That voice. It was unmistakable. To anyone else, it was a phantom chill, a trick of the wind, or a descent into madness. But to Allen, who had earned the "Basilisk Recital" accolade during the chaotic Sea Serpent event, it was as clear as a conversation over tea. The ancient King of Serpents was hungry, and it was moving through the very bones of the castle.
Most would have panicked. Harry, Allen knew, was likely currently stumbling through the corridors, his hands over his ears, bewildered by the bloodthirsty whispers only he could hear. But Allen stayed perfectly still. He had no intention of charging into the dark to play the hero. Not yet. A reckless confrontation would only serve to wake Tom Riddle's lingering soul fragments prematurely. If the Basilisk were enraged, it wouldn't just be a cat or a ghost getting petrified—the body count would start rising, and Allen wasn't ready to deal with the fallout of a full-scale tragedy.
"Preparation," Allen murmured to the empty corridor, his voice steady. "Time, research, and perhaps a very loud rooster."
He returned to the Ravenclaw tower, his mind already cataloging the spells he needed to refine. Over the following weeks, the peaceful rhythm of school life became his sanctuary. While the rest of the student body gossiped about Lockhart's latest exploits, Allen immersed himself in the library's Restricted Section. He moved beyond standard curriculum, diving into the murky depths of spirit magic and the specific physiological weaknesses of XXXXX-class magical beasts. He wasn't just studying for an exam; he was preparing for a hunt. He pushed his magical foundations to a level of solidity that even some of the professors would have envied, turning his magic from a flickering flame into a steady, focused beam.
October arrived with a vengeance. The Scottish Highlands were swallowed by a damp, bone-deep chill that seemed to seep through the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts. A nasty strain of flu swept through the castle, sparing neither student nor staff. Madam Pomfrey's infirmary was a revolving door of sneezing wizards. Her Pepperup Potion was legendary—it worked instantly, but the side effect was a literal steam-venting from the ears that lasted for hours.
In the Ravenclaw common room, it looked like a factory floor. Scores of students sat at their desks, plumes of white vapor curling from their heads as if their brains were overheating from too much study.
"We really need a proper physical education program," Allen thought, watching a third-year nearly fall over from a particularly violent sneeze. "Relying on first-year flying lessons and a handful of Quidditch spots is a terrible way to maintain the student body's immune systems. If they were half as fit as they were studious, half these beds would be empty."
But while the general population withered, the Quidditch players were pushed to their breaking point. Roger Davies, the Ravenclaw Captain, had transformed into a man possessed. He didn't care about the rain or the mud; he saw only the golden glint of the Quidditch Cup.
During the summer, Roger had obsessively studied the playbooks of the professional leagues—the Chudley Cannons' defensive maneuvers, the Holyhead Harpies' aggressive formation flying, and the Wimbledon Hornets' lightning-fast seeker pivots. He was a man with a plan, and that plan was fueled by seven sleek, polished handles of ash and iron: the Nimbus 2001s.
"This is our edge," Roger told the team during a late-night briefing, his face flushed with a mixture of exhaustion and feverish excitement. "These brooms are the secret. The Slytherins think they're the only ones with deep pockets, but our anonymous benefactor has ensured we aren't just playing the game—we're changing it."
The "generous donor"—a title Allen wore with secret amusement—had upped the stakes. A 500-Galleon prize for winning the Cup. For students whose world usually revolved around silver Sickles and bronze Knuts, that much gold was a king's ransom. It turned the usual "play for honor" mentality into a hungry, professional drive.
Cho Chang was the most dedicated of the lot. Even after catching a cold that left her ears steaming like a teakettle, she refused to miss a session. Allen had tried to help, casting "Wind-Turning" and "Moisture-Wicking" charms on her gear, but the Scottish rain was a persistent enemy.
"You should see them, Allen," Cho told him one evening, shivering despite the fire. "The Slytherins are just... green blurs. They look like jet engines with capes. But our new Nimbuses? They're faster. I felt it during the secret trial. It's like the broom knows where I want to go before I even lean."
The secret of the brooms didn't stay secret for long. Soon, every Ravenclaw walked with a certain swagger, a knowing smirk when they passed a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff. The atmosphere in the school was polarized. The Gryffindors, in particular, looked miserable. Without the confidence of superior equipment and lacking the tactical rigor Roger had instilled in the Eagles, Wood's team was falling apart in the mud.
Allen often saw Harry returning from practice, looking more like a swamp creature than a Seeker, caked in so much grime you couldn't see his glasses.
"The Penguin was right," Allen thought, recalling a bit of muggle wisdom. "There's always a price for power. Sometimes that price is just being miserably wet for three months."
The rain intensified as the month wore on, droplets hitting the windows with the force of bullets. Ron Weasley found Allen in the library one afternoon, looking utterly defeated.
"It won't dry, Allen," Ron hissed, holding his new wand as if it were a dead fish. "The weather's too damp. I can't do the blessing ceremony if the wood hasn't properly cured, and I can't cure the wood if the air is basically soup!"
Allen looked at the wand and sighed. "If we don't get a clear moon soon, the window for the farewell ceremony will close. You'll be stuck with a temperamental stick for the rest of the term."
Ron groaned and headed off to his next lesson, likely to accidentally turn his desk into a puddle of goo.
Allen turned his attention back to his own research: the Animagus transformation. He had been digging through the Ravenclaw Tower's private archives, but the process was maddeningly dependent on the weather. You needed a thunderstorm at the exact right moment, or the whole process failed.
"If the weather doesn't cooperate," Allen mused, "I might have to look into the Black family records. Sirius and his lot became Animagi in record time, and they weren't exactly known for their patience. There must be a shortcut, a way to bypass the environmental triggers."
Outside, the lake had risen so high the banks were indistinguishable from the water. Hagrid's pumpkins had reached the size of small garden sheds. Every time Allen walked past the patch, his mind filled with the scent of roasted seeds and pumpkin pie. He marveled at Hagrid's mastery of the Engorgement Charm. He just hoped the magic didn't ruin the flavor—sometimes magically accelerated growth made vegetables taste like watery cardboard.
One particularly gloomy afternoon, the sky turned a bruised charcoal color, and a torrential downpour began that was so heavy it actually forced Roger to cancel practice. The relief in the common room was palpable.
Allen decided to take a break from his books. He wandered the castle, enjoying the rare silence. The stone corridors were drafty, and the shadows seemed longer than usual.
His peace was shattered near the third floor. Argus Filch, the caretaker, came stomping around a corner, a wet rag in one hand and a look of pure, unadulterated fury on his face. Steam was billowing from Filch's ears—he'd clearly been to see Madam Pomfrey—making him look like an angry steam engine in a trench coat.
He didn't even yell at Allen for being out of his common room. He just snarled something under his breath about "filthy brats" and "ruining the floors," before disappearing into a side corridor.
Allen paused, his eyes narrowing. Filch was usually grumpy, but this was a different level of agitation. It was a frantic, desperate sort of anger.
"Halloween is still days away," Allen thought, his pulse quickening. "But the atmosphere is shifting. Did the first incident happen early? Is the diary already exerting its influence?"
He looked toward the direction Filch had come from. The air felt heavy, charged with a dark, ancient magic that didn't belong in a school. The "New Life" promised by the Chamber was stirring, and Allen realized that his period of quiet preparation was rapidly coming to an end.