Suppressing their immediate, agonizing worries about Albert, everyone retired to their rooms at Owen's insistence. Perhaps only little Emily, tucked safely away, managed to sleep soundly that night.
Hours later, in the dead of the night, Allen, still wide awake, caught the muffled sound of low voices drifting from the living room. He quietly slipped out of bed and crept to a pillar near the living room's entrance, concealing himself in the shadows of the porch.
He quickly realized that, despite their earlier public conversation, his father, Owen, and Kingsley Shacklebolt had reached a conversational impasse.
"Owen, you know the Department's confidentiality protocols. I absolutely cannot disclose the specifics of Albert's mission," Mr. Shacklebolt was saying, his voice tight with genuine worry. "But please, believe me, we are mobilizing every resource to locate him."
Owen's brow was furrowed with frustration. He changed tack: "Kingsley, please try to understand the feelings of a father facing this uncertainty. From your vague warnings tonight, I know Albert is on an extremely dangerous assignment. You don't need to tell me the details, but can you give me any clue about what might be happening to my son? This is a request from one father to another."
"Owen, this was Albert's favourite book just before his disappearance. You should look at it first." Kingsley, maintaining his professional integrity, refused to break confidentiality but conceded a crucial hint.
Owen quickly leafed through the dry, abstruse mythological text Allen had provided. He realized that the dense material could not be quickly deciphered. He suddenly considered talking to his youngest son. Allen had given the book to Kingsley, meaning he had likely read it thoroughly.
Owen knew Allen possessed a photographic memory and an intelligence far beyond that expected of a first-year student. At least when it came to reading and comprehension, his youngest son was probably the best scholar in the entire Harris household.
As Owen distractedly flipped through the pages, Kingsley, who had been watching him in silence, suddenly asked, "Owen, what are your plans for tomorrow?"
"What do you mean, what should I do?" Owen replied carelessly, still lost in thought over the legendary book and the strange puzzle of Albert's knowledge.
"Your children… excuse my bluntness." Kingsley leaned forward, his voice suddenly grave. "There is a very high probability that those Native American wizards who failed to locate Albert will return, which puts you and your family at severe risk. While the Ministry of Magic will dispatch Aurors for protective detail, you know we haven't had a significant influx of new, reliable blood into the office for years. In the current trainee batch, the only one likely to last three years is that cleverly disguised Muggle-born girl… We cannot afford to lose your family. I strongly suggest you go into hiding."
Despite the repeated warnings, Owen had already made up his mind and faced the matter directly: "Emily can stay temporarily at my sister Josephine's house. Allen can return to Hogwarts immediately. Morgana Lefay and Daisy can take temporary shelter at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries. Len and I will shuttle back and forth between the Ministry and home. Don't object yet, Kingsley, please hear me out." Owen raised a hand, stopping Kingsley from immediately interjecting.
"I know you and the Department are concerned about my family's safety. But as you stated, if those Indians can't find Albert, they will undoubtedly target our home. If the house is empty, they will instantly know we are on high alert, and they might spend more resources searching for Albert elsewhere, which would escalate the danger to my eldest son."
He continued, "Besides, if they dare to trespass, I would welcome the chance to capture those attackers and demand information about Albert. You know, Len and I both have high N.E.W.T. scores in Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts. We are in our own house, and we are confident in our ability to defend it." Owen's expression was resolute; it was the final, unchangeable decision of a determined father.
"Well, if you insist, I will contact the Department immediately and arrange for the Ministry's Flying Bird Network to be temporarily deployed directly to your home for timely reinforcement. It's getting late, Owen, so let's conclude for now. I need to return to the Department to make these arrangements." Kingsley stood up, preparing to leave.
"Thank you, Kingsley. You've worked tirelessly," Owen said gratefully, shaking Kingsley's hand and walking him to the front door.
Allen swiftly retreated to his room, climbed back into bed, and burrowed beneath the covers. Moments later, he heard a soft knock on his door. Owen walked in. Allen feigned a sleepy state, rubbing his eyes convincingly.
Owen sat down on his son's bed and furtively touched the cold blankets, but masking his worry, he addressed his youngest son directly: "I'm sorry, Allen, I know you were asleep. But I need to take a moment. I have something very important to ask you."
Allen sat up, noticing his father's slightly unusual, cautious movements. The heavy snow was falling outside, and the house lights were dim. Beneath the calm, comfortable exterior of their home, he sensed the stillness before a storm—a hidden, immediate danger.
"Dad, you want to ask about that book, right? I can tell you everything now." Allen accurately guessed his father's purpose and began relating the strange circumstances under which he had acquired the Moonstone text.
Owen listened thoughtfully. "Dad, have you ever heard of the Indian Moon God?" Allen asked quietly, using the narrative as a tool for suggestion.
"I know next to nothing about it. Just tell me what the book says," Owen instructed, carefully watching Allen. He knew his youngest son wouldn't speak without reason, despite his age.
"In India, the Moon God is called Chandra, which means 'bright and dazzling.' According to this book, the Moon God is depicted as a man with four arms: one holding a sceptre, another holding the Elixir of Immortality, and a lotus flower in the third, while the remaining hand is held in a defensive pose. He rides a three-wheeled chariot drawn by ten white horses, as pure as jasmine flowers, or sometimes antelopes." Allen paused here, looking pointedly at his father.
"What are you implying, Allen?" Mr. Harris asked suspiciously, picking up on the subtle shift in focus.
"While almost every wizard craves immortality, who is the most infamous wizard in the entire British magical world known for this obsession?" Allen's soft words, coupled with a pointed gesture toward the Dark Mark he had described earlier, sent a visceral shiver down Owen's spine.
"The One Who Must Not Be Named?" Owen's mind was reeling, the terrifying memories of the First Wizarding War triggered by the suggestion. He shook his head to clear it. "But he was defeated by Harry Potter, wasn't he?"
Allen sat cross-legged on the bed and shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe it's one of his Death Eaters trying to retrieve a sacred relic that grants immortality, or maybe it's him. Anything is possible, but we must prepare for the worst. Dad, what are your actual plans for us?"
Seeing his youngest son's remarkably mature and calm reaction, Owen briefly explained the evacuation strategy he had discussed with Kingsley. Before he could finish, Allen immediately objected: "No, Dad. I cannot return to Hogwarts, even if it is the safest place in Britain."
After a moment of surprise, Owen understood Allen's intent—he wanted to stay close to the investigation. "Absolutely not, Allen. Even though you are incredibly gifted, you are still a child. You must remain at Hogwarts. You are not to get involved in Albert's mission."
"Dad, think about it calmly. Emily is still very young. Will she not feel abandoned if you just leave her alone at Aunt Josephine's? Won't she be upset?" Allen spoke in a quiet, unhurried tone, looking directly at his father, who was beginning to grow impatient and was struggling to assert parental authority.
"If you truly believe she is safe at Aunt Josephine's, what possible harm is there in me being there too? I am proficient in witchcraft. If a fight is necessary, I can at least temporarily protect my sister, allowing Aunt Josephine to fight without constantly worrying about Emily."
Allen's clear, logical, and emotionally resonant argument finally shifted Owen's resolve. "Alright, Allen. But you are not to wander off alone. You are responsible for Little Sweet Bear."