"No, Professor, I think you've misunderstood me," Allen said, cutting through Lupin's spiral of self-deprecation before he could offer his resignation. "I'm not here to demand your departure. In fact, I find your teaching methods quite refreshing compared to the... traditional alternatives we've had."
Lupin remained motionless, his eyes searching Allen's face for a hidden motive. To the werewolf, a student with this much leverage was a terrifying prospect. In the wizarding world, a secret like his wasn't just a scandal; it was a death sentence for a career.
"I won't be reporting your condition to the Board of Governors, or even to the Daily Prophet," Allen continued, his voice steady. "Your identity is your business. However, I do have a condition for my silence. A small insurance policy, if you will."
Lupin's grip on his briefcase tightened until his knuckles turned white. "And what does this 'insurance' look like, Allen? Blackmail is a heavy word for a thirteen-year-old."
"I prefer the term 'mutual understanding,'" Allen countered smoothly. "I simply want your word that if I ever find myself in a situation where I need a specific favor—a bit of expertise or a tactical intervention—you will act according to my instructions. Provided, of course, that the request isn't immoral and doesn't put your life or anyone else's in direct danger."
Lupin looked at him, truly seeing the young man for the first time. Allen wasn't just a gifted student; he was a player on a board Lupin hadn't even realized was set up. The weight of the secret was a chain, and Allen had just picked up the key.
"You're asking for a blank check," Lupin said with a wry, tired smile. "But I suppose a man in my position isn't in much of a place to negotiate. Fine. You have my word, Allen. As long as it doesn't violate my conscience."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Professor. I have a great deal of respect for your character," Allen replied, his expression softening into something more sincere. "In fact, to show you I'm acting in good faith... I've spent some time studying the Wolfsbane Potion. Snape's version is technically perfect, but it's unnecessarily harsh on the liver. I've developed a variation that might make the 'waiting' period a bit more comfortable for you. If you'd like, I can brew it."
Lupin's eyes flared with a mix of disbelief and pride. "That is... kind of you, Allen. Truly. But I think I'll stick with Professor Snape's brew for now. No offense to your talents, but taking a potion brewed by a student who just leveraged my secret is a bit more risk than I can handle today."
Allen shrugged, unfazed by the rejection. "Fair enough. The offer stands if you ever find yourself short on supplies."
He turned to leave, but stopped at the threshold of the classroom, looking back over his shoulder. "One more thing, Professor. Harry has been having a rough time with the Dementors. It's affecting his performance and his state of mind. Perhaps you could find the time to teach him the Patronus Charm? He needs a win, and you're the best man for the job."
Lupin's gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing. "Is this a part of our agreement? A demand?"
Allen laughed, a light, genuine sound. "Not at all. Just a suggestion from one friend of Harry's to another. It would put your mind at ease to know I'm not just a 'blackmailer,' wouldn't it?"
With a polite nod, Allen stepped out into the corridor, leaving Lupin alone with his thoughts and a Hinkypunk that was still frantically scratching at its glass cage.
As the days bled into weeks, the atmosphere in Hogwarts grew increasingly claustrophobic. The upcoming Ravenclaw versus Slytherin match had everyone on edge. Roger Davies had turned into a drill sergeant, dragging the team out to the pitch in freezing rain and howling winds. Even Allen, with his magically enhanced stamina, found himself falling into bed each night with muscles that throbbed like a drum.
Because of the grueling training schedule, Allen's academic discipline slipped—just enough for a certain Potions Master to notice. He had forgotten to hand in the redundant werewolf essay to Snape on time. Initially, Snape hadn't said a word, which Allen took as a sign that the professor was simply too busy being miserable to care.
He was wrong.
In the next Potions class, Snape hovered over Allen's cauldron like a vengeful spirit. "Ten points from Ravenclaw," Snape silkily announced. "For a lack of punctuality that borders on the insulting."
"Just because you saved my cauldron from exploding by giving me the right timing!" Edward whispered furiously once Snape had moved away. "He's been a nightmare since Lupin came back. He's taking it out on everyone."
"It's fine, Edward," Allen said, stirring his potion with practiced ease. "Ten points is a small price to pay for the amusement he provides. Besides, it could be worse. We could be Ron Weasley."
Michael Corner leaned in, his eyes gleaming with the kind of gossip that kept the Ravenclaw common room alive at night. "Did you guys hear about Weasley's detention? He actually had the nerve to mouth off to Snape while he was subbing for Lupin."
"What did he do?" Edward asked, leaning in.
"Snape has him scrubbing the hospital wing bedpans," Michael whispered, grinning ear to ear. "And the kicker? No magic. Pure, manual labor. He's been in there for three nights straight."
Michael had never forgiven Ron for the snide comments the Gryffindor had made about Allen's "precious broom" earlier in the year. Seeing Ron reduced to a janitor was, for Michael, a beautiful stroke of karmic justice. Allen and Edward couldn't help but chuckle. The image of Ron Weasley, the self-proclaimed hero's best friend, elbow-deep in hospital grime was objectively funny.
But as the saying goes, speak of the devil and he shall appear.
As they left the dungeons, they ran right into Harry and Ron. Both boys looked exhausted, but Ron looked particularly frazzled, his hair standing on end and a faint smell of disinfectant clinging to his robes. When Edward and Michael saw him, they broke into fresh fits of snickering before tactfully making their escape, leaving Allen alone with the duo.
"Allen, I owe you an apology," Ron said abruptly. He looked genuinely sheepish, which was a rare look for him.
Allen blinked, confused. "An apology? For what? The bedpans? I had nothing to do with that, I swear."
"No, not that!" Ron waved his hand dismissively. "I thought you were... you know, drifting away. I thought the Firebolt had gone to your head. But I was wrong. Your friendship with Harry is the real deal."
Harry stepped forward, his green eyes bright with a level of intensity that made Allen instinctively want to check his surroundings for an exit. "Thank you, Allen. Truly."
"What are you two on about?" Allen asked, genuinely lost.
"We just came from Lupin's office," Harry explained, his voice thick with excitement. "He told me everything. He's going to teach me the Patronus Charm next semester. He said it was your idea—that you went to him and insisted he help me."
Allen felt a brief surge of annoyance at Lupin. The werewolf had clearly decided to play his own game by portraying Allen as the "concerned friend" to bridge the gap. It was a clever move; it made Harry loyal to Allen and eased the tension of the secret.
"Ah," Allen said, regaining his composure. "Look, Lupin wanted to help you regardless. I just pointed him in the right direction. Don't make a big deal out of it."
"No, Allen, it is a big deal," Harry insisted. "I thought... well, things have been weird. But knowing you're looking out for me like that? It means a lot."
Before Allen could further downplay his "heroics," a familiar, drawling voice drifted through the corridor.
"Isn't this touching? The Savior and his little club of admirers, holding hands in the hallway."
Draco Malfoy strolled into view, flanked by the ever-present Crabbe and Goyle. He looked as smug as ever, his eyes darting between Harry's worn robes and Allen's calm demeanor.
"Malfoy," Ron spat, his hands balling into fists. "Do you want another crocodile heart to the face, or have you finally scrubbed the last of the slime off your ego?"
Malfoy's face twisted in rage. "Watch it, Weasley. One more outburst and Snape will have you scrubbing the Great Hall with a toothbrush. Fifty points from Gryffindor wasn't enough for you?"
"That's enough," a cold, silk-wrapped voice intervened. Professor Snape stepped out from the shadows of a nearby archway, his black eyes fixed on Allen. "Mr. Harris... I heard a rumor that you've been meddling in the curriculum. Persuading Professor Lupin to teach advanced charms to students who can barely handle a basic shield?"
"I don't 'meddle,' Professor," Allen said, his voice as cool as the stone walls around them. "I suggest. Whether the Professor chooses to act on those suggestions is entirely his prerogative. I'm sure you, of all people, understand the importance of a teacher's autonomy."
Snape's eyes narrowed until they were mere slits. He looked like he wanted to dock points just for the tone of Allen's voice, but he knew he had no legal ground.
Behind Snape's back, Malfoy was making exaggerated, mocking gestures, pretending to be a Dementor and shivering in mock fear. Harry and Ron were vibrating with suppressed fury, but the presence of Snape acted like a physical barrier.
"Potter needs all the help he can get, doesn't he, Professor?" Malfoy sneered. "Since he's so prone to falling off his broom the moment things get a little chilly."
Allen looked at Malfoy, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. It was the same smile he had worn on the pitch when he first picked up the Beater's bat.
"You know, Draco," Allen said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, conversational tone. "Whether I'm Harry's 'sidekick' or his 'savior' doesn't really matter. What matters is the pitch. In a few days, it'll just be us up there. No professors to hide behind. No points to deduct."
He took a step toward Malfoy, ignoring Snape's warning glare. "Why don't we see who really needs protection when a Bludger is screaming toward their head at eighty miles an hour? I'll be looking for you, Draco. I hope your 'sidekicks' are fast enough to catch you."