Allen settled into his spot at the long Ravenclaw table, Edward already half-draped over the seat next to him, excitedly detailing his summer adventures, most of which seemed to involve the improper use of Muggle board games.
Allen paid him half a mind, his attention naturally drifting towards the front of the Great Hall where the most solemn ritual of the year was beginning.
He watched as the new students entered the lecture hall in a long, nervous, and utterly bewildered line. They looked tiny, overwhelmed by the soaring, star-studded ceiling and the thousands of eyes watching their every step.
Ginny Weasley, Ron's younger sister, was among them. Her distinctive Weasley blaze of red hair immediately caught the eye, a vivid contrast to her pale, delicate face.
The little girl looked incredibly frail, her small shoulders hunched, radiating a palpable nervousness that Allen found almost painful to watch. She was soft, sweet, and appeared far too vulnerable for the chaos that inevitably followed the Weasley clan.
Just a few faces behind her, Allen spotted another distinct figure—Luna Lovegood. The girl wore a carrot-shaped earring dangling from one earlobe and a necklace made of butterbeer bottle corks. She wasn't nervous; she was simply drifting, looking around the hall with a slightly bewildered, dreamy expression that suggested she was constantly seeing things no one else could.
When her name was called and she glided forward, it was as if the Sorting Hat had already placed her in Ravenclaw even before Professor McGonagall, wearing her usual severe glasses and with her hair neatly pulled back in a tight bun, placed the famous hat on the stool. Sure enough, the Hat barely touched her light blonde hair before screaming, "RAVENCLAW!"
As he watched Luna Lovegood take her seat at his table, still blinking slowly, Allen felt a strange pull of familiarity, a kinship with her utter disregard for convention. She might be bizarre, but she was genuine, an honest anomaly.
His gaze shifted back to the ancient, patched, dirty, and worn old Hat now resting on the stool. Each year, this Hat determined the destiny of these young wizards, sorting them into Hogwarts' four houses: Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin.
Allen couldn't help but remember the searing intensity of his own Sorting, around this time last year. He had worn the Hat, his mind a furious battlefield, intensely focused on shutting off the floodgates of his true identity.
He had revealed only the pre-selected memories he wanted to offer the Hat, perfectly executing his deception, concealing his true origins and his future knowledge. The risk had been immense—exposing his complex identity to a powerful magical artifact—but the payoff, his placement in Ravenclaw, had been worth the danger.
Now, he could easily observe the raw, unfiltered emotions on the faces of the first-year students—the crushing expectation, the paralyzing tension, or the wide-eyed fear. For example, a very frail, grey-haired boy was called forward and nervously placed the Hat on his head, his hands visibly shaking. The Sorting Hat was a crucible of anxiety for these eleven-year-olds.
Allen nodded slowly, a dark satisfaction settling in his core. He shifted his gaze from Luna, now his housemate, to the faculty table, landing on Headmaster Dumbledore, who was watching the ceremony with an amused, serene expression. His long, silver beard and crescent-shaped glasses gleamed with quiet power in the flickering candlelight.
Professor Flitwick, seated on a cushion on his high stool—a necessity given his small stature—noticed Allen's gaze and beamed, giving a little, enthusiastic wave to his most valued and brilliant student. Flitwick looked puffed up with Ravenclaw pride, already counting the House Points Allen would earn this year.
At the very end of the table sat Hagrid, a man of truly massive proportions, with a thick curtain of beard and wild, tangled hair. He was drinking heartily from a large pewter goblet that looked more like a small bucket, occasionally bursting into loud, appreciative laughter at a particularly slow Sorting.
But the most glaring figure in the faculty section was, without a doubt, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart. He was dressed in a ridiculously ostentatious light green gown, adorned with golden piping, and he sat at a slight angle, clearly ensuring his "best side" was facing the assembled students. He kept flashing his unnervingly pearly white teeth, displaying that distinctive, captivating smile.
He had, after all, been a five-time winner of The Witcher Weekly's Most Enchanting Smile Award, and his perfectly chiseled face, combined with the fabricated legend of his heroic exploits, made him incredibly attractive to the younger, more naïve students and most of the middle-aged witches.
But for Allen, who now knew the pathetic truth—especially after seeing the ridiculously staged photograph of Lockhart and his sister Daisy in the professor's stolen suitcase—the flamboyant Gilderoy was increasingly repulsive. He didn't just feel disdain; he felt a burning personal commitment to justice.
"I must expose his true face to the world. A charlatan like him cannot be allowed to stand on the same ground as Dumbledore and teach impressionable minds."
Allen scanned the faculty seats again. Professor Snape wasn't there. Allen smiled inwardly, a small, knowing upturn of his lips. Snape, who often feigned indifference or outright malice, was almost certainly not socializing or relaxing.
Allen knew that Snape was probably the first teacher to have noticed Harry's absence from Hogwarts, even before Professor McGonagall or Dumbledore had fully realized the depth of the disaster.
Despite Snape's constant taunts and deep, visible expressions of hatred towards the Boy Who Lived, Allen knew the dark truth: Snape was also the one who cared about Harry the most and wanted him to be safe and healthy more than anyone else.
All Snape desired was for this boy, who possessed the vivid, green eyes of his beloved Lily and the irritating, familiar face of his despised rival James, to simply live a good life. That complex, twisted loyalty made Snape one of the most fascinating characters in the school.
The Sorting Ceremony finally ended with the placement of a short, stocky boy named Blaise Zabini into Slytherin. As soon as the Hat was removed, a wonderful, almost blinding array of delicious foods materialized instantly on the four long tables, causing a collective gasp of delight from the first-years.
The most fascinating innovation on the tables, and a favorite of Allen's, was the transparent drinking glass placed in front of each person. The moment you simply said the name of a fruit, the glass automatically dispensed juice made from that fruit, perfectly chilled.
A mischievous second-year Ravenclaw student—a tall boy named Kenneth—said "durian," and instantly, a sharp, intensely fragrant, pale green, diluted juice appeared in the glass. Durian was notoriously potent, even magically filtered.
Kenneth took a bold, challenging bite of a sausage and chased it down with the durian juice. He instantly frowned, his face screwing up in revulsion as the sulfuric, tropical scent hit him. His classmates, led by the witty and often giggling Cho Chang, shamelessly covered their noses and erupted in laughter, pointing fingers at Kenneth's momentary regret.
The Ravenclaws, Allen observed, were always more interested in the intellectual novelty and the ensuing reaction than the actual comfort of the experiment.
Although Allen had heavy thoughts weighing on his mind, the appearance of the genuinely delicious food whetted his appetite. He politely declined the durian and conjured a glass of cool, crisp cranberry juice. He found the individual, delicate egg and milk fruit pies—a sweet, delightful treat he remembered fondly—and dug in.
Before Allen could finish his third tart, he noticed the sudden, dramatic shift in the atmosphere. The Great Hall doors swung open, and Professor Snape entered. He wasn't sneering; he was moving with an icy, purposeful urgency. He strode directly toward the Head Table, leaned in, and said something quick, low, and clearly damning to Professor McGonagall.
McGonagall's expression, already serious, instantly tightened into a look of absolute fury and disbelief. She pushed back her chair so abruptly it scraped loudly against the stone floor, attracting the attention of half the Hall, and she quickly left the room with Snape close behind her.
Immediately after their tense departure, Professor Dumbledore rose from his seat. The Headmaster stood silently, his eyes twinkling a little less than usual, waiting for the Hall to fall completely quiet. Allen knew deep down that Harry and Ron had arrived—their explosive entrance was now a done deal.
Allen and Hermione, sitting far apart, exchanged a long, meaningful glance across the distance of the Great Hall. Their eyes confirmed their shared secret: the Daily Prophet had been right.
Allen gave her a subtle, reassuring nod, acknowledging the chaos but signaling that the immediate danger was over. Hermione nodded back, the tense lines around her mouth finally relaxing in profound relief.
At least Hermione doesn't have to worry about Harry and the others' safety anymore, Allen thought wryly. Now she just has to worry about the inevitable detention.
Dumbledore quickly returned to his usual benevolent tone, although a subtle warning remained in his words. He spoke briefly, explaining the topics to be noted this term, emphasizing the importance of respecting the school's rules and traditions, and casually mentioning the addition of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Lockhart.
He concluded with a brief, ominous remark about the Chamber of Secrets being reopened many years ago, and a clear, final warning that no student should be wandering the corridors alone at night.
The young wizards were then dismissed, under the guidance of their respective House Prefects, to return to their dormitories to rest. The feast was over, but the anxiety of the night was not.
There was nothing Allen needed more than a few hours of relaxing, uninterrupted sleep after a chaotic day involving Nifflers, frantic chases, and ethical dilemmas.
As he was about to follow the stream of blue and bronze robes toward the Ravenclaw tower, Allen saw Professor Flitwick waving at him again, this time with a specific, urgent gesture from the end of the faculty table.
Allen sighed internally but dutifully peeled off from the Ravenclaw group and found Professor Flitwick. The little Charms Master was still waiting with an air of immense pride, standing right next to the shimmering, preening figure of Professor Lockhart.
"Professor!" Allen bowed respectfully towards the esteemed Charms Master.
"Ah, Alan! There you are!" Professor Flitwick chirped, his voice high with excitement. He puffed out his chest and threw an arm towards Allen. "Gilderoy, this is Alan Harris, a truly distinguished student of Ravenclaw; exceptionally talented, dedicated, and hardworking. He is also a recipient of the Third Class Order of Merlin, awarded for his exemplary performance last year, you know! A true prodigy!"
Flitwick appeared particularly haughty as he proudly introduced his favorite student to Lockhart, clearly hoping to impress his new, glamorous colleague.
Allen felt a wave of cold distaste wash over him. He was loath to engage with Lockhart, but he was a perfect student. He didn't show his reluctance on his face and gave a polite, formal greeting. However, the observant Professor Flitwick, standing close by, noticed the subtle distinction in Allen's mannerisms: Allen didn't execute the deep, reverent bow typically given to a celebrity of Lockhart's standing; he merely gave a concise, brief nod of acknowledgment, reserving his respectful bow only for Flitwick.
"Ah, Allen! The boy from the train, isn't it? I never expected to have such an extraordinary fan in my class! A recipient of the Order of Merlin, you say? Well, talent recognizes talent, Allen, my boy!"
Gilderoy Lockhart beamed, his smile reaching maximum luminosity. He had indeed recognized Allen as the boy who had been kneeling by his train car suitcase, but his staggering vanity had twisted the memory. He wasn't a thief; he was a devoted fan who must have slipped the extra gold back into the purse out of pure, overwhelming admiration!
"I suppose you can get my autograph anytime you wish! Just come by my office. Though you'll have to wait in line, of course! You're very lucky I noticed you!"
Lockhart didn't see the polite nod; he saw reverence. He didn't see the disgust in Allen's eyes; he saw star-struck wonder.
"Professor Lockhart, it is an... honor," Allen replied smoothly, choosing his words with surgical precision. "I greatly look forward to learning from your vast experience in the field of Defense Against the Dark Arts this year." He emphasized the word experience with just enough irony to be undetectable to Lockhart but possibly registered by Flitwick.
"A sharp one, Filius!" Lockhart chuckled, lightly punching Flitwick's shoulder, nearly knocking the Charms Master off his high stool. "Yes, vast experience! We shall have such fun, Allen! I might even give you a special task to perform for me—perhaps reorganizing my fan mail? It's relentless, you know."
Flitwick, momentarily stunned by the physical contact, recovered quickly. He sensed a growing frostiness in the air. "Yes, well, Allen, you should get back to the dormitory. It has been a very long day, my boy. Get some rest, and we will talk more tomorrow morning."
Allen seized the opportunity immediately. "Thank you, Professor Flitwick. Good night, Professor Lockhart," he said, turning sharply on his heel. He hurried away, the sound of Lockhart's continued, self-satisfied laughter echoing behind him.
There was nothing more relaxing and enjoyable than a good night's sleep after a delicious meal, but Allen knew that restful sleep would have to wait. He had a plot to expose a fraud, a sister to protect from a narcissist, and two extremely chaotic Gryffindors to observe.
The second year at Hogwarts had started with a crash and a bang.