"Allen Harris? Wait, you're Owen's boy, aren't you?" Professor Lupin's voice had a gravelly, nostalgic quality to it as he held a slice of cauldron cake, examining Allen with a newfound intensity.
The question caught Allen off guard. He had expected the Professor to be observant, but not necessarily well-acquainted with his family tree. "You knew my father, Professor?"
"Hard not to," Lupin replied, a genuine, warm smile breaking through the weary lines of his face. The transformation was startling; the moment he smiled, the image of the destitute, sickly vagrant vanished, replaced by a man of quiet, scholarly dignity. "Owen was... well, he was a force of nature back at Hogwarts. Quite the reputation."
Lupin seemed to drift into a memory for a second, the tension in his shoulders finally sagging. Beside them, Harry, Ron, and Hermione had gone remarkably still, their half-eaten snacks forgotten as they hung on every word. To Harry, any scrap of information about the world his parents inhabited was like gold dust.
"Which house did you call home, Professor?" Allen asked, though he already knew the answer. He wanted the others to hear it—to feel that bridge of trust being built.
Lupin's eyes crinkled. "Gryffindor," he said, nodding toward the trio. "Though I suspect you three already guessed that." He turned his gaze toward Harry, his expression softening into something deeply paternal. "Harry Potter... Dumbledore has mentioned you quite often. A true Gryffindor, from what I hear."
Harry's face flushed a deep crimson, a mix of pride and embarrassment radiating from him.
"Then you must have known Harry's father too, right?" Allen prompted, steering the conversation toward the topic Harry was clearly too choked up to approach. "If you were in the same house?"
"I did," Lupin whispered, his voice thick with a sudden, sharp melancholy. "James and I were very close. He was... a remarkable man."
Harry's eyes lit up, his mouth opening to ask the thousand questions he had stored in his heart, but the words were cut short by the sharp clack-clack of the compartment door sliding open with unnecessary violence.
The atmosphere curdled instantly. Standing in the doorway was Draco Malfoy, leaning against the frame with a practiced sneer. Flanking him were the two human boulders, Crabbe and Goyle, who looked like they were struggling to process the concept of standing upright.
"Well, well, what have we here?" Malfoy drawled, his grey eyes scanning the room with theatrical disgust. "The Savior of the Wizarding World, the Resident Sidekick, and... oh, look, Harris. I didn't think you'd sink this low."
"Malfoy," Allen said, his voice dropping an octave, cold and warning.
"Don't get defensive, Allen," Malfoy said, ignoring the tension. "I'm just saying, a wizard of your talent shouldn't be rubbing elbows with this lot. It's bad for the pedigree. It lowers your standards just being in the same zip code as a Weasley."
He turned his attention to Ron, his lip curling. "I heard your father finally found a few galleons this summer, Weasley. Did the shock give your mother a heart attack, or did she just faint from the novelty of having money?"
Ron's chair scraped harshly against the floor as he bolted upright, accidentally knocking over the basket where Crookshanks was hissing. From the corner, Lupin let out a soft, guttural grunt, shifting in his seat.
Malfoy's eyes darted to the man in the corner. His sneer wavered as he took in the ragged robes and the exhausted face. "Who's that?" he asked, taking an instinctive step back.
"The new Professor," Harry answered, standing up beside Ron, his hand hovering near his wand. "Do you want to repeat that, Malfoy? While a teacher is listening?"
Malfoy wasn't stupid. He was a professional instigator, but he knew the limits of his protection. He looked at Lupin, then back at the group, his face twisting into a mask of irritation. "Whatever. Let's go. This place smells like a charity shop anyway."
He beckoned to his cronies and vanished into the corridor.
The silence that followed was heavy. Harry spent the next few minutes helping Ron settle down, but the moment had passed. The questions about his father felt too heavy to ask now. After finishing his tea, Professor Lupin stood up with a weary sigh.
"If you'll excuse me, I think I'll try to find a quieter spot for a nap before we arrive," he said politely, nodding to them before sliding the door shut.
"A Gryffindor!" Ron burst out the moment the door clicked. "Did you hear that? This year is actually going to be decent! A proper teacher who isn't a fraud or a lunatic."
Allen felt a twinge of irritation. He remembered Gilderoy Lockhart—the Ravenclaw peacock who had been more interested in hair care than hexes—and looked at the relieved faces of his friends. Even he had to admit Lupin was in a different league, but the hero-worship felt premature. He grabbed a handful of sweets and stood up.
"I'm going for a walk," Allen muttered.
The world outside the train had turned into a nightmare of grey and black. The rain wasn't just falling; it was assaulting the train, turning the windows into opaque sheets of water. Darkness had swallowed the Scottish highlands, and the only light came from the flickering magical lamps in the corridor.
"Penelope!" Allen called out, spotting the Head Girl further down the carriage.
She wasn't alone. Percy Weasley was hovering behind her like a ginger shadow, his Head Boy badge polished so bright it practically hummed.
"Allen? What are you doing out of your seat?" Percy snapped, his chest puffed out. "The rain is making the tracks unstable. The floor is slippery. Get back to your compartment immediately."
"Where exactly is it slippery, Percy?" Penelope countered, her voice dry. "It's a carpeted floor. And he's just stretching his legs. Stop acting like the train is about to derail."
Percy's ears turned a shade of red that rivaled a sunset. He looked like a volcano on the verge of a catastrophic eruption. Allen just looked at him, feeling a sudden, cold lack of patience. He understood Percy's ambition—his father's poverty had clearly driven him to crave order and status—but the boy lacked the basic social awareness to realize he was being a nuisance.
Unlike Harry, who was willing to tolerate Ron's endless insecurities, Allen didn't feel like waiting for Percy to grow up. He walked straight past Percy, stepping into Penelope's personal space with a deliberate, intimate air that made Percy's eye twitch.
"Brought you some supplies," Allen said softly, pressing a handful of snacks into Penelope's hands.
She laughed, the sound warm against the howling wind outside. "You're a lifesaver, Allen. These are much better than the dry sandwiches I packed." She took a bite of a sugar quill, her smile widening.
"Do you feel that?" she asked suddenly, her smile faltering. "The train... it's slowing down."
"Can't be," Percy interjected, trying to reclaim his authority. He checked his pocket watch with a flourish. "We're barely halfway. My internal clock is never wrong. It's likely just a slight incline."
But the train continued to decelerate. The rhythmic thump-thump of the wheels died down to a crawl, then a shudder, and finally, with a violent lurch that sent luggage tumbling from the racks, the Hogwarts Express came to a dead stop.
The silence that followed was terrifying. Then, without warning, the lights flickered once, twice, and died.
Total, absolute darkness swallowed the carriage. Screams erupted from the younger students nearby.
"Probably a mechanical failure," Percy declared loudly, his voice cracking slightly. "As Head Boy, I must consult with the driver. Everyone stay exactly where you are!"
He stomped off into the dark, tripping over someone's trunk along the way.
"Lumos," Penelope whispered, her wand tip erupting into a soft white glow. She looked at Allen, her eyes wide with a sudden, primal unease. "I have to go help the Prefects. Be careful, Allen."
She hurried away, her light disappearing into the gloom. Allen drew his own wand. "Lumos."
He made his way back to Harry's compartment. The air was getting colder—not just the chill of a rainy night, but a bone-deep, soul-sucking frost that seemed to seep through the very walls of the train.
He slid the door open. Inside, Neville and Ginny had squeezed in with the others, their faces pale in the flickering light of half a dozen wands.
"Allen! Did we stop? Why did we stop?" Neville stammered.
"Something's boarding," Ron whispered, his face pressed against the glass he had wiped clear. "Look... there's a shadow on the platform..."
"Allen, do you know what's—ouch!" Hermione cried out as Neville accidentally kicked her in the dark.
"Sorry! I can't see anything!"
At that moment, the sliding door of the compartment began to open. It didn't slide fast like Malfoy's entrance; it moved with a slow, agonizing deliberate crawl.
The light from their six wands hit the figure standing in the doorway. It was a nightmare draped in tattered black silk. The creature was so tall its hood brushed the ceiling, and it seemed to suck the very air out of the room. There was no face—just a void where a soul should be.
A hand emerged from the folds of the cloak. It was grey, slimy, and covered in scabs, looking like meat that had rotted at the bottom of a river for a century.