"Oh, Owen, do you see? You absolutely mocked me when I insisted on buying these books last year, claiming I was wasting galleons on vapid celebrity nonsense. But look at my excellent foresight now! Gilderoy Lockhart has become Allen's professor, and these books are now the official, mandatory Hogwarts textbooks! Not a single Knut wasted, and Allen doesn't have to join that awful crowd at Flourish and Blotts!" Mrs. Harris declared, crossing her arms with a triumphant, self-satisfied smile, immensely pleased with her uncanny pre-school-year assessment.
Owen Harris, still chuckling about the sheer number of Lockhart's heavily stylized, self-serving titles, shook his head. "My dearest, your taste in literature may be questionable, but your timing is impeccable. Consider me corrected. It seems the celebrity wizard has successfully charmed even Dumbledore."
"Alan, don't forget the promise you made!" Daisy interjected, her eyes wide and eager, fixing on her brother. "You absolutely have to get Gilderoy's signature for us! A dedication, maybe? Something really personal?" She sighed wistfully, looking longingly at Allen as if wishing she could somehow switch places with him, trading her predictable, if important, work at St. Mungo's for a term at Hogwarts.
Allen, who viewed Lockhart with the jaded cynicism of someone who knew a theatrical con when he saw one, raised a casual eyebrow. He reached for the copy of the Daily Prophet still lying nearby, its front page dominated by a massive advertisement for the bookstore event.
The photograph showed Gilderoy Lockhart with a devastatingly bright smile, his perfectly coiffed hair catching the light, and his teeth sparkling a suspiciously brilliant white.
"Daisy, I have a much better idea," Allen suggested, offering her the paper. "He's having a huge book signing event at Flourish and Blotts next Wednesday. If you truly want his autograph, why don't you go down yourself? You might not only get a personalized autograph, but you could probably elbow your way into a quick photograph with him as well."
Daisy snatched the newspaper from Allen's hand with the speed of a Snitch, her breathing quickening slightly. She meticulously smoothed out the creases and wrinkles, folding the advertisement carefully before tucking it inside her favorite edition of Lockhart's most recent memoir.
What a fundamentally successful, charismatic con artist, Allen thought, watching his intelligent, mature sister reduce herself to a star-struck fan in mere seconds. The man had managed to turn a career of taking credit for other wizards' achievements into genuine, widespread adoration.
"I can totally manage that!" Daisy muttered, her planning brain already activating. "I can take a day off next Wednesday, even if I have to put in a few double shifts later to make up the hours at St. Mungo's. It will be completely worth it!"
Allen saw his opportunity to combine his own organizational needs with his sister's feverish enthusiasm. "Perhaps, big sister, I can offer you a more suitable, perfectly legitimate reason for taking that day off? We could frame it as a necessary trip to procure school supplies for your youngest sibling. What do you say?"
Allen explained that he had recently performed extensive purchases of his own—hundreds of rare books, large amounts of potent herbal remedies, and specialized potion ingredients. These were currently piled high, waiting to be cataloged and neatly organized, perhaps with some overflow storage into his magical, mobile tower.
"That," Daisy declared, beaming at him, "is a truly marvelous idea! A dedicated day for family duty and meeting my literary hero! You, little brother, are a genius." To reward his brilliant logistical suggestion, she immediately poured Allen another cup of steaming black tea, watching happily as he drank it down.
The Lockhart conversation ended, and the house settled back into its comfortable rhythms. Allen spent the rest of the day leisurely flipping through the remaining pages of the Daily Prophet. He noted something strange: Rita Skeeter, the paper's chief, sensationalist reporter, hadn't published a single story in a noticeably long time.
Allen knew precisely why. The powerful Truth-Telling Charm he had bound her to was still perfectly effective; Rita simply couldn't manufacture her usual, slanderous narratives, and a journalist who could only report boring, unembellished facts couldn't keep her job. Apparently, finding a counter-charm or another magically enhanced quill wasn't easy even on the wizarding market.
What does a child's day look like in a comfortable wizarding home? Playing with simple, charmingly enchanted toys, listening to stories from a doting mother, and sneaking sweet cakes from the pantry. Emily's daily life was simple, secure, and wonderfully mundane.
But this morning, sitting in her large, solid oak high chair at the breakfast table, she kept poking at her tiny, button nose with a very deliberate finger.
"Emily, does your nose hurt?" All the adult wizards in the house had already left for work—Owen to the Ministry, Morgan to her research lab, and Daisy to St. Mungo's. Allen, currently the most senior member of the household, was the sole guardian for the morning.
"No, not at all, big brother. Quite the opposite, actually! My nose has never felt so comfortable and airy!" Emily answered clearly, her long, dark eyelashes blinking as she offered her opinion.
"Then why are you constantly fiddling with your nose, little bear?" Allen asked, setting his book aside, seeking a logical answer from his unusually articulate younger sister.
Emily immediately wriggled out of her high chair and ran over to Allen, who was sitting on the sofa reading an ancient tome on Transfiguration. She climbed onto his lap, eager for a cuddle and a whispered confidence.
"Allen, last night, while I was sleeping, I felt something soft go right up my nose. Not scary, but ticklish. And this morning, my nose is so super clear! It feels like I can smell everything in the garden! But what was it, do you think?"
Allen didn't dismiss her words as childish nonsense or a bid for attention, as many distracted adults might. Instead, he listened patiently and attentively, placing his heavy book aside to give her his full focus. Emily was deeply bonded with Allen, trusted him implicitly, and was sharing her genuine, if peculiar, doubts with the one person she knew would offer the best, most thoughtful response.
"You know, Emily, maybe there really is something unusual happening," Allen said calmly, stroking the top of her head. "It sounds very odd, but I believe you. Don't worry about it. Tonight, I will stay awake and keep watch for you, and we'll find out exactly what is causing all this trouble." Allen wasn't just offering reassurance; he had genuinely decided to use his full awareness and magical sight that night to investigate the source of her strange, nighttime visitor.
Children's ambiguous communication often causes parents to misunderstand a situation. They might interpret a complaint as a child seeking attention or acting out, entirely missing a child's genuine distress signal and a crucial opportunity for nurturing trust and understanding.
Allen, having the calm, disciplined mind of a teacher and an observer, certainly wouldn't make such a mistake. He took Emily's words seriously; his obedient little sister would never deliberately lie, and given the clarity of her expression, something truly out of the ordinary must have occurred.
As night fell, a deep, pervasive peace settled over the Harris home. Emily, feeling exceptionally safe and peaceful thanks to Allen's solemn promise of protection, nestled into her small, white oak bed. She drifted off to sleep quickly, a faint, serene smile gracing her lips.
After making absolutely certain Emily was in a deep sleep, Allen activated a powerful Disillusionment Charm on himself, sinking completely out of sight. He positioned himself in the deepest shadow of the room, his eyes sharp, his magical senses extended, and carefully began his watch.
Around midnight, his focus was rewarded. A spherical, vaguely defined object smoothly entered the room, not through the open window, but directly through the glass, as if the wall itself offered no resistance. In the faint, silvery moonlight filtering in, Allen could finally make out the shape of the creature.
It was covered in soft, creamy yellow fur, looking like a perfectly round, spherical plush toy. This round little monster scurried silently across the polished wooden floor, wriggling its body with a strange, fluid motion.
Every few seconds, a startlingly thin, bright pink tongue would emerge from the middle of its furry body, extending and slithering around like a curious, searching snake, as if diligently sweeping the floor for food.
Allen's tension instantly melted away, replaced by a wave of relief and a mild wave of amusement. He finally knew what he was dealing with.
It was a Puffball, known affectionately in the family as a Pu Rongrong. Puffballs are relatively common, extremely hardy magical creatures found across Europe and Asia. They are famously docile, never attacking wizards or even small rodents, which was why Allen instantly lowered his guard after recognizing it.
Because the Puffball is so gentle and round, it truly is like a Muggle plush toy—you can safely hug it, even toss it gently, and it won't react with anything more than a soft coo.
The furry creature navigated its way deftly across the carpet and climbed up onto Emily's small bed. It paused, stuck out its long, slender tongue, and then—with a quick, decisive motion—plunged its pink appendage into sleeping Emily's nostril.
Allen watched silently, making no move to intervene. He understood now. The Puffball, or Pu Rongrong, had a peculiar little habit: it loved sticking its tongue up the noses of sleeping wizards and eating their dried nasal mucus—a substance it apparently found delicious. Yesterday, the creature had done an excellent job of 'cleaning' Emily's nose, as it quickly retracted its tongue, apparently satisfied with the single, smooth entry.
This strange, hygienic little habit of the Puffball had made it beloved by wizarding children for generations. Even with owls and cats dominating the pet market, many wizarding families, including the Harrises, often kept a Pu Rongrong as a strangely effective, nocturnal companion.
Allen quietly stepped out of the shadows, the Disillusionment Charm dropping easily. He walked over to the Puffball, gently scooped him up, and stroked its soft, butter-yellow fur. The Pu Rongrong, utterly docile, curled up obediently in Allen's warm arms and began to purr contentedly, its whole spherical body vibrating with pleasure.
Allen quietly slipped out of Emily's room, the Puffball nestled securely in his arms, and gently closed the door behind him. They tiptoed straight to the kitchen. Moving with the practiced silence of a seasoned hunter, Allen lifted the lid of a cast-iron pot sitting on the corner of the stove. Great!
Inside, he found the flavorful leftovers from that evening's late dinner. Allen pulled out an unused plate, ladled a generous portion of food into it, and then released the Pu Rongrong from his embrace.
The cute, yellow-haired creature immediately bounced toward the plate, stuck out its long, pink tongue, tentatively tasted the savory food, and then—finding it significantly more delicious than snot—began to eat with large, vigorous licks.
Allen smiled, leaning against the counter, glad the mystery was solved and that Emily had simply acquired a particularly attentive, if socially awkward, new friend.