In front of his Head of House, Malfoy's bravado reached a fever pitch. He refused to yield even an inch, thrusting his chest out and tilting his chin up with a sneer that looked like it had been carved out of ice.
"I'll see you on the pitch, Harris," Draco spat, his voice echoing off the damp stone walls. "I just hope you can actually hold onto that Firebolt of yours. It would be a shame if the Whomping Willow decided it needed more kindling for the winter. Or maybe you'll just fall off—it seems to be a trend among your lot lately."
Draco's eyes flickered toward Harry with a predatory glint, while Crabbe and Goyle provided a rhythmic, low-IQ soundtrack of snickers behind him.
"Talk is cheap, Draco. We've been hearing it from you since the first year," Allen replied, his voice unnervingly calm. He didn't look angry; he looked bored. "If you're so confident that my broom is a liability and your skill is superior, why don't we make this interesting? A little incentive to keep things from getting dull."
Malfoy's eyes widened slightly. He wasn't used to people leaning into his provocations. "A wager? Fine. If you want to lose more than just a game, I'm game."
"Good," Allen said. "Let's set the stakes high. Whoever loses the match has to strip down to their birthday suit and fly three laps around the entire castle on their broom. High enough for the Astronomy Tower to see, and low enough for the Great Hall to get a good look."
It was a humiliating, career-ending proposal. Even Goyle stopped laughing, looking a bit pale at the thought. But Malfoy, fueled by the presence of Snape and a desperate need to assert dominance, nodded sharply.
"Deal. But I'm adding a clause," Malfoy said, his expression turning strangely complex. His eyes darted to Harry again, and for a fleeting second, Allen saw a look of intense, twisted obsession that reminded him far too much of the way Dumbledore occasionally peered into people's souls. "If you lose, Harris, you're done. No more hanging out with Potter. No more 'training' him, no more secret chats, nothing. You stay away from him entirely."
Allen let out a dry, awkward cough. The "Draco wants Harry's attention" theory was becoming less of a joke and more of a disturbing reality.
"You really do care about him a lot, don't you?" Allen mused, a mischievous glint entering his eyes. "Tell you what, let's balance the scales. If you lose, during your naked victory—or rather, defeat—lap, you have to scream at the top of your lungs: 'I only bully Harry Potter because I have a massive crush on him and I'm pathologically jealous of Ron Weasley!'"
The silence that followed was deafening. Harry looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole. Ron, on the other hand, went through a visible transformation: from confusion, to realization, to a look of utter, horrified triumph. He looked at Malfoy as if he had just discovered a new species of pathetic.
Malfoy's face went through three different shades of purple. He looked like he was about to physically implode or launch himself at Allen's throat.
"I'm just kidding, obviously," Allen shrugged, waving a hand dismissively. "Unless you're actually considering it?"
"Shut up!" Malfoy hissed, his voice cracking. "Fine! It's settled. Three laps. Full exposure. Hope you've been working out, Harris!"
He turned on his heel and stormed into the Potions classroom, aggressively shoving past Harry and Ron as if they were made of smoke. Snape, who had watched the entire exchange with a look of profound distaste, let out a cold, sharp snort.
"To your seats. Unless you'd like to begin your laps early," Snape drawled, his cloak billowing behind him like the wings of a giant bat as he swept into the darkness of the dungeon.
The news of the 'Naked Lap Wager' didn't just spread; it detonated. By dinner, the Great Hall was a powder keg. The Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables were no longer just separate; they were opposing fronts in a cold war.
Roger Davies was a mess. He asked Allen about the Firebolt's security no less than five times before the soup was even served.
"Allen, are you sure it's locked up? Did you use the Anti-Alohomora charm? What about a proximity jinx?" Roger's fork was trembling. He suddenly stood up, knocking over a goblet of pumpkin juice. "That's it. I'm organizing a guard rotation. The Slytherins are sneaky bastards. They won't fight fair."
It turned out Roger's paranoia was justified. That very night, two seventh-year Ravenclaws on 'night watch' caught Marcus Flint and Miles Bletchley trying to bypass the eagle knocker with a series of dark-looking counter-charms.
By the time Professor Flitwick was summoned to deal with the intruders, the two Slytherins had already been 'dealt with' by a dozen angry Ravenclaws who had been woken up by the scuffle. Flint and Bletchley were found slumped against the wall, black-and-blue and smelling faintly of a 'Stinking Pellets' explosion.
Snape arrived shortly after, looking like he had been interrupted in the middle of something unpleasant. He bowed stiffly to the diminutive Flitwick. "Professor Flitwick, my apologies for the... exuberant behavior of my students. I shall see to it that Mr. Flint and Mr. Bletchley are adequately punished."
He grabbed the two boys by their collars, hauling them up with surprising strength. But before he left, his eyes found Allen in the crowd. A thin, cruel smile touched his lips.
"Filius," Snape said, his voice echoing in the quiet corridor. "Since our students have seen fit to place wagers on this match, perhaps we should join them. A show of solidarity for our respective houses."
Flitwick adjusted his glasses, his aura sharpening despite his height. "What did you have in mind, Severus?"
"The House Cup," Snape whispered. "Whichever house loses tomorrow's match... that house voluntarily withdraws from the House Cup competition for the remainder of the year. A total surrender of points."
A collective gasp rippled through the gathered students. This was no longer about a naked lap or a personal grudge. This was the pride of the entire house.
"If you want to bet, Severus, then let's bet," Flitwick squeaked, his voice full of a steel that took everyone by surprise. "Ravenclaw does not shy away from a challenge."
The final twenty-four hours before the match were pure chaos. The atmosphere in the castle was toxic. Skirmishes broke out in every hallway. A fourth-year Ravenclaw was currently in the hospital wing with green leeks sprouting from his ears after a run-in with a Slytherin prefect, and a Slytherin girl had been hit with a curse that made her speak exclusively in limericks about her own failures.
Cho Chang was having the worst of it. As the Seeker, she was a primary target. Slytherins would 'accidentally' trip her on the stairs or corner her in the library. Roger eventually ordered a permanent 'Cho-Guard'—a rotating group of six students who followed her everywhere. It got so bad that Cho couldn't even go to the bathroom without a small army waiting outside the door, and she was perpetually late to class because of the crowd.
Roger's stress levels were off the charts. He tried to convince Allen to let Flitwick lock the Firebolt in a Gringotts-style vault.
"It's fine, Roger! Relax," Allen said, patting his captain's shoulder. "The broom is protected by charms that would make a Gringotts goblin blush. No one is touching it."
The night before the game, the Ravenclaw common room was a hive of frantic energy. There was no studying, no quiet reading. The players were pacing like caged animals. Roger was in the corner with a miniature Quidditch model, muttering to himself and moving the tiny players with jerky, nervous wand movements.
"We have the Firebolt... we have the Firebolt..." he kept chanting, like a prayer.
Cho was sitting with Luna, laughing at something the younger girl said. It was an over-the-top, hysterical laugh that didn't reach her eyes—the laugh of someone on the verge of a breakdown.
Allen realized he had to do something. He stood up on a table in the center of the room and pointed his wand at his throat.
"Sonorus!"
His voice boomed, instantly silencing the frantic chattering and the clatter of Quidditch pieces. Every eye in the room turned to him.
"Ravenclaws, look at yourselves," Allen said, his voice deep and resonant. He scanned the room, making eye contact with the younger students who looked terrified. "I'll admit, I feel a bit of the weight here. My wager with Malfoy has turned this into something... extreme. We are at an impasse with Slytherin that goes beyond the game."
He saw people nodding, their expressions grim.
"Tomorrow, we go out there as a team. We can either let the pressure crush us, or we can use it as fuel. Slytherin wants to see us buckle. They want us to stay awake all night worrying about House Cups and naked laps. They want us to lose before we even mount our brooms."
Allen stepped down from the table, his tone dropping to a serious, low vibration. "The difference between winning and losing is the willingness to throw yourself into the fire. I have no doubt we are the better team. I have no doubt that we will win. But for that to happen, I need you all to find your calm. We don't win with panic; we win with logic and precision. That is the Ravenclaw way."
He looked at Roger, whose hands had finally stopped shaking.
"Go to sleep. Save your energy. Tomorrow, we don't just play a game. We take everything they tried to steal from us."