The mood on the Ravenclaw Quidditch pitch was electric, but beneath the excitement lay a thick layer of tactical uncertainty. Roger Davies was a man who lived and breathed strategy, and he was currently looking at his team with the eyes of a general who had just been handed a secret weapon.
"We have to be realistic," Roger said, his voice carrying over the sound of the wind whistling through the stadium stands. "Oliver Wood isn't going to let Harry Potter fly a 'Meteor' in a competitive match. He's a fanatic. He's graduating this year, and he'd sell his own soul to the devil—or at least a few high-end artifacts—to get Harry a competitive broom. If we assume Gryffindor will find a way to match our speed, we need an edge that isn't just hardware."
Every eye on the team shifted between Cho Chang and Allen Harris. The hierarchy of the team was being dismantled in real-time.
"Roger," Allen said, his voice cutting through the tension with a calm that bordered on indifference. "Are you making this call because you're dazzled by the Firebolt, or because you actually think I'm the better Seeker?"
Roger rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly sheepish but refusing to back down. "I won't lie, Allen. The Firebolt is a game-changer. It's built for a Seeker's movements. But it's more than that. You're the most versatile player I've ever seen. You have the reflexes for a Seeker, the vision of a Chaser, and frankly, a level of focus that is terrifying. The Seeker is the soul of the game. I want that soul to be yours."
Cho Chang stood off to the side, her face pale. The biting winter wind seemed to hit her harder than the others. In the world of Quidditch, if you weren't the Seeker, and you weren't a powerhouse Chaser, you were often invisible. For Cho, losing the Seeker position felt like losing her identity on the team.
"Actually," Allen interjected, surprising everyone. "If we're talking about what I'd rather do, I'd take the Beater position over the Seeker any day."
A stunned silence followed. In the wizarding world, the Seeker was the hero, the one who got the glory. The Beater was the grunt, the one who dealt in bruises and heavy iron.
"You're kidding," Roger said, his jaw dropping.
Allen gave a small, almost predatory smile. "Think about it. As a Chaser, I'm constantly chasing points, which is fine, but it's repetitive. As a Seeker, you're basically playing a game of hide-and-seek while everyone else is playing a contact sport. It's passive. You wait, you watch, you dive. It's... boring."
He stepped closer to the center of the huddle. "A Beater, though? A Beater controls the tempo of the entire pitch. You don't just defend; you attack. You dictate where the other team can fly. You break their formations. You make them afraid to look for the Snitch."
Allen's interest in high-impact sports was a carryover from his previous life. He had always preferred the raw, physical confrontation of rugby over the more delicate precision of sports like tennis. There was something deeply satisfying about the visceral impact of a well-aimed Bludger.
"But Allen, if you move to Beater, who takes the Chaser spot? And what happens to Cho?" Roger asked, his brain clearly trying to re-calculate a dozen different scenarios at once.
Allen turned his gaze toward Cho. He didn't find her "exquisite" in the traditional, porcelain-doll sense that some of the boys did, but there was a quiet, melancholy beauty in the way she carried herself—especially now, with her brow furrowed and her dark eyes searching his for an explanation.
"Here's the deal, Roger," Allen said, his voice dropping into a persuasive, smooth cadence. "Cho stays as Seeker. She's already agile and sharp-eyed. And to make sure she's the fastest thing in the sky... she rides the Firebolt."
The gasp that went up from the team was loud enough to startle a few passing crows.
"Allen, that's a Firebolt!" Roger practically shouted, his eyes bulging. "It's the most expensive piece of equipment in the wizarding world, and you're just... handing it over?"
"It's a tool, Roger. Not a trophy," Allen replied coolly. "If Cho rides the Firebolt, she can catch the Snitch before the other team even realizes the game has started. It compensates for any physical disadvantage she might have against Potter. Meanwhile, I take the Beater position. I'll clear the path for her. I'll make sure no one gets within ten feet of her."
He leaned in, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "And besides, Roger... wouldn't you like to move up to Chaser? You've been wanting to be the one putting the Quaffle through the hoops for years, haven't you?"
Allen had hit the bullseye. Roger Davies was a talented Captain, but his secret desire had always been the glory of scoring. Moving Allen to Beater opened up a hole in the Chaser line that Roger was more than happy to fill.
"What does everyone else think?" Roger asked, though it was a formality.
The Ravenclaws were pragmatists. If Allen Harris—the guy who owned the broom—was willing to give it up for the sake of a more aggressive team layout, who were they to complain? The prospect of Allen Harris with a Beater's bat was also a terrifyingly pleasant thought; they'd rather have him hitting Bludgers at Gryffindor than being on the receiving end of his focus.
The swap was made then and there. Allen handed the Firebolt to a stunned, deeply grateful Cho Chang, taking her broom in exchange. He didn't feel a shred of regret. Money could buy another Firebolt, but the opportunity to legally smash heavy iron balls at Slytherins was a rare delicacy.
As they took to the sky to practice the new formation, the synergy was instant. Allen was a nightmare as a Beater. He didn't just swing at the Bludgers; he calculated their trajectories, using them like snipers' bullets to disrupt the flow of the practice Chasers. When they finally landed, everyone was breathless, their faces flushed with the kind of fanaticism that only comes from knowing you've found a winning formula.
Meanwhile, the rest of the school was still reeling from the visual of the Firebolt.
"They're acting like they've already won the Cup just because of a bit of wood and tail-twigs," Ron grumbled to Harry as they walked through the courtyard. His voice was thick with jealousy, his eyes darting toward any Ravenclaw who walked by.
Harry didn't answer. He was clutching his book on broomsticks so tightly his knuckles were white. The "Meteor" school broom was a joke, and while he was looking at mid-range models like the Cleansweep, they felt like toys compared to what he had seen in Allen's hands.
The only bright spot in his week was the return of Professor Lupin. The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom felt warmer, more alive, now that the werewolf had returned to his post.
For the Ravenclaws, Lupin's return was a blessing, mostly because he immediately scrapped the grueling two-roll parchment essays Snape had assigned during his "substitution."
The class was fascinating. Lupin had brought in a Hinkypunk—a wispy, smoke-like creature that hopped on one leg. "It uses that lantern to lead travelers into the marsh," Lupin explained, his voice gentle as the students scribbled notes. "It's a creature of deception. It looks harmless, fragile even, but its goal is to lead you into a place where you cannot escape."
The Hinkypunk pressed its face against the glass, making a sound like a dying fire. When the bell rang, the students scrambled for the door, eager for lunch. But Allen stayed behind, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed.
"Professor, you look like you've been through the ringer," Allen said softly, once the room had cleared.
Lupin stopped packing his briefcase. He looked up, his face lined with a weariness that went beyond simple illness. His robes hung loosely on his frame, and the shadows under his eyes were deep enough to hold secrets.
"Thank you for the concern, Allen," Lupin said, a faint, tired smile touching his lips. "It was just a particularly rough bout of... seasonal illness."
"Seasonal?" Allen repeated, his voice devoid of judgment but sharp with insight. "That's one word for it."
Lupin's smile faltered. He straightened up, his gaze becoming more guarded.
"I've finished the essay Snape assigned," Allen continued, lowering his voice as he stepped closer to the professor's desk. "The one on Werewolves. It was very enlightening. I did a lot of independent research to make sure I got the details right."
The winter sun slanted through the high windows, illuminating the premature grey in Lupin's hair. He looked older than his years, a man who had spent a lifetime running from himself.
"I noticed something during our Boggart lesson, Professor," Allen said calmly. "Your Boggart didn't turn into a failure, or a corpse, or a monster. It turned into a silvery orb. A crystal ball, some might say. But to me, it looked an awful lot like a full moon."
Lupin went very still. The sound of his briefcase clicking shut echoed in the empty room.
"And then there's the timing," Allen pressed on. "A full moon passed recently. You were absent. Snape, a man who loathes you, was suddenly brewing a very specific, very complex potion—the Wolfsbane Potion. A potion that has only recently been perfected."
Allen saw Lupin's hand twitch, as if he wanted to reach out, perhaps to stop Allen's words, or perhaps to steady himself.
"It's a lot of coincidences, don't you think?" Allen asked.
A heavy silence descended upon the classroom. Lupin didn't deny it. He didn't get angry. He simply stood there, the weight of the truth finally out in the open.
"You are an exceptionally observant young man, Allen," Lupin said, his voice a dry whisper. "Yes. I am a werewolf. Dumbledore... he is a man of immense faith. He allowed me this position, despite what I am. And Severus, for all our differences, provides the potion that keeps the world safe from me. As long as I drink it the week before the moon, I keep my mind. I become a harmless wolf, waiting for the dawn in the safety of my office."
Lupin looked at Allen, a bitter, self-deprecating smile on his face. "If you cannot accept having a monster as a teacher, I would understand...."