Curiosity is a contagious disease at Hogwarts. When Allen noticed the unusual crowd gathering near the stairs leading to the dungeons, he didn't resist the urge to follow. He wasn't the only one; a trail of young wizards, like a line of ants following a scent, were whispering about who had finally crossed the line.
The air in the fifth underground classroom was thick with the scent of damp stone and something metallic—blood. At the center of the chaos stood Argus Filch, his face a mottled purple-red, looming over four Gryffindor third-years who looked like they were ready to faint. On the tables, the scene was gruesome. Several of Neville Longbottom's pets—or what used to be pets—lay dismembered. Bulging, glassy eyes stared at the ceiling, which was splattered with grey matter and bits of skull. It wasn't just a mess; it was a massacre of small, innocent things.
Mrs. Norris, the skeletal grey cat, paced at Filch's feet. She wasn't just meowing; she was letting out high-pitched, condemning shrieks, her yellow eyes darting between the bloodied tables and the four trembling lions.
"Filth!" Filch's voice cracked, raw with a cold and a deep-seated rage. "Everywhere I look, it's filth! Do you think I'm your servant? Do you think I have nothing better to do than scrub your 'experiments' off the masonry? I've had enough! Solitary confinement, all of you! We'll see how brave you feel in the dark!"
The Gryffindors were marched out, looking utterly broken. Mrs. Norris lingered for a moment, her yellow eyes scanning the remaining students. She looked at Allen for a long second, as if calculating whether he was a witness or a co-conspirator, before flicking her tail and vanishing into the shadows after her master.
The crowd dispersed quickly. The dungeons were cold, the weather outside was miserable, and the sight of brain matter on a Tuesday morning was enough to ruin anyone's appetite. Soon, only Allen remained in the silent, gore-stained room.
He looked at the mess and felt a pang of something rare: genuine pity. Not for the Gryffindors, but for Filch. Allen pulled his wand from his sleeve with a fluid, lazy motion.
"Evanesco. Tergeo. Reparo."
He didn't need to shout; the magic flowed from him like a calm tide. With a few precise flicks, the remains of the pets vanished into the void. The bloodstains were sucked out of the wood of the desks, and the ceiling regained its pristine, chalky white finish. Within seconds, the room looked like it had never seen a day of use.
For Allen, this was a trivial expenditure of energy. For Filch, a man without a drop of magic in his veins, this would have been a morning of back-breaking labor, scrubbing on his knees while nursing a fever. Allen found the whole situation with Filch bizarre. Why hire a Squib to manage a castle full of magical teenagers? It was like hiring a blind man to curate an art gallery. Every day, Filch had to watch children accomplish with a flick of a wrist what took him hours of manual toil. It was a recipe for bitterness, a slow-cooking resentment that Allen couldn't really blame the man for harboring.
"Exquisite work. Truly, a display of both skill and character!"
Allen turned to see Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington—Nearly Headless Nick—drifting through the wall. His feathered hat was tilted at a jaunty angle, but his translucent face was tight with anxiety.
"You look like you're waiting for a death sentence, Sir Nicholas," Allen remarked, stowing his wand. "Which, considering your current state, is quite a feat."
Nick let out a ghostly sigh. "I am expecting an answer, young Ravenclaw. A very important one. The Headless Hunters... I've sent another application. I should hear from Sir Patrick today."
Allen knew exactly what that letter would say, but he didn't have the heart to spoil the ghost's hope. "I've always wondered, Sir Nicholas—you were a knight in life. Why do you care so much about a group that basically treats their heads like polo balls?"
"Ah, Allen," Nick said, his eyes turning misty. "In life, honors and titles are everything. But in death? Fame is a cold comfort. We ghosts... we are spectators. We watch you eat, we watch you grow, we watch you change the world, while we remain static. It's incredibly boring. But the Hunters? They have fun. They play, they feast, they belong. They are the elite of the afterlife."
Just then, a transparent owl—a flickering silhouette of a bird—flew into the room. It carried a letter that looked like it was made of frozen smoke. Allen watched in fascination; he'd read about ghost animals, but seeing one deliver mail between the dead was a rare sight.
Knowing the rejection that was about to follow, Allen bowed slightly. "I'll leave you to your correspondence, Sir Nicholas. I have things to attend to."
Nick didn't even hear him. He was already reaching for the letter with trembling, see-through hands. Allen stepped out into the corridor, leaving the ghost to his inevitable disappointment.
As he passed Filch's office on the first floor, he saw the four Gryffindors from earlier walking out. They weren't crying; in fact, they looked shocked and relieved. They were accompanied by an owl—a real one this time. Allen guessed that Filch had received some news that had temporarily blinded him to his rage.
Later that evening, Harry found Allen in the library.
"Allen, listen... Nick is having a Deathday Party on Halloween," Harry said, looking hopeful. "He really wants people to come. Will you join us?"
Allen stared at Harry. The boy's kindness was bordering on a mental health issue. "Harry, there's a feast in the Great Hall. Professor Flitwick told me Dumbledore hired a troupe of dancing skeletons. Why on earth would I want to spend Halloween in a cold, damp cellar eating rotten food with people who are literally falling apart?"
Harry looked deflated. "Well, I thought... you know, for Nick."
"I'll pass," Allen said firmly. "But good luck with that."
Harry then mentioned what he'd seen in Filch's office. Apparently, the caretaker had been caught red-handed with a "Kwikspell" envelope—a correspondence course for people desperate to find magic where none existed.
"A distance learning course for Squibs?" Allen mused after Harry left. "It's tragic, really. No amount of brochures will fix a broken core. Even the most potent ancient potions to boost magic required a spark to start with. Using them on a Squib would be like trying to start a fire with a wet match and a bucket of gold."
The rain continued to lash against the windows as Allen finally made it back to his dormitory. He had washed up and was ready to sink into his bed when he noticed something on his bedside table.
A letter.