The air in the Hospital Wing was thick with the scent of medicinal potions and the heavy, damp smell of the storm lingering on everyone's robes. Seeing the storm of emotions brewing behind Harry's eyes, Allen let out a small, measured sigh and offered a faint, encouraging smile.
Allen wasn't there to be a martyr for friendship. He had visited out of a sense of social obligation and genuine concern for a fellow seeker, but he had zero intention of playing therapist to Ron Weasley's prickliness. Unlike Harry, Allen didn't feel the need to coddle the redhead's insecurities or wait for a dramatic moment of reconciliation to prove they were "brothers." Life was too short for that kind of baggage.
"Harry, listen to me. The Dementors don't hit everyone with the same force," Allen said, his voice low but steady, cutting through the awkward tension. He noticed Hermione Granger looking increasingly distressed, her hands wringing the hem of her sweater, and decided a bit of hard logic was the best remedy for the room's gloom. "You didn't fall off that broom because you're a bad flyer. You fell because of what they do to your head."
Harry's eyes searched Allen's. "But why me?" he asked, the question finally bursting out, raw and vulnerable. "Why does it feel like the world is ending when they get close? Does it mean I'm just... not cut out for this?"
"It has nothing to do with being weak, Harry," Allen stated, his tone flat and devoid of pity, which ironically made Harry feel better. "Dementors feed on misery. They dig up the things you'd rather forget. If they affect you more than, say, Malfoy, it's because you've actually lived through things that would break most people. Your past has more shadows for them to hide in. That's not a flaw; it's a consequence of your history."
Hermione nodded fervently, her eyes lighting up as her academic brain finally bridged the gap between theory and reality. "Exactly! Allen's right, Harry. I was reading about the psychological resonance of the Dementor's Kiss—they evoke the most repressed traumas."
"Yeah, mate," Ron chimed in, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Maybe it was the memory of the terrifying days they'd spent navigating the ancient, trap-laden tombs of Egypt with Allen, or maybe it was just the sight of Harry looking so defeated, but his hostility toward Allen seemed to evaporate. "When they showed up on the pitch, I felt like I was back in that underground chamber, thinking we'd never see the sun again. If I'd been five hundred feet up, I'd have dropped like a stone too."
Allen took the opening to drive the point home. "You need a defense, Harry. Don't wait for them to come to you again. Go to Professor Lupin. Ask him about the Patronus Charm. It's the only thing that stands between you and that hollow feeling."
"But Allen, can a third-year really—" Hermione started, her brow furrowed.
"I'll do it," Harry interrupted, a spark of resolve finally flickering in his green eyes. "I'll find Lupin."
Ron stood there with his mouth hanging open, clearly wanting to debate the difficulty of such advanced magic, but for once, he kept his thoughts to himself. Sensing the conversation had reached its natural conclusion, Allen gave a final nod and made his exit. He had his own problems to solve, starting with the upcoming match against Slytherin.
The following days were a study in contrasts. While Gryffindor mourned their loss, Draco Malfoy was practically vibrating with smugness. Having "miraculously" recovered from his injury, he spent his time in the corridors perfecting a pantomime of Harry's fall, flailing his arms and swooning into Crabbe's waiting arms.
However, Malfoy's joy was destined to be short-lived.
The next morning, the Great Hall was buzzing with the usual breakfast chatter until the owls arrived. Leading the pack was Bennie, Allen's owl, looking particularly regal. He was flanked by four massive, official-looking Ministry owls that flew with a synchronized precision that caught everyone's attention. They bypassed the Hufflepuff table entirely—almost as if they didn't want to be distracted by the smell of sausages—and headed straight for Allen.
They dropped a long, narrow package wrapped in heavy brown parchment. Allen moved with a Seeker's reflexes, standing up and snatching the bundle before it could demolish his plate of eggs or send his goblet flying.
"What's that? Another shipment of rare books?" Edward asked, his mouth full of bacon.
Allen didn't answer. His heart was hammering against his ribs. He could feel the weight of the object, the balance of it. He carefully tore the parchment, and as the contents were revealed, Edward actually choked on his breakfast.
A sleek, polished broomstick was revealed, its wood shimmering under the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall. It wasn't just a broom; it was a masterpiece of aerodynamic engineering and ancient woodcraft.
"No way," Roger Davies gasped, practically teleporting from further down the table to hover over Allen's shoulder. His voice was a hoarse whisper. "I'm seeing things. I have to be."
It was the Firebolt. The broom that had been the subject of every Quidditch magazine's cover for months. The broom that cost more than a small cottage in Hogsmeade.
"Can I... can I just touch it?" Roger's hands were trembling.
Allen, feeling a strange surge of electricity just from holding the handle, tossed it toward his Captain. He did it with a nonchalance that was purely performative, as if he hadn't been dreaming about this moment for weeks.
Roger let out a strangled yelp of surprise and caught it as if it were a glass infant. He held it with a reverence that was almost religious. The handle was ash, polished to a mirror shine, and it seemed to vibrate with a low, humming energy. When Roger let go for a second, the broom didn't fall; it hung in the air, perfectly level, adjusting itself to his height with haunting intelligence.
The registration number, etched in gold at the top of the handle, gleamed. The tail, made of individual birch twigs selected for their flexibility and lack of wind resistance, was a work of art.
"The fastest broom in the world," Roger whispered, his eyes wide. "We're going to destroy them. The House Cup is basically already in our common room."
Allen stepped back as a crowd began to form. He saw Malfoy across the hall, his face having gone from smug to a sickly, pale grey. Malfoy knew his father could buy him seven brooms, but he also knew that Lucius Malfoy wouldn't—or couldn't—secure seven Firebolts. One of these was worth the entire Slytherin arsenal combined.
Over at the Gryffindor table, the silence was deafening. Oliver Wood looked like he'd been struck by a Curse of Eternal Despair. Not only had they lost to Hufflepuff, but Harry's beloved Nimbus 2000 had met a violent end against the Whomping Willow during the storm. All they could offer Harry now was a school "Meteor"—a broom so old it practically wheezed during a climb.
The prospect of a Meteor going up against a Firebolt wasn't a match; it was a slaughter.
Harry sat staring into his cold porridge, the weight of the situation settling on him. Hermione, ever the pragmatist, disappeared for a moment and returned with a heavy tome.
"Harry, you need to be realistic," she said, sliding A Complete Guide to Flying Brooms toward him. "You need to find something that fits your style, even if it isn't... that."
"Nothing is 'that'," Ron blurted out, unable to take his eyes off the Ravenclaw table. "How rich is the Harris family anyway? This is obscene! These Pure-bloods have too much gold to throw around."
"You're a Pure-blood too, Ron!" Hermione snapped, her eyes flashing. She wanted to say more, but seeing the look on Harry's face, she bit her tongue.
Back in the Ravenclaw camp, the Firebolt had transformed Roger Davies into a man possessed. He didn't care about the rain or the cold. He dragged the team out to the pitch, his energy infectious. Every time the players saw Allen streak across the gray sky like a bolt of silver lightning, they felt a surge of adrenaline. With that broom, victory didn't just feel possible—it felt inevitable.
After a particularly intense session where Allen had caught the practice Snitch three times in under ten minutes, Roger called the team together on the muddy grass. He looked grave, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
"We need to talk about the roster," Roger said, his tone heavy with the weight of leadership.
The players exchanged nervous glances. They had been playing better than ever. Why the somber tone?
Roger looked at Cho Chang. There was a flicker of guilt in his eyes, but it was overridden by a ruthless desire to win. "Cho, you're brilliant. Truly. You're faster than almost any Seeker I've seen, and your eyes are like a hawk's."
Cho blinked, her breath hitching in the cold air. She knew what was coming.
"But we have a Firebolt now," Roger continued, his voice firm. "And more importantly, we have the flyer who can push it to its limits. I've been watching the data, watching the maneuvers. I think the team's best chance—our absolute best chance at the Cup—is for Allen to move to the Seeker position."
The silence that followed was broken only by the whistling wind. Cho was excellent, and she could likely outfly Malfoy or Diggory on a normal day. But against Harry Potter? Harry had a natural, almost supernatural connection to the air. On a Meteor, he was vulnerable. But if he ever got a real broom again, Cho would be fighting an uphill battle.