Back at Hogwarts, the relentless winter held the campus fast. The thick snow blanket never retreated, and only occasionally would the Giant Squid breach the ice of the frozen Black Lake to bask sluggishly in the pale sun.
Allen was genuinely happy to be back. The chaos of his holiday adventures was exhilarating, but the return to the predictable structure of school life was strangely soothing. He couldn't suppress a chuckle when he saw the Weasley twins, who were serving detention in the foyer under Filch's sour supervision.
Apparently, before the break, they had bewitched a horde of snowballs to ceaselessly pursue Professor Quirrell, pummeling the back of his turbaned head.
Allen still felt an odd sense of responsibility towards the Grey Lady, Helena Ravenclaw, who often hovered near the statue area with a perpetual frown, unable to enter.
Despite having promised the ghost of Miss Rowena Ravenclaw that he would look out for her, Allen truly didn't know how one "cared" for a ghost, nor did he understand why a specter would require attention. So, when they encountered each other, he could only offer a polite smile and a brief, slightly formal greeting.
The Ravenclaw Common Room was the scene of the biggest surprise. A pleasant, soothing scent filled the air. To welcome the students back, Professor Flitwick had enlisted the help of his colleague, Professor Pomona Sprout, the Hufflepuff Head of House and Herbology expert, to obtain several calming aromatic herbs. He then used magic to create delicate, shimmering, illusionary plants to decorate the room.
At lunch, Allen felt a momentary wave of gloom. While the Ravenclaw table was loaded with tempting dishes for the young wizards around him, the pervasive, heavy English cooking gave Allen a genuine headache.
Though he possessed the theoretical knowledge of a master chef, his few attempts to cook at home while his mother was away had brutally demonstrated the chasm between his intellect and his execution. While his body control was steadily improving (thanks to his unique physical hardening), his knife skills remained rudimentary at best.
His roommate, Edward, was in fine spirits, enthusiastically recounting the strange, minor mishaps and eccentric relatives he had endured during his holiday. Allen, ever cautious not to offend, offered only minimal, non-committal advice. Even when Edward briefly mentioned his own personal experiences, Allen kept his responses short, ensuring that those listening intently to Edward's stories didn't catch Allen's far more dangerous exploits.
After eating to his heart's content, Allen spotted Fleg sitting at the Gryffindor table with Neville and noted that Fleg seemed much more energetic than he had been when school started. Allen approached him and chatted briefly, asking about his vacation.
While Fleg wasn't as talkative as he had been in Muggle school, Allen was aware of the crushing consequences of his old friend's lack of inherent magical ability. Powerless to truly help, Allen could only offer a few words of comfort before heading off toward the Ravenclaw Tower with Edward.
The Ravenclaw Common Room was high in the west side of the castle, overlooking an increasingly familiar stretch of grounds. As they climbed, a carefree thought drifted through Allen's mind, fixated on the comfortable, sky-blue silk bedding on the four-poster beds in their dormitory. He decided the only thing that could improve his mood right now was a long afternoon nap.
However, just as they reached the final staircase, Allen and Edward were ambushed by the infamous Golden Trio.
Seeing that Ron was still munching on a piece of what looked suspiciously like Hagrid's rock-hard bread, Allen correctly guessed they had come from the gamekeeper's hut.
"Thank you for the gift, Harris. I apologize for misunderstanding you before the holidays," Hermione said carefully, standing squarely in front of Allen, yet politely shifting her body to allow Allen and Edward to pass if they wished.
Allen looked at Hermione in surprise, then recalled the minor incident. Having experienced a whirlwind of life-and-death events over the break, he had completely forgotten the petty disagreement he'd had with Hermione and the others before the break. "It's fine, Miss Granger. It was a minor misunderstanding, nothing more."
"Allen, if there's nothing important, let's go," Edward reminded him irritably. He desperately wanted Allen to stop dawdling, as he didn't want his precious sleep interrupted by Allen's return.
The all-knowing girl's face flushed crimson with embarrassment. She nervously ran her hands up and down the sleeves of her robes. Clearly, Hermione, typically proud and rarely wrong, was not adept at apologizing. As a successful academic, she was far more accustomed to being asked for help than to asking for it.
Seeing the girl's strained expression, Allen pushed his roommate gently aside. "You go ahead. I'll chat for a bit and catch up later."
Edward grunted and trudged up the stairs, while the remaining three quickly eased their tension, creating a deliberately casual and friendly atmosphere.
"Allen, do you remember that huge, three-headed dog? What exactly do you think it's guarding?" Harry asked, relieved that he could finally speak freely without reservation, his voice noticeably lighter.
Hermione quickly added what they believed was the critical detail: "And that thing is what Professor Snape wants. Professor Snape was clearly cursing Harry during the Gryffindor and Slytherin match…"
"We asked Hagrid, and he accidentally let slip the name Nicolas Flamel," Ron said sagely. "So whatever Snape wants must have something to do with him."
"So, you want to know who Nicolas Flamel is?" Allen asked softly. The air immediately grew quiet. The trio suddenly looked awkward. The reason for their previous coldness toward Allen was precisely their desire to keep this whole investigation a secret.
Hermione had returned yesterday, the day before school restarted. She was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. On one hand, she was horrified by Harry's audacity in leaving his bed three nights in a row to stare into the Mirror of Erised. She was deeply worried that Filch might have caught him. On the other hand, she was deeply disappointed that none of them had figured out Flamel's identity during the long holiday.
They had almost given up hope of finding Flamel in the library, but Harry still felt certain he had seen the name somewhere before, so the trio were pinning their last, desperate hope on Allen's renowned memory.
"Nicolas Flamel was a master alchemist and a colleague of Professor Dumbledore," Allen said, leaning in and lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if playing a dramatic role. "Nicolas Flamel is also the only known creator of the Philosopher's Stone!"
But his words did not land with the expected impact.
Harry and Ron looked utterly bewildered, wearing identical, vacant expressions. With the same wordless mutual understanding common to the Weasley twins, they asked the same question in unison: "Which stone?"
Hermione, the great know-it-all, was furious at her two friends' breathtaking ignorance. She hissed at them: "What is wrong with you two? Don't you ever read a thing? Ancient alchemy involves the creation of the Philosopher's Stone, a legendary substance with incredible powers! The Philosopher's Stone can turn any base metal into pure gold and can also be used to create the Elixir of Life, ensuring that whoever drinks it will never die!"
Harry and Ron were stunned into silence; Ron's jaw was hanging wide open in amazement.
Allen nodded, acknowledging Hermione's erudition, and added: "The only known Philosopher's Stone in the wizarding world belongs to Mr. Nicolas Flamel. He celebrated his six hundred and sixty-fifth birthday last year and currently lives in seclusion in Devon with his wife, Perenelle."
"That huge dog must be guarding Flamel's Philosopher's Stone!" Hermione gasped, rapidly piecing the puzzle together. "I bet Flamel asked Dumbledore to look after it because they're friends, and Flamel knew someone was after the Stone. That's why he had it removed from Gringotts!"
"A Stone that can make gold and grant you immortality!" Harry exclaimed, wide-eyed. "No wonder Snape is after it! Everyone would want it!"
"No wonder we couldn't find Flamel in 'Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century'," Ron mused. "Six hundred and sixty-five years old? You can't exactly call him modern, can you?"
Allen was secretly quite pleased with himself. He, too, possessed his own Philosopher's Stone and had personally completed its final creation. However, in his mind, his involvement was akin to having someone else do all the laborious cooking, and he merely stepped in at the end to sprinkle the garnish and present the dish.
With the semester officially underway, Allen returned to his highly disciplined and structured life.
Perhaps owing to the end of the holidays and the looming final exams, the professors began piling on the homework. Professor Snape, in particular, seemed exceptionally agitated, and his demands were extraordinarily strict. Nearly every ordinary Slytherin student, save for the top academics like Allen and Hermione who sailed through, was strained to the point of exhaustion.
Fortunately, Allen's photographic memory allowed him to cope with the heavy academic workload. Otherwise, achieving perfect grades across all classes would have been a genuine struggle.
Especially since the Ravenclaw Quidditch team had a chance to win the Quidditch Cup this year with their combined score, potentially achieving a perfect season. Roger Davies, the team captain, was utterly motivated. He held tactical analysis meetings daily and insisted on training sessions that bordered on fanaticism.
The Ravenclaw captain was more demanding than ever of his players. Even on days when heavy snowfall was followed by continuous, driving rain—days that normally earned the team a mandatory rest—he refused to let his players relax. Roger's intensity this year made him rival the legendary dedication of the Gryffindor Captain, Oliver Wood, the quintessential Hogwarts Quidditch purist.
Despite the physical exhaustion, Allen was filled with an inner joy, knowing that these full, passionately lived days would become his most precious memories.
During a particularly wet and muddy training session, Roger excitedly announced that Professor Snape would be the referee for the Quidditch Final.
"Why not Madam Hooch?" protested a Chaser.
"Yeah, Madam Hooch is the most professional!" argued another.
"Snape is too scary…" muttered a third.
"Who cares why!" Roger waved his hand triumphantly. "Don't worry! Professor Snape might only favor Slytherin, but our opponent is Gryffindor! He hates them far more than he likes us Ravenclaws!"
The team members argued heatedly, and Allen found the various misconceptions surrounding the old bat deeply amusing. "The arrogant old git wants to protect Harry, yet ironically, in their eyes, he remains a thoroughly evil man—though it is true he's ridiculously prejudiced against Gryffindor."