The man in the corner didn't look like a wizard of great standing. If anything, he looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backward and then sat on by a giant. His robes weren't just old; they were a tapestry of desperate repairs, threadbare at the cuffs and hem. Despite the youthful structure of his face, the graying hair at his temples spoke of a life spent running from things that didn't leave physical scars.
Allen leaned back, his gaze lingering on the sleeping man. A werewolf's life is indeed a series of tragedies, he thought, a flicker of genuine pity crossing his mind. To be a creature of the moon in a world that feared the dark was a special kind of hell.
"You reckon he's dangerous?" Ron whispered, leaning so far away from the window he was practically sitting in Hermione's lap. "He looks... well, a bit mental, doesn't he?"
"His name is R.J. Lupin," Allen and Hermione said at exactly the same moment.
Ron jumped, nearly hitting his head on the luggage rack. "Blimey! Since when did you two start practicing telepathy? Or did Allen finally teach you that Divination trick?"
Hermione rolled her eyes, pointing a sharp finger upward. "It's called reading, Ron. Try it sometime. It's written right there on his trunk."
Perched precariously on the rack was a battered suitcase, held together by an impressive amount of knotted string. In the corner, the letters 'Professor R.J. Lupin' were peeling off like sunburnt skin.
"Professor?" Ron's face went through a rapid series of contortions. "As in... a teacher? At Hogwarts? He looks like he couldn't afford a loaf of bread, let alone a lesson plan."
"There's only one spot open," Hermione whispered, her eyes wide with curiosity. "The Defense Against the Dark Arts post. He must be the replacement for Lockhart."
"Great," Ron grunted. "Another one. Do you think he knows about the curse? My brothers say Voldemort put a hex on the job so no one could hold it for more than a year. One guy ended up with a stutter, another had the back of his head replaced by a Dark Lord... I mean, look at this guy. He looks cursed already."
"Clearly, he's a man who values a paycheck over his health," Allen remarked, his eyes fixed on the rhythmic rise and fall of Lupin's chest. He knew better, of course. Lupin wasn't there for the gold; he was there because Dumbledore needed a wolf to watch over the lamb. "When life corners you, a curse is just another Tuesday. Besides, maybe he's tougher than he looks."
"He'd have to be," Harry muttered. He looked at Lupin with a strange sort of kinship. They both looked like the world had been a bit too heavy for them lately.
"Forget the teacher for a second," Ron said, shifting the subject with a nervous glance at the door. "Harry, what were you trying to tell us earlier? Before we got on the train?"
The atmosphere in the cramped compartment shifted instantly. Harry took a deep breath and began to recount the conversation he'd overheard between Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. He told them about the escaped convict, Sirius Black, and the terrifying theory that the man wasn't just a murderer, but a fanatic coming to finish what his master started twelve years ago.
When he finished, the only sound was the clicking of the wheels on the tracks. Hermione had her hands clamped over her mouth, her eyes shimmering with terror.
"Sirius Black?" she squeaked, her voice muffled. "He's coming for you? Oh, Harry... you have to promise me. No wandering the corridors. No sneaking out under the cloak. You have to stay where people can see you!"
Allen watched Harry's expression. It wasn't fear—it was a weary, mounting irritation.
"I don't go looking for trouble, Hermione," Harry said, his voice flat. "It's usually the other way around. Trouble has a very efficient GPS when it comes to finding me."
"He's right," Ron said, though his hands were shaking as he tried to open a chocolate frog. "Harry would have to be a total lunatic to go looking for Black. The man blew up a street full of Muggles with a single curse! Nobody's ever escaped Azkaban before. He's not just a criminal; he's a ghost story."
"They'll catch him," Hermione insisted, though she sounded like she was trying to convince herself. "Even the Muggle news is talking about him. He can't hide forever."
Harry turned to Allen, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet during the revelation. "What about you, Allen? You're usually the one with the plan. Are you worried?"
"Worried?" Allen stood up, brushing a stray bit of lint off his sleeve. "About a man in a prison jumpsuit? Not particularly. Actually, I think I need to stretch my legs. I've noticed a certain Head Girl has walked past this door three times in the last ten minutes, and it would be rude not to say hello."
"He's joking," Hermione hissed as Allen slid the door open. "Harry, your life is in danger, and he's worried about flirting with Penelope Clearwater!"
"She's the Head Girl now," Ron interjected, looking slightly dazed. "Percy's going to have a fit if he sees them together."
"I don't care if she's the Queen of England!" Hermione snapped, her hair looking more bush-like by the second as her stress levels spiked. "Allen is being completely irresponsible!"
Out in the corridor, the air was cooler and smelled of rain. Allen caught up to Penelope near the junction of the third carriage. She was mid-lecture, pointing a stern finger at a group of second-years who looked like they were plotting a mutiny.
"Hi, Penelope. Is the 'Head Girl' title as heavy as the trunk was?" Allen asked, leaning against the polished wood paneling.
Penelope turned, her expression softening instantly, though she kept a firm eye on the retreating students. "You have no idea, Allen. These little lions think that because they're Gryffindors, the rules are merely 'suggestions.' I had to Petrify one of them ten minutes ago just to get him to stop dueling in the corridor."
Allen let out a low whistle. "Petrified? You're getting ruthless. I like it."
"Desperate times," she joked, though her eyes drifted toward the windows. The bright morning had vanished. The sky was now the color of a bruised plum, and heavy droplets of rain were beginning to lash against the glass. "It's going to be a miserable ride to the castle. I hope Hagrid's got the boats covered."
"Don't worry about the weather," Allen said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, elegantly wrapped piece of chocolate. "Hagrid could survive a hurricane with nothing but a giant umbrella. Here. You look like you need a boost."
Penelope looked at the chocolate, then at him, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "It's not Valentine's Day, Mr. Harris. Are you trying to bribe a school official?"
"It's medicinal," Allen shrugged, his eyes twinkling. "Science—or at least my version of it—says chocolate stimulates the release of endorphins. It's hard to be a mean Head Girl when your brain is happy."
"I'll take my chances," she laughed, taking the treat. She tossed it in the air and caught it with practiced ease. "I have to finish the sweep of the back carriages. Are you coming, or are you going back to your brooding friends?"
"I'm going to find the trolley witch," Allen said. "It's almost lunch, and I have a feeling I'm going to need a lot of sugar to deal with the atmosphere in my compartment."
By the time Allen returned, he was carrying a mountain of snacks that would have fed a small army. Pumpkin pasties, cauldron cakes, and licorice wands were piled high in his arms. When he slid the compartment door open, the smell of cinnamon and sugar filled the air.
Ron's eyes nearly popped out of his head. "Blimey, Allen! Did you win the lottery or are you planning on opening a shop?"
"A growing boy needs his nutrients, Ron," Allen said, dumping the hoard onto the middle seat. Harry and Hermione were already picking through a few things they'd bought, but Allen's haul was on another level.
He looked over at the still-unmoving Professor Lupin. The man hadn't shifted an inch, even with the noise of the train and the clatter of the food.
"Is he still out?" Allen asked, unwrapping a cauldron cake.
"Hermione tried to wake him for a pasty," Ron said through a mouthful of chocolate. "He's like a log. Honestly, I think he might be dead."
"He's not dead," Allen said, his voice carrying a subtle edge. He knew Lupin was a light sleeper by nature; years of being a fugitive of sorts made you that way. He's listening, Allen realized. "It's a shame, though. These cauldron cakes are fresh. And the witch said no refunds. I guess I'll just have to throw the extras out the window."
As if on cue, the 'log' in the corner stirred.
Professor Lupin's eyes fluttered open—not with the grogginess of someone who had been deeply asleep, but with the sharp clarity of someone who had been waiting for the right moment to join the conversation. He sat up slowly, his joints letting out a series of audible cracks.
"Er... Professor?" Hermione said, her face turning pink. "Sorry... did we wake you?"
Lupin looked around the compartment, his gaze lingering on each of them before settling on Allen. He didn't look angry; he looked amused, a tired but kind smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Not at all," Lupin said, his voice raspy but steady. "Though I must admit, the mention of throwing away perfectly good cauldron cakes is enough to wake even the most committed sleeper."
Allen didn't miss a beat. He held out the stack of cakes with a polite nod. "Then it's a lucky thing I'm a terrible liar, Professor. Would you care to join us? It's a long way to Hogwarts, and you look like you haven't had a decent meal since the last century."
Lupin let out a dry, short laugh. He reached into his own tattered bag and pulled out a slab of chocolate that looked much higher quality than the Honeydukes variety.