Professor Flitwick beamed, his mustache twitching with genuine affection as he levitated a second, even larger slice of the lemon-ginger cake onto Allen's plate. "Leonard has been quite insistent," the Professor chirped, his voice reaching a pitch of excitement that made the tea in the crystal pot ripple.
"He's invited me to spend the Christmas holidays in New York. A reunion of sorts, though I suspect it's mostly a pretext for him to show off that student of his. I'd very much like for you to accompany me, Allen. It's high time you saw how magic breathes on the other side of the Atlantic."
"New York?" Allen's mind immediately began racing. "Professor, that sounds incredible. I've read about the MACUSA, but seeing it in person..."
He agreed without a second thought. In the rigid world of the 1990s British wizardry, a second-year student traveling internationally was practically unheard of. The Harris family was protective, and the Ministry's travel restrictions for minors were a bureaucratic nightmare. However, traveling under the wing of a Head of House and a former International Champion? That was a golden ticket that even his father, Mr. Harris, couldn't find a reason to decline.
"Splendid! Simply splendid," Flitwick said, hopping down from his chair to rummage through a particularly cluttered drawer. "Now, the Americans are a bit... let's say, particular about their security. Rappaport's Law might be gone, but the paperwork remains. We need to handle your Wand Permit immediately."
He pulled out two long, parchment forms titled 'United States Congress of Wizards: Foreign National Wand Registration & Entry Permit'. Allen accepted his copy with both hands, noting the complex magical watermark of a phoenix and an eagle intertwined at the top. The form was intrusive, asking for everything from wand wood and core to the specific date of purchase and even the user's primary "intent of spellcasting."
Before Allen could reach for his bag, a self-inking eagle-feather quill zoomed across the room, hovering expectantly in front of him. He grabbed it, the grip felt warm, and began scratching his details into the parchment.
Allen Harris. Twelve years old. 12 1/4 inches, Pear wood, Phoenix feather core.
Once the ink dried, Flitwick beckoned him over. "Now for the identification. No Mugglish polaroids for the MACUSA, I'm afraid. Stand straight, chin up. Show them that Ravenclaw pride!"
Flitwick flipped the form over. The back was coated in a dull, silver sensitive film. "Hold your wand at a forty-five-degree angle. Ready? Three, two, one—Lux Imago!"
A flash of soft white light filled the room. When the spots cleared from Allen's eyes, a perfect, high-definition image of him was etched into the back of the parchment. He was smiling confidently, his wand glowing slightly in the still image.
"It's a memory-etching spell," Flitwick explained, squinting at the result. "A bit archaic, really. The image doesn't move like our portraits do, but the Americans prefer it that way. They say moving photos are 'distracting' for their filing charms."
"How do we get these to America, Professor? Surely not by owl?" Allen asked, imagining a poor barn owl trying to navigate the Atlantic gales.
"Heavens, no. That would be animal cruelty," Flitwick chuckled. "We use a Ministry courier service. A designated official uses an authorized Portkey—a heavy-duty international one—at regular intervals. It's expensive, but efficient. Now, Allen, since we have two months, I expect you in this office twice a week for private instruction. I may be a bit rusty, but I think I can still teach you a thing or two about the 'subtle art' of the duel."
Allen's heart skipped a beat. This was the real prize. The Hogwarts curriculum was notoriously inconsistent—with the Defense Against the Dark Arts position cursed and Dumbledore often preoccupied with the 'Greater Good' rather than the technical proficiency of his students—getting one-on-one training from a world champion was a massive advantage.
"I'll be here, Professor. Thank you," Allen said, bowing slightly.
The transition from the cool, academic air of Flitwick's office to the festive chaos of Halloween was marked by a sudden, overwhelming scent of spiced pumpkin and roasted sugar.
Halloween at Hogwarts was always a spectacle, but this year felt particularly charged. The Great Hall had been transformed. Thousands of live bats fluttered in the enchanted ceiling, their leathery wings creating a soft, rhythmic drumming sound. Hagrid's legendary pumpkins, carved into massive lanterns the size of small carriages, were scattered around the room, casting a warm, flickering orange glow.
At the entrance to the hall, a massive, enchanted spiderweb draped from the stone arches. A gargantuan black spider, its legs covered in coarse, realistic hair, skittered back and forth.
As a small, wide-eyed boy with mousy hair tried to sneak past, the spider "fired." A spray of shimmering, silver-grey webbing descended, wrapping the boy up like a silken mummy.
The surrounding students erupted in cheers. A group of Hufflepuffs rushed over, laughing as they pulled the harmless, magical webbing apart. The moment the boy was free, the web dissolved into a flurry of silver sparks.
"That's Colin Creevey," Penelope Clearwater, the Ravenclaw Prefect, said as she drifted toward Allen. She looked at the spider with a mix of amusement and longing. "Lucky kid. They say getting 'caught' by the Halloween spider brings a month of good fortune in your Charms classes."
Allen watched Colin, who wasn't traumatized at all. Instead, the boy was frantically adjusting his camera, snapping photos of the spider's fangs with obsessive glee.
"I wonder," Allen mused, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "how Ron Weasley would handle being the 'lucky' one? He'd probably set the Hall on fire trying to get away."
Penelope laughed, a sharp, playful sound. "Don't be cruel, Allen. Oh, and don't forget—there's a costume gala in our common room tonight after the feast. You'd better have something impressive."
"And what will you be, Penelope?"
She gave him a cryptic, feline smile, leaning in close. "You'll just have to wait and see, won't you?" With a sudden, playful pinch to his cheek, she turned and vanished into the crowd with the grace of a stalking cat.
Allen stood there for a moment, genuinely puzzled. "Did I miss a memo? Why is everyone so energetic today?"
"It's the sugar, mate," Edward said, appearing at his elbow with a handful of candies he'd scavenged from a nearby pumpkin lantern. "They've hidden the good stuff everywhere. Look at Malfoy."
Across the hall, Draco Malfoy was holding court, surrounded by Crabbe and Goyle. Draco held a large, swirling green lollipop like a scepter, looking incredibly smug. Crabbe and Goyle were both stuffed to the gills, their cheeks bulging with what looked like Honeydukes' finest.
"My father sent a crate from the manor," Draco's voice drifted over, dripping with condescension. "Standard Hogwarts fare is a bit... pedestrian for my tastes."
The feast itself was a masterclass in culinary magic. The golden plates weren't just clean; they practically radiated light under the thousands of floating candles. But just as Allen reached for a platter of roasted pheasant, the lights dimmed.
A haunting, melodic hum filled the air. It wasn't human. It was hollow, echoing, and strangely beautiful.
Suddenly, the stone floor tiles in the center of the hall slid back. To the screams of several younger witches and the immediate, raucous cheers of the boys, rows of skeletons began to emerge. These weren't the clattering, scary kind from horror stories; these were elegant, their bones polished to a high ivory sheen.
A platform rose where the Sorting Hat usually sat. Three skeletons, draped in tattered but elegant silk dresses, took center stage. They began to sing—a hymn that sounded like wind whistling through a canyon. From their wand tips, plumes of multicolored smoke billowed out, forming vivid, shifting images of the lyrics in the air.
"The phoenix sheds a tear like rain," they sang, their jaws clicking in perfect rhythm. Above them, a smoke-phoenix wept a pearl of light.
"Transformed into a pearl of white. But when the dragon claimed the prize, I lost my love, I lost my sight."
The smoke shifted into a majestic dragon spiraling around a girl.
"The Billywig forgot its way, The lover left him in the cold. Even the unicorn felt the grey, When its silver horn was sold."
The performance was breathtaking—a mix of tragic folklore and eerie beauty. When the skeletons finally bowed and sank back into the earth, the applause was deafening. Even the ghosts, usually so somber, were floating near the ceiling, clapping their translucent hands.
Professor Dumbledore stood up at the High Table, dabbing at his eyes with a large, purple handkerchief. "Simply moving," he sighed, his voice carrying through the quieted hall. "A reminder that even in death, there is music. Now! Enough tears. Let us eat until we can move no more!"
As if on cue, the main course vanished, replaced by a dizzying array of desserts. Directly in front of Allen appeared a silver platter of his absolute favorites: thick, double-cream cookies and delicate blueberry butter crisps.
Allen didn't rush. He delicately picked up a blueberry cookie, holding it with his thumb and middle finger, his pinky slightly raised in an unconscious imitation of the grace he'd seen in the Harris household. He took a small, careful bite, closing his eyes as the tart blueberry and rich butter melted on his tongue.
The Halloween feast was a success, the New York trip was a certainty, and for the first time in weeks, Allen felt perfectly at peace. Of course, at Hogwarts, that was usually the sign that something was about to go horribly wrong.