The sky over the Highlands had turned a bruised, sickly purple, and the rain wasn't just falling—it was being hurled against the castle walls by a wind that sounded like a dying beast. This wasn't Quidditch weather; it was the kind of weather that made you want to lock the doors and bury yourself under five layers of blankets.
But for the Ravenclaws, who were currently possessed by a singular, burning desire for the Quidditch Cup, the storm was just another obstacle to be calculated and overcome. Their training sessions had become grueling tests of endurance.
In the final tactical briefing before the season opener, Roger Davies stood before the team, his face pale and his hair dripping onto the stone floor. He looked like he'd just received a terminal diagnosis.
"Change of plans," Roger muttered, his voice tight with frustration. "We aren't playing Hufflepuff anymore. It's Slytherin."
The team froze. Cho Chang, who was mid-stretch, let out a sharp gasp. "What? Why the sudden swap? The schedule was set weeks ago!"
"Flint," Roger spat the name out like it was poison. "He's claiming Malfoy's arm is still too mangled to play against Gryffindor. Apparently, a scratch from a Hippogriff takes months to heal when it's convenient for the Slytherin schedule. The truth is, they've seen the forecast. They don't want to fly in a gale, thinking it'll level the playing field too much. They'd rather we exhaust ourselves against the storm while they sit pretty in their common room."
Cho's face flushed a deep, angry crimson. "We've spent the last three weeks drilling specific patterns to exploit Hufflepuff's defensive gaps! We're basically starting from scratch against a much more aggressive team!"
Outside, a low rumble of thunder vibrated through the floorboards, punctuating her anger.
"Then we change the narrative," Allen said, his voice cutting through the rising panic of the team. He stood by the window, watching the rain lash against the glass. "If Slytherin thinks the storm is their shield, we'll show them it's our weapon. We don't just win; we make them realize that facing us is far more terrifying than any thunderclap. We're Ravenclaws—we adapt, we don't complain."
The team rallied, but the mood in the rest of the school was far more cynical. By the morning of the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff match, the Great Hall was so dim that the floating candles had to be doubled just to see the porridge in front of you.
The Slytherins were leaning into their role as villains with relish. Malfoy was lounging at his table, his arm wrapped in layers of unnecessary bandages, looking like a tragic hero in a very bad play.
"Oh, it's a shame, truly," Malfoy sighed loudly as a particularly violent gust of wind rattled the stained-glass windows. "I really wish my arm felt up to the task. I'd love to be out there in the mud with the riff-raff."
"He's genuinely disgusting," Penelope murmured, stirring her pumpkin porridge with enough force to create a whirlpool. "The lack of shame is almost impressive. He's happy to watch Wood's team get pulverized by the elements while he waits for a sunny day."
The match, however, was not cancelled. Quidditch was a sport for the resilient, or perhaps just the insane. When the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff players finally stepped out onto the pitch, they looked like soldiers marching into a meat grinder.
The rain was torrential, falling in heavy, icy sheets that reduced visibility to a few feet. From the stands, Allen could barely see the players; they were just blurred streaks of red and yellow darting through a gray abyss. The commentary was lost to the wind, leaving only the roar of the gale and the occasional crack of a Beater's bat hitting a Bludger.
It was a war of attrition. The players were visibly freezing, their movements becoming sluggish and stiff. Even from the distance of the stands, Allen could see the way they struggled to grip their brooms with numb fingers.
Gryffindor, led by an increasingly desperate Oliver Wood, was playing with a frantic, raw energy. They were resilient—dangerously so. But the sky was getting darker, and the lightning was beginning to dance dangerously close to the hoops.
During a tense timeout, Allen leaned forward, his eyes scanning the horizon. A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the topmost row of the empty Gryffindor stands. For a split second, a silhouette was etched against the white-hot sky.
A large, shaggy black dog was sitting perfectly still, its eyes fixed on the field.
"Damn it," Allen muttered under his breath. Sirius Black was here. Right under the nose of every professor in the school.
"Look! They've spotted the Snitch!" Michael shouted, jumping to his feet.
High above, Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory were diving. But as they climbed higher into the clouds, something shifted.
A heavy, unnatural silence fell over the stadium. The wind was still blowing, the rain was still falling, but the sound was gone. It was as if the world had been muted. Then came the cold—not the biting chill of the rain, but a hollow, soul-sucking frost that started in the marrow of the bone and worked its way out.
Allen didn't look up; he looked down.
At the base of the pitch, standing like a legion of shadows, were at least a hundred Dementors. Their tattered black cloaks fluttered in the wind, and their hidden faces were tilted upward, their unseen eyes fixed on the young wizards circling above. They weren't just guarding the perimeter; they were hunting. The presence of so much raw emotion and fear was an irresistible feast.
A piercing, hollow scream echoed from high above, and then a red shape began to fall. It was Harry. He was plummeting through the air like a bird with clipped wings.
Dumbledore was off the bench before Harry had fallen twenty feet. He sprinted onto the mud-slicked field, his wand already in motion. With a fluid, powerful gesture, he slowed Harry's descent, the boy's body settling onto the grass with the lightness of a feather.
But Dumbledore wasn't finished. He turned toward the Dementors, his face a mask of cold, ancient fury. A massive burst of silver light erupted from his wand.
Allen didn't wait. He drew his own wand, the wood warm against his cold palm. He needed to act, not just for Harry, but because this was a perfect, terrible opportunity to test his limits.
"Expecto Patronum!"
The incantation was a roar in his mind. From the tip of his wand, a magnificent, blindingly bright Phoenix burst forth. It wasn't a mist or a flicker; it was a solid entity of pure joy and power. The Phoenix let out a silent cry, its wings trailing sparks of silver as it dived toward the dark mass of Dementors.
Inspired by the sight, the Ravenclaws around him drew their wands. "Expecto Patronum!" Michael yelled, followed by dozens of others.
The courage of the young wizards was impressive, but the results were mixed. Most of the Ravenclaws managed only a thin, wispy vapor—the "silver gas" of a developing Patronus. It wasn't enough to drive back a Dementor, but it was enough to light up the stands.
Penelope, however, was successful. A sleek, silver fox leaped from her wand, its bushy tail leaving a trail of light as it nimbly darted down the stands to join the assault.
The professors joined in, and soon a menagerie of silver animals was charging across the pitch. Led by the two Phoenixes—Dumbledore's and Allen's—the light was too much for the shadows. The Dementors broke formation, vanishing into the gray mist of the storm as quickly as they had appeared.
The stadium returned to its natural, miserable state.
"Is he... is he dead?" Michael asked, his voice trembling.
Allen watched the medical team scramble toward Harry. "No," he said, his voice deep and steady. "He fell a long way, but his glasses are still on his face. He's tougher than he looks."
"And the mud helped," Penelope added, her voice shaky but relieved. "The ground is like a sponge after all this rain."
Dumbledore, looking more formidable than Allen had ever seen him, used his wand to levitate Harry onto a stretcher. He didn't look back as he strode toward the castle, the stretcher floating in his wake like a grim funeral procession.
On the field, Cedric Diggory stood alone. He held the Golden Snitch in his hand, looking utterly miserable. He tried to offer a rematch, his sense of Hufflepuff fairness warring with the reality of the catch, but Wood—kneeling in the mud and looking like his world had ended—refused. Gryffindor had lost.
"Allen, we can't let this happen to us," Roger Davies said, placing a heavy hand on Allen's shoulder as they watched Wood through the rain. "The stakes just went through the roof."
Later that evening, the mood in the castle was somber. Allen knew he should visit Harry. Not because they were best friends—their relationship had grown complicated and distant—but because it was the expected move for a leader of his stature.
He brought a bag of high-end sweets from Hogsmeade and made his way to the Hospital Wing.
Ron Weasley was sitting at the foot of Harry's bed, looking defensive. "Oh, look who it is," Ron said, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that felt forced. "The Great Allen Harris, coming to see the commoners."
Hermione, who was sitting on the other side, bit her lip and shot Ron a look of pure exasperation.
Allen ignored him, his face a mask of polite concern. "Harry, I'm glad to see you're awake. That was a hell of a fall." He placed the sweets on the bedside table. "I hope these help with the recovery."
"Thanks, Allen," Harry said, his voice small. He looked pale, and his eyes were darting around the room as if expecting a Dementor to peel back the curtains.
Harry looked at Allen and felt a massive weight in his chest. He wanted to tell him about the Grim. He wanted to tell him about the voices he heard when the Dementors got close—the sound of his mother's screaming. He knew Ron would just panic and Hermione would try to find a logical explanation in a book.
Allen was the only one who might actually understand the magical weight of it. But as Harry looked at the perfectly composed, powerful young man standing before him, the words died in his throat. Allen felt like a peer, yes, but also like a rival—a distant star that Harry couldn't quite reach.
When had the gap between them become so wide? Harry realized with a pang of loneliness that he didn't know how to talk to Allen anymore. He just took the sweets and forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes.