Two bags of candy!
George and Fred looked at each other, and in that instant they both saw the same gleam of surprise shining in each other's eyes. Never in their lives had they imagined that something so simple could bring such wild joy. The Weasley twins had always been thrilled when a girl gave them chocolates on Valentine's Day, but that happiness came from a flutter of hormones and adolescent excitement. This time, however, the thrill was rooted in something far more practical—money.
These weren't just sweets. They were two full bags of candies, each worth ten whole Galleons.
The meaning behind Allen's gesture couldn't have been clearer. By handing them these bags, Allen was effectively saying: Do whatever you want with them.
George and Fred's thoughts leapt immediately to their weekend candy stalls. If they brought these out to sell, they would earn an effortless ten Galleons without even dipping into their own supply. It felt like free profit raining from the heavens.
But before they could hatch their scheme, Allen's calm voice broke through their excited daydreaming.
"I don't recommend that you sell this candy," Allen said in a measured tone. "You can't make enough money from it to matter. If you give up good things in life just for money, that's a trade you'll regret. Some things are worth more than profit."
His words were steady, neither chiding nor forceful, but there was a firmness in them that made the twins pause. Allen gave each of them a reassuring pat on the shoulder, then turned and started toward the door.
"Oh, and one more thing," he added, glancing back as he reached the threshold. "Leave the candies here for now. I'll bring you a special bag before the weekend—one that's much easier to carry things in."
He had already made up his mind to write to Hotch, asking him to purchase a leather satchel with a Traceless Extension Charm. It didn't need to be massive, but something discreet and convenient would be perfect for transporting goods. Such enchanted bags were, of course, expensive. Yet Allen considered them worth every Knut and Sickle—an investment that would pay itself back a hundred times over.
Having said his piece, Allen finally departed.
George and Fred were left standing in the kitchen, staring down at the precious bags of candy in their hands.
"Maybe Allen's right," Fred admitted after a pause. "Once we sell the rest of the stock, we'll already have seventy Galleons and ten Sickles. That's more money than we've ever had at once. We don't really need to sell these two bags as well." His mouth watered as he gazed at the sweets. Allen's creations were legendary, almost impossible to resist once tasted.
"But ten Galleons would be enough to finish our experiments on the Quick-Acting Skipping Sweets," George reminded him, frowning. "We're only a few tests away. The potion ingredients are eating up our savings faster than Mum goes through yarn."
Experiments in magical confections always came at a steep price. Even the twins, brilliant and inventive as they were, often found their progress stalled by financial constraints. Every failed trial meant wasted ingredients, and those were costly beyond belief.
Fred's eyes gleamed with mischief. "Then we'll eat one bag ourselves and sell the other! That way we'll have eighty Galleons and ten Sickles and satisfy our cravings."
"Genius!" George agreed at once. Without hesitation, he ripped open the top of his bag, revealing the glistening, jewel-like candies within.
"Oi, give me half!" Fred shouted, lunging toward his brother.
"Don't rush me! I'm not your delivery elf!" George snapped back, trying to fend him off.
Within seconds the twins were wrestling and scrambling over the sweets like two starving dogs fighting for scraps.
Kelly, the house-elf who had originally given them the candy, re-entered the room at that moment. Watching the two red-headed boys nearly come to blows over a bag of sweets, Kelly could only shake his head. He popped a candy into his own mouth and chewed contentedly. Allen had given him plenty as well—after all, house-elves loved good food as much as any wizard did.
"Marvelous," Kelly murmured with a sigh. "If Mr. Cecil were my master, I'd surely learn cooking like his. No elf alive could resist those skills."
He tapped his chin, then mused aloud, "Perhaps I should let Mr. Filch try one of these. Poor man hasn't tasted proper sweets in years."
The thought was not without merit. Argus Filch, Hogwarts' infamous squib caretaker, might have been loathed by students, but he shared a quiet camaraderie with the elves. They often worked alongside him when cleaning, and Filch's gruff exterior softened somewhat around them. Kelly, kind-hearted as most elves were, felt it would be a kindness to share.
Meanwhile, Allen had no classes that day. For first-year students, the timetable was light, leaving him with ample free time to explore. He had already resolved to use these hours to familiarize himself with Hogwarts' labyrinthine halls.
The castle was massive. Eight primary floors stretched upward, not even counting the towers and sprawling basements. Its architecture was designed not for convenience but for mystery. Few staircases led directly from one level to another, and the enchanted ones shifted unpredictably, sometimes depositing a student three floors away from where they intended.
Allen wandered until he found himself climbing a random staircase that deposited him on the fourth floor.
The corridor here was lined with gleaming suits of armor, each holding a knight's sword. Though they were hollow shells, Allen quickly realized they weren't inert. The armor closest to the stairwell was humming an old Irish tune, its metallic voice reverberating with a tinny echo.
At first, Allen listened with mild amusement. The tune was quaint, and there was something oddly charming about a helmet without a head trying to hum. But the enchantment was limited. The melody lasted only a few bars before looping back on itself, repeating endlessly. After two or three cycles, the charm wore thin.
Allen was about to move on when a sudden clang of steel froze him in place.
The armor standing beside the humming one abruptly drew its sword, raising it high. With a violent swing, it brought the blade crashing down upon its neighbor. The blow shattered the humming armor's helmet, sending shards skittering across the stone floor. Without pausing, the aggressive suit delivered a kick that sent the poor, tuneful armor flying into a heap of clattering pieces.
Then, as if it were alive, the victorious armor staggered back. Its breastplate heaved, its posture sagged, and it let out the metallic rasp of exhaustion.
Allen's eyes narrowed with intrigue. Despite the violent attack, the shattered armor wasn't truly broken. Its parts had merely scattered, and the magic within still pulsed faintly. A simple repair spell could reassemble it.
"Interesting…" Allen murmured. It seemed less like an accident and more like some elaborate prank left behind by a mischievous predecessor of Hogwarts. Perhaps two enchanted armors had been cursed to reenact this endless feud for centuries.
Curiosity got the better of him. Allen raised his wand.
"Reparo."
The fragments of the destroyed armor quivered, then shot back into place with a forceful snap. Within moments, the suit stood whole once more, polished and unscathed.
The victorious armor froze. It turned its head toward Allen with an agonized creak of metal joints. Though the helmet had no eyes, no face, Allen felt an unmistakable wave of disbelief and misery radiating from it.
Almost on cue, the restored armor resumed its humming, cheerfully oblivious to its fate.
The aggressor's shoulders slumped, its gauntleted hand tightening on its sword. Allen swore he saw the metallic figure tremble, as if on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
Suppressing a laugh, Allen decided he had meddled enough. "Sorry, mate," he muttered, backing away.
He turned and dashed up the nearest staircase, the sound of humming following him faintly until the walls swallowed it. Hogwarts, he thought, was full of such strange, tragic little secrets.
By the time he stopped climbing, he had reached the sixth floor.
The air here felt different—humid, heavy with the scent of steam. The stone walls glistened faintly, as though a mist clung to them.
"Sixth floor," Allen said to himself. "What's hidden here?"
As he wandered the corridor, a familiar voice, elegant and lightly teasing, called out.
"Allen? What are you doing here?"
He turned quickly and found himself face to face with Penello. Her usually composed demeanor was softened by her flushed cheeks and the sheen of moisture on her skin. Droplets clung to her hair, giving her an almost ethereal glow.
"Penello?" Allen blinked, momentarily caught off guard. In this state, she seemed less cold and untouchable, more languid, as though the steam had seeped into her very aura.
"You should be calling me senior," she said playfully, reaching out to tap his forehead with her finger. "Or perhaps sister, if you prefer. This floor is off-limits to most. It's the prefects' exclusive bathroom. So tell me—what are you doing here?"
Allen gave her a sheepish smile. "Just wandering. The staircases are tricky, you know. I wasn't expecting to end up here. If you have time, maybe you could give me a proper tour? I keep getting lost."
"This…" Penello hesitated, then nodded with a faint smile. "All right. I'll show you around."
Allen tilted his head. "Are you sure? You don't have a date or anything? I wouldn't want to keep you if you're busy." His tone was teasing, though his eyes were curious.
Penello chuckled, shaking her head. "Not a date. Percy Weasley—your Gryffindor prefect—asked to meet me. Said he wanted to 'discuss something important.'" She rolled her eyes. "But I suspect it's nothing of consequence. He just likes the sound of his own voice."
Allen laughed softly. "That sounds like Percy, all right."
And with that, the two of them strolled together down the misty corridor, their footsteps echoing lightly off the wet stone, while Hogwarts kept its secrets tucked in shadow.
For more chapters
patreon.com/Albert213