The dessert table was a vibrant minefield of magical pranks. Crystal glasses, frosted with sugar and filled with liquids of every impossible hue, lined the long tables. Edward, never one to let a plate go empty, finished a massive slab of coconut cake before reaching for a tall glass of brown, frothing juice.
He took one long gulp, and then it happened. His eyes widened, his face turned a peculiar shade of plum, and he let out a laugh so high-pitched and piercing it sounded like a steam whistle. Allen, watching Edward's sheer bewilderment as he clutched his stomach and giggled uncontrollably, couldn't help but join in.
Edward wasn't alone. From the Hufflepuff table to the Gryffindors, the Great Hall was becoming a cacophony of hysterical screeches and manic giggles.
"Laughter Water," a smooth, self-assured voice announced. Professor Lockhart, radiant in moon-white robes embroidered with spinning gold stars, drifted toward them. He held a rose-pink glass of fruit juice as if it were a fine vintage. "I once encountered a rogue Laughter Spirit in the heart of the Amazon. The effect was so profound I laughed for three days straight—nearly missed my scheduled duel with a headhunter chief!"
"Three days?" Allen mused, watching Edward nearly slide under the table in a fit of giggles. "I think three minutes is more than enough for most of us, Professor."
Lockhart beamed, his teeth flashing in the candlelight. He gestured toward the vibrant, fire-red juice in front of Allen. "Yours looks particularly spirited. I'd wager it's a Pomegranate Pulse. Care to test your luck, Mr. Harris?"
Allen looked at Edward's expectant, tear-streaked face and shrugged. He picked up the glass and took a deep, bold swallow. The liquid was icy—colder than the Black Lake in winter. As it slid down his throat, he felt a momentary flash of absolute frost in his chest, followed by a sweet, lingering aroma of berries and spice.
Edward's laughter shifted into a high-pitched snort. Lockhart himself chuckled, finished his drink, and moved toward the High Table. As he walked, thick plumes of white steam began to puff rhythmically from the Professor's ears, making him look like a very handsome locomotive.
Allen felt a strange warmth rising to his cheeks. "Mirror Magic," he whispered, flicking his fingers. A silver-framed oval mirror shimmered into existence before him.
His reflection was startling. His skin had turned a vibrant, stoplight red, and even his dark hair had shifted into a shock of brilliant crimson.
"Well," Allen said, inspecting his new look with a critical eye. "At least it's a festive shade. Better than the neon green cloud that's currently hovering over Professor Binns' head. Red suits a Harris, I think."
The feast eventually wound down, the sugar-high students chattering with a frantic energy as they prepared to head back to their dorms for the night's real festivities. For the Ravenclaws, the Halloween feast was merely the opening act for the legendary House Masquerade.
However, the lighthearted mood died the moment the crowd reached the second-floor corridor.
The students at the front had come to a dead stop. The chatter died out, replaced by a cold, heavy silence that rippled back through the line of children. Allen squeezed through the press of bodies, his red face reflecting the flickering torchlight.
The sight was enough to chill the blood. On the stone wall between two high windows, words had been scrawled in foot-high letters that seemed to glow with a dark, wet sheen:
THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. BEWARE, ENEMIES OF THE HEIR!
Hanging by her tail from a bracket meant for a torch was Mrs. Norris. The cat was stiff—not dead-stiff, but board-stiff, her eyes wide and fixed in a sightless, glassy stare. A large puddle of water shimmered on the floor beneath her. Standing in the center of the hall, looking caught and guilty, were Harry, Ron, and Hermione.
"Enemies of the Heir, beware!"
The voice was cold and sharp. Draco Malfoy had pushed to the front, his pale face flushed with a cruel excitement. He stared at the petrified cat, a twisted grin playing on his lips. "You'll be next, Mudbloods!"
The arrival of Argus Filch turned the scene from eerie to chaotic. The caretaker's grief was raw and terrifying. He screamed at Harry, his voice cracking with a cold-induced rasp, convinced that the boy had finally crossed the line into animal cruelty. Dumbledore and the other staff arrived soon after, dispersing the crowd with a stern efficiency. Harry and his friends were led away to Lockhart's office for questioning.
The walk back to the Ravenclaw tower was silent. The "Masquerade" was still on everyone's mind, but the context had shifted.
"Is she... is she dead?" Edward asked quietly as they climbed the spiral stairs. "Could Harry actually have done that?"
"No," Allen replied, his voice calm and authoritative. "Mrs. Norris isn't dead. She's petrified. It's a very specific, very advanced form of Dark Magic—the kind that requires a conduit or a creature of immense power. Harry Potter can barely manage a proper Disarming Charm; he hasn't got the magical weight for something like this."
Edward looked relieved. "I hate that cat, but I don't want her dead. Can Madam Pomfrey fix it?"
"She won't need to," Allen explained, sensing the unease of the students around him. "Professor Sprout is currently growing a crop of Mandrakes. Once they mature, their restorative properties can be brewed into a Draught. With Snape's technical skill, the cat will be prowling the corridors again by spring."
His confidence was infectious. By the time they reached the bronze eagle knocker, the Ravenclaws had regained their composure.
Allen retreated to his room to change. He decided to lean into the 'darkness' of the night. He combed his hair back into a sleek, aristocratic style—the bright red color had finally faded to a deep auburn—and donned a high-collared, Victorian-style frock coat. With a pair of retractable fangs and a touch of pale powder, he emerged as a convincing, high-born vampire.
The common room had been transformed. The massive bookshelves were hidden behind heavy velvet curtains, and the usual study tables were replaced by plush sofas and low tables laden with snacks. Butterbeer, smuggled in by the seventh-years, flowed freely.
The room was a riot of color and costumes. There were Grim Reapers, green-faced hags, and even a few students dressed as Muggle superheroes they'd seen in comic books. But the showstopper was Penelope Clearwater.
She was dressed as 'Catwoman,' wearing a sleek, black jumpsuit and a headband with pointed ears. She moved with a feline grace that made Allen finally realize why her gait in the Great Hall had seemed so familiar.
"Catwoman, Penelope? Really?" Allen asked, leaning against a pillar with a cup of cider.
She smirked, her eyes trailing over his vampire attire. "At least I'm not the fourth person tonight to come as a generic ghost, Allen. You look... dangerously elegant."
The party was a blur of dancing and games until the climax of the evening. The window casements flew open, and a miniature, flying pumpkin carriage drifted into the room.
Driving the carriage was a tiny figure in bright red robes with small, glowing horns. It was Professor Flitwick, dressed as a "Little Devil." He circled the room, his high-pitched laughter echoing as he used his wand to scatter enchanted sweets that flew into the students' pockets.
"Happy Halloween, my eagles!" he squeaked.
The students roared with laughter. In their eyes, no matter the horns, their Head of House looked more like a Christmas elf than a creature of hell. Allen watched the chaos with a smile, the weight of the Chamber of Secrets forgotten for a few hours. The music was loud, the food was endless, and for one night, the shadows of the castle were kept at bay by the sheer, stubborn joy of the Ravenclaw House.