"I wish I were still in London and not stuck back at Hogwarts already! Allen, you absolutely cannot forget to get a signed autograph from Mr. Gilderoy Lockhart!" Daisy suddenly warned her brother, her eyes sparkling with the intensity of a thousand emergency sparks as she clutched his arm.
"Oh, I want five, too! No, make that ten autographs, dear!" At that moment, Morgan LeFay was entirely swept up, exhibiting the enthusiasm of an underage fan, completely forgetting she was the mother of a medal-winning hero.
"Of course, Daisy, even a hundred would be fine," Allen promised with a weary but amused smile. In his memory, Gilderoy Lockhart never missed a single opportunity to promote his own legend and was notoriously fond of signing anything placed in front of him. The man viewed blank space as a personal offense.
Meanwhile, a few feet away, Lenn and Minister Fudge were engaged in a respectful, highly theatrical exchange of compliments and political pleasantries.
Fudge, bloated by the adoration of the press and the power of his office, might not normally have remembered the name of an ordinary, third-tier Ministry employee like Lenn, but Lenn's subtle, yet targeted compliments about the Minister's 'decisive leadership' and 'unique sartorial elegance' immediately went straight to his ego.
A look of immense, self-satisfied approval appeared on Fudge's face as he addressed Lenn by name. Lenn, as always, found the path to pleasing a powerful man ridiculously easy.
Fudge had initially planned to leave immediately after pinning the final medal, but since Lenn was an exceptionally smooth orator, especially skilled at delivering politically safe and emotionally resonant praise, the two ended up chatting enthusiastically for quite a while.
Albert stood slightly behind them, shyly beside the two figures who were chatting with such animated fervor. He was infinitely more straightforward than Lenn, possessing none of his older brother's subtle cunning or flair for performative heroism.
Albert bore no resemblance to the magnificent, silver-tongued, talented, and aggressively handsome Auror that Lenn was actively cultivating himself to be.
"Never make life-altering promises in moments of great, blinding joy, and never let others decide your fate in moments of uncontrolled, blinding anger." This old magical saying, Allen reflected, was perhaps the most enduring piece of wisdom in the Ministry archives.
Unlike the eternally calculating Lenn, the utterly overjoyed Owen Harris, buoyed by the heavy gold medal around his neck and the flashing cameras, had gone overboard. He'd not only invited the President of the Wizards' Guild and half a dozen random Ministry officials to join them but had also exuberantly promised them a feast of 'plenty of delicious food and wine' to commemorate their family triumph.
Owen's wife, Morgan LeFay, though internally disturbed by her husband's unrestrained, expensive exuberance, wisely decided to refrain from interfering. The celebration is lovely; why spoil the fun when everyone is so genuinely happy? she reasoned, the thought of Lockhart momentarily banished by the joy of the moment.
She quietly and pragmatically counted the number of additional guests Mr. Harris had spontaneously invited and, after a rapid mental calculation of the family's weekly budget versus the Minister's potential expectations, wisely decided that the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley would be the most appropriately grand, yet cost-effective, venue for the impromptu celebratory lunch.
Unlike Morgan LeFay, who was purely being reserved, Allen was absolutely delighted by Mr. Harris's spontaneous decision to dine in Diagon Alley. He had been planning to use his current break from Hogwarts to exchange some of his magically created gold for both Wizarding and Muggle currencies, and this presented the perfect, excused opportunity to discreetly visit Gringotts while the family was preoccupied.
After the boisterous meal—filled with toasts, re-tellings of the Sea Serpent incident that grew more exaggerated with every glass of mead, and plenty of Lockhart fan-worship—Allen, holding a truly enormous, multi-flavored ice cream cone, asked his mother for permission to take a short, unsupervised walk.
Already intimately familiar with her youngest son's abilities, and far too relaxed after the celebratory wine and the day's successes, Mrs. Harris readily agreed. She even reached into her purse, extracting a handful of glittering Galleons and pressing them into Allen's palm.
Although Allen knew he would soon have a massive, self-made fortune in his vault, he happily accepted his mother's offered money—it was a small piece of parental care that he wouldn't deny her.
Allen was cheerful as he walked quickly and nimbly along the white cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley. The Order of Merlin, Third Class, medal—the coveted symbol of his honor—was safely tucked away, secured by a complex ward in his extended storage area.
Weaving easily through the crowded shops, Allen soon reached his destination: the towering, monolithic white marble structure of Gringotts Bank.
As he stepped through the gleaming bronze doors, a Goblin guard in a stark red, gold-embroidered uniform stood at the entrance. In a surprisingly formal gesture, the guard inclined his head respectfully toward Allen.
Allen, mindful of propriety and the necessity of good diplomatic relations with Gringotts, returned the bow politely and precisely. Perhaps because so few wizards bothered to return the respect, the guard seemed genuinely impressed and warmly summoned another Goblin to act as Allen's guide.
"My name is Nagnok, honored guest. How may Gringotts be of service to you today?" The Goblin named Nagnok bowed deeply, his professionalism and courtesy impeccable, if a little strained under the usual contemptuous attitude of the wizarding world.
Allen showed no trace of his youth or any nervousness at dealing with the highly respected Gringotts staff. He calmly and unhurriedly stated his intention. "I need to conduct a financial transaction. I need to trade some specific gold items—my own creation—for a mixture of Wizarding Galleons and Muggle pounds sterling."
"Yes, please follow me, Mr. Harris." Nagnok bowed again, clearly recognizing the importance of a client dealing in large quantities of raw, transmuted gold, and extended his hand to lead the way.
Entering through the second, intricately carved silver door into the bank's main, vast marble hall, Allen observed the dizzying scene. At least a hundred Goblins were seated behind a long counter, hastily making entries in colossal ledgers, some meticulously weighing coins on ancient scales, others examining rare jewels through binoculars.
Nagnok led Allen to a counter set against the wall, shielded slightly from the main bustle. From his storage space, Allen produced several gold roses he had painstakingly crafted—each a dense, heavy ingot disguised as a piece of flawless artwork.
A short while later, Allen was exiting Gringotts with a satisfyingly heavy pouch of currency. "The arrogance of the wizards is truly pervasive," Allen muttered to himself as he walked happily through Diagon Alley, securely depositing the money in his storage area.
"They have placed stringent limits on the direct exchange of Muggle pounds sterling for Wizarding Galleons, a measure of control to prevent economic contamination. Yet, in their hubris, they failed to place equivalent restrictions on trading goods—such as magically created gold—for Galleons.
I can circumvent this loophole by simply trading my gold for the quantity of Galleons I need, and then immediately converting those Galleons into Muggle pounds sterling at the official Gringotts rate. It's a completely legal, yet overlooked, avenue for blending magical and non-magical wealth."
No matter what kind of shop it was—from the most dusty purveyor of ancient parchments to the gaudiest stall selling novelty Sneakoscopes—Allen stopped to look around, absorbing the vibrant commercial energy of the Alley. Soon, his watch indicated it was time to meet Mrs. Harris back at the Leaky Cauldron. Allen hastened his return, the afternoon sun casting long shadows behind him.
Lying comfortably in his bed back at home that evening, Allen counted his burgeoning fortune—the combination of his ample gold reserves and newly acquired currencies, all complemented by the blissful freedom of the summer holidays.
Then, his thoughts inevitably turned to Harry Potter. He remembered Harry's own vast gold reserves sitting untouched in Gringotts, and how utterly dire Harry's situation must be right now, confined to the Dursleys' house.
The contrast between Allen's current freedom and Harry's known misery was stark and morally demanding. Thinking about it, Allen immediately decided he would visit Harry the very next day. Despite the inevitable risks, Harry was a friend, and offering aid to a wizard in such undeserved distress was simply the right thing to do.
The next morning, Allen put his plan into action. He first used a pinch of Floo Powder to reach a safe, public fireplace near Surrey and then completed the journey by taking an inconspicuous Muggle Bus. H
e soon arrived at the familiar, terrifyingly mundane sight of 4 Privet Drive. Utilizing his wizard's robe, he silently cast the Disappointment Spell—the common, if inaccurately named, incantation for the Disillusionment Charm—and began his patient observation of the house's inhabitants.
Uncle Vernon and his family had just finished their cheerful, self-satisfied breakfast. They seemed entirely too happy.
"Penny, don't forget to send that ungrateful brat a bowl of canned soup. He'll never go back to that blasted awful school again, never!" Vernon reminded his wife with a cruel, satisfied smirk before hoisting his briefcase. He then pushed the door open, humming a strange, off-key melody, and hurried away to work.
Invisible Allen, already concealed in the front garden, seized the crucial opportunity and slipped inside the house like a phantom fish, the oppressive silence of the Dursley household immediately closing around him.
Allen followed Aunt Petunia up the stairs to Harry's bedroom. The bedroom door was, as expected, secured with a heavy, external padlock. But in the center of the door, where a cat-flap might sit, a small, square secret passageway had been crudely cut and hinged. Through this tiny opening, Aunt Petunia coldly handed Harry a bowl of chilled, watery soup.
Allen watched the transaction unfold from the corner of the room, and a cold, almost murderous fury ignited in his chest.
Even though Petunia Dursley was incredibly rude and arrogant toward your husband, James Potter, for merely offering him a simple Muggle job because he didn't understand the wizarding world, Allen seethed internally, remembering a scene from his future memories, and even though you know precisely the immense, ongoing risk your family takes by looking after your sister's child, this treatment goes too far. This isn't just contempt—it's calculated, sadistic cruelty.
Seeing that scene with his own eyes was a vastly different, far more emotionally infuriating experience than simply reading the novel or watching the film.
Before long, Aunt Petunia quickly came out of the room, locking the door with a loud click.
Her enormous son, Dudley, with his full, round belly still aching from his own opulent breakfast, soon lumbered outside, clutching a new, military-grade toy machine gun, eager to show off his latest acquisition to his cronies, Moken and the others, who had begun congregating on the sidewalk.
Allen knew this was the perfect moment. The house was now virtually empty, save for one very unhappy, imprisoned boy.