The condensation on the glass of chilled juice was the only thing grounding Harry as he watched the ice cubes swirl. He took a long, desperate gulp, the freezing liquid hitting the back of his throat like a physical shock. It worked; the fog of "Grim" omens and dark prophecies seemed to pull back just enough for him to breathe.
"It's just a dog, Allen. It has to be," Harry said, though it sounded more like he was trying to convince the glass in front of him than his friend. "I'm just being paranoid because of everything that happened with Aunt Marge."
Allen was draped across his chair in a way that suggested his bones had turned to liquid. He had one hand behind his head, looking like a tourist who didn't have a care in the world. "You're talking to yourself again, Harry. You want to tell me what's actually rattling around that messy head of yours?"
Harry didn't need much prompting. The words poured out of him—the sheer rage of seeing Marge insult his parents, the terrifying moment her fingers turned into sausages as she drifted toward the ceiling, and the cold dread of realizing he'd just committed a major breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. He described the lonely trek through the dark streets of Little Whinging, the sudden appearance of the massive, spectral dog in Magnolia Crescent, and the frantic ride on the Knight Bus.
"I was convinced I was done for," Harry admitted, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But then I saw it again—that dog. It was exactly like the one on the book cover. The same eyes, the same feeling of... well, death."
Allen didn't laugh. He didn't even sit up. He just watched a fly buzz near the window. "A stray dog in a suburban neighborhood isn't exactly a miracle, Harry. Dogs exist. Big, black, slightly terrifying dogs also exist. If you start looking for patterns in the clouds, you're eventually going to see a storm."
"It felt different," Harry insisted, ruffling his hair until it stood up at even more impossible angles. "It felt like it was waiting for me."
"Then let it wait," Allen said, finally looking at him. "Instead of worrying about a mutt, why aren't you asking the real question? You blew up a Muggle relative. In the eyes of the Ministry, that's usually a one-way ticket to expulsion and having your wand snapped. Yet, here you are, eating a free lunch in Diagon Alley while the Minister of Magic personally checks on your well-being. Doesn't that strike you as a bit more urgent than a stray dog?"
Harry blinked. The mystery of the dog had been so loud in his head that he hadn't fully processed the strangeness of Fudge's leniency. "I... I thought they were just being nice? Because of, you know, Voldemort?"
"The Ministry isn't 'nice' to anyone, Harry. Especially not to orphans who cause international incidents," Allen said, draining the last of his juice. "If you were some random Muggle-born kid from the Midlands or a wizard with a drop of goblin blood in your veins, you'd be sitting in a holding cell in Azkaban right now, regardless of your intentions. There's a reason you're being protected, and it isn't out of the goodness of Cornelius Fudge's heart."
"Then why?" Harry asked, his thoughts shifting gears with a violent mental jerk.
"What needs to happen will happen," Allen said, standing up and stretching his limbs. "The truth is rarely what they put on the front page of the Daily Prophet. My advice? Stop trying to solve the puzzle before you have all the pieces. You'll just give yourself a headache. I'll see you at the station, Harry. Try not to blow up any more relatives before then."
Harry watched him walk away, feeling even more unsettled than before. Allen always had a way of making the world feel like a giant game of chess where Harry was the only one who didn't know the rules.
The rest of the summer holiday vanished in a blur of sun-soaked Diagon Alley afternoons. For Allen, the return to the Harris household was a peaceful affair. His parents had long since accepted that their son was essentially a miniature adult who happened to go to a boarding school for magic. By the time September 1st rolled around, Allen had his trunk packed with the surgical precision of a veteran traveler.
The trip to King's Cross was uneventful. Allen arrived five minutes early, slipping through the barrier between platforms nine and ten with the practiced ease of a ghost.
The Hogwarts Express was already there, a magnificent scarlet beast breathing steam into the rafters of the station. The air was thick with the scent of coal smoke, owl droppings, and the frantic energy of hundreds of students.
"Allen! Over here!"
Penelope Clearwater was standing near the center of the platform, her long curls catching the morning light. She looked radiant, waving a hand to catch his attention.
"Penelope! You look like you actually enjoyed your holiday for once," Allen joked as he reached her, ignoring the envious looks from a few nearby Ravenclaw boys.
"Egypt was incredible, Allen. I still can't believe half the things we saw in those tombs," she laughed. They started swapping stories of cursed amulets and ancient architecture, but their conversation was abruptly interrupted by a very familiar, very stiff presence.
"Ah, Penelope! Splendid to see you!"
It was Percy Weasley. He didn't just walk over; he marched, his chest puffed out so far he looked like he might tip over backward. Pinned to his robes was a brand-new, gleaming silver badge that caught the sun with blinding intensity.
Allen had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Percy looked like a peacock in the middle of a particularly desperate mating dance.
Penelope glanced at the badge, one eyebrow arching upward. "Head Boy, Percy? My, you must be proud."
Percy's chest inflated even further, if that were possible. He shot a look at Allen that was clearly meant to be triumphant. "Yes, well, someone has to maintain order. It's a position of immense responsibility, as I'm sure you understand."
"I do," Penelope said smoothly, reaching into her pocket. "Because I've got one, too."
She pulled out an identical silver badge: Head Girl.
Percy didn't look discouraged; if anything, he looked ecstatic. "Excellent! We shall be working closely together, then. A formidable team for a formidable year!"
The train gave a long, mournful whistle, signaling that the departure was imminent. Percy, ever the "gentleman," immediately reached for Penelope's trunk. "Allow me, Penelope. A Head Girl shouldn't have to struggle with such heavy luggage."
He grabbed the handle and gave a confident heave.
Nothing happened.
Percy's face went from pale to pink, then to a deep, alarming shade of crimson. He strained, his knuckles turning white, but the trunk stayed rooted to the platform as if it were part of the station's foundation. "What... what have you got in here? Enchanted anvils?"
He reached for his wand, likely to cast a Levitation Charm, but Penelope gave him a sweet, sugary smile. "Oh, Percy, don't worry about it. You look a bit tired. Allen, would you mind?"
Allen, who had watched Penelope's hand subtly slide back into her sleeve a moment ago, suppressed a grin. He stepped forward and lifted the trunk with one hand. It felt heavy, sure, but not "immovable object" heavy. He slung it under his arm and grabbed his own trunk with the other hand, walking toward the carriage door without a hint of struggle.
Percy stood there, mouth agape, staring at Allen's retreating back. "How... how is he that strong?" he stammered.
"Gravity Curse," Allen whispered to Penelope once they were safely inside the corridor and out of earshot. "That was wicked, even for you."
Penelope didn't even try to hide her smirk. "I don't like Gryffindors trying to show off in front of me, especially when they assume I'm a damsel in distress. I just increased the local gravitational pull on the trunk by a factor of ten for thirty seconds."
They shared a laugh, the tension of the platform fading away.
"I've got to go," Penelope sighed, checking her watch. "Prefect meeting in the front carriage. Duty calls."
"Go on, then. I'll find the others," Allen waved her off. He watched her walk away, noting that she seemed a bit more stressed by the badge than she let on.
Allen hauled his luggage down the narrow corridor. He spotted Harry and Hermione through the window of a compartment, their faces pressed against the glass as they looked for him. Ron and Ginny were hanging out of the window nearby, waving frantically at Mr. and Mrs. Weasley as the train began to lurch forward.
The engine roared, steam billowing past the windows, and the platform began to slide away. The Weasleys vanished behind a bend in the track, and the noise of the station was replaced by the rhythmic clack-clack of the rails.
"We need to talk," Harry whispered the moment Allen stepped into the compartment. His face was pale, and he kept glancing toward the door. "In private."
"Ginny, go find your friends," Ron said, not unkindly but with a clear dismissal.
"I'm going, I'm going," Ginny huffed, tossing her hair and marching out into the corridor.
The four of them—Allen, Harry, Ron, and Hermione—set off to find a truly empty compartment. It wasn't easy. The train was packed to the gills with shouting students and the occasional escaping owl. They moved toward the very back of the train, where the noise started to dampen.
Finally, they reached the last compartment. It wasn't empty, but it was the closest they were going to get.
A man was sitting by the window, fast asleep. He was wearing an extremely shabby set of wizard's robes that had been patched in several places. He looked ill and exhausted, his face lined with premature wrinkles despite his relatively young age. His light brown hair was flecked with grey.
The four of them paused in the doorway. The Hogwarts Express was strictly for students. Aside from the witch with the snack trolley, adults were a rare sight on this journey.