ministry. Then, I hurried in to fight directly alongside my father and elder brothers. As long as my family is fighting alongside me, I am genuinely afraid of nothing." Allen noted with immense satisfaction that the other person's highly sensitive Quill was, for once, only recording his entirely factual, utterly mundane, and professionally modest conversation.
The reason for the Quill's sudden failure was a highly obscure piece of defensive magic. During the course of their conversation, Allen had been silently crafting a highly sophisticated, non-verbal spell—a highly mysterious, French Auror-invented counter-jinx, inspired by the properties of the potent Reality Potion, and recorded only in the deepest, most shadowed corners of the Encyclopedia of Spells.
This Reality Charm could be subtly cast to affect both people and objects, momentarily neutralizing the ability of things to distort the truth around the caster. The Quick-Quotes Quill, designed specifically to operate by amplifying untruth and melodrama, was reacting to the sudden imposition of verifiable reality like a vampire exposed to sunlight.
After struggling to extract just two questions, Rita Skeeter finally realized that her stenography Quill was entirely malfunctioning, stubbornly refusing to weave any sensational narrative from Allen's frustratingly literal answers. Losing interest in interviewing such a dull, fact-driven hero, she abruptly snapped the Quill shut and ended the interview.
"My word, Miss Skeeter has never, ever finished an interview so quickly before!" Professor Flitwick, who clearly knew the notoriously tenacious reporter well, looked utterly bewildered. He stared at the Daily Prophet's chief writer, who was already marching away without even a curt goodbye.
"Perhaps she discovered something far more valuable to her paper, Professor, or maybe she simply had a highly urgent appointment to attend to," Allen suggested innocently, shrugging his newly decorated shoulders.
The drama of the interruption passed quickly. Owen Harris, seizing the opportunity to mingle with the two highest-ranking figures in the British wizarding world, strode forward and extended a warm, effusive invitation. "President Ogilvy, Professor Dumbledore, Professor Flitwick, would you three do us the immense honor of joining the newly decorated Harris family for lunch?"
"Ah, forgive me, Mr. Harris, but Professor Flitwick and I already have a prior engagement," Professor Dumbledore replied smoothly, his eyes crinkling. He then lowered his voice, delivering the next piece of information directly to Allen with a deliberate wink.
"We are expecting a meeting with a rather brilliant young author, Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart. He may, perhaps, be teaching your Defense Against the Dark Arts course next academic year."
Allen tensed, a prickle of recognition and dread running down his spine. But before he could process the name, his mother, Morgan LeFay, materialized suddenly behind him, her voice trembling with an unnerving combination of breathless awe and schoolgirl excitement.
"Gilderoy Lockhart? You mean the Gilderoy Lockhart? The Order of Merlin, Third Class recipient, Honorary Member of the Anti-Dark Magic League, and five-time winner of the Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award?" Morgan's composure, which had survived a giant Sea Serpent and the Ministry's pomp, completely evaporated at the mention of the famous wizard's name. She was star-struck, startling Allen with her sudden lapse in control.
Daisy immediately blushed a deep crimson, her eyes wide with undisguised expectation and hero worship. Allen understood the effect perfectly.
Gilderoy Lockhart is an incredibly successful writer, Allen thought with cold disdain. He has perfectly positioned himself as the superstar darling of the wizarding world, captivating everyone from impressionable middle-aged witches to wide-eyed little girls.
Allen knew, of course, that Lockhart's fame was based almost entirely on his flawless, habitual use of the Forgetfulness Charm. Perhaps that is precisely why he managed to deceive a wizard as powerful as Dumbledore and secure the highly coveted Defence Against the Dark Arts professorship.
This recurring pattern was one of the many reasons Allen harbored a profound, internal dislike for Dumbledore's management style. As the Headmaster of the premier magical school, Dumbledore was frequently preoccupied with vast, global matters, but Allen strongly suspected him of severely neglecting his primary duty: competent teacher selection.
It's an open secret, Allen reflected bitterly, that many graduates today couldn't even cast a rudimentary Patronus Charm, let alone a basic Shield Charm, without struggling. If not for the deep historical foundations and accumulated genius in subjects like Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration, Hogwarts' title as the world's best wizarding school would have been usurped long ago by institutions with more rigorous, practical curriculum.
"Yes," Dumbledore confirmed, his gaze returning to Morgan and Daisy with a gentle, knowing smile.
"Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart has indeed been honored with the Order of Merlin, Third Class, for his truly outstanding literary contributions to the field of Dark Arts defense. As for whether he is quite as talented as his public reputation suggests—and whether he possesses the necessary competence to teach our young students the vital Defense Against the Dark Arts course—well, we shall soon find out. May Merlin grant us grace and find him a suitable professor."
Upon this enigmatic and slightly unsettling comment, Professor Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick exchanged a look and took their leave, departing from the Small Conference Room.
Allen knew, with absolute certainty, that Professor Dumbledore's prayer was destined to be utterly futile.
Dumbledore is either deliberately gambling, or genuinely blind, Allen determined. He knew perfectly well that Gilderoy Lockhart was nothing more than a highly charismatic fraud, a charlatan who stole the terrifying, legendary experiences of genuinely brave witches and wizards and then erased their memories for his own gain.
Allen realized he was doomed to remain silent; he couldn't possibly reveal Lockhart's true nature without having to explain how he knew such sensitive, future-altering information.
Fortunately, Allen thought, clinging to one small fact, the Dark Lord's curse on the position is still active and prevents anyone from serving as the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor for more than a single year.
However, Allen conceded that Lockhart was, in his own way, quite impressive. The dedication required to track down and successfully establish rapport with the original heroes of those legendary stories—earning their trust just long enough to successfully cast the incredibly difficult and powerful Forgetfulness Charm—was a feat of magical social engineering.
He smiled slightly, finding a small, internal joke in the situation. The name "Gild-e-roy" itself was suggestive—gild meaning covered thinly with gold, which suited his refined and flamboyant personality perfectly. And "Lockhart" meant to lock your heart, or perhaps, to lock away the truth in one's heart... a darkly ironic combination of first and last names.
Allen shook his head, a gesture of profound disappointment not at Lockhart, but at the larger system. "Dumbledore's priorities are so skewed," he thought, frowning slightly.
"He could have perfectly avoided the entire year-long curse and ensured the students received the education they deserved by simply creating a new, functionally overlapping course—say, 'Advanced Combat Charms'—and appointing a competent teacher to that role instead."
He understood the irony, though: the Ministry of Magic itself fundamentally believed it was far easier to maintain control if the general populace of wizards wasn't expertly trained in combat skills. It suited their centralized power structure to have a populace reliant on the Ministry for protection.
And so, the incompetence continues, all while the danger grows.
He snapped out of his deep internal analysis as Morgan LeFay, her eyes still shining with residual star-struck awe, gently steered him toward the door.
The political maneuvering was over, the glory secured, and now it was time for the celebratory luncheon—without the dubious company of the Minister, the Headmaster, or the fraudulent hero soon to be known as the most disastrous DADA teacher in Hogwarts history. The real business of magic and power, however, had only just begun.