Back in the safety of his guest room, Allen spent a few more minutes scrutinizing his "haul." After a rigorous scan using the system's diagnostic interface, the truth was laid bare: out of the entire pile, only a single egg possessed a flicker of life. The others were nothing more than high-end stage props, crafted from polymer and enchanted stone to mimic the weight and texture of the real thing.
Still, Allen wasn't complaining. Finding a viable dragon egg in a discount bin was like finding a diamond in a bag of marbles. He carefully stowed the violet-scaled treasure into a specialized incubation slot in his pet space.
I should probably pick Hagrid's brain when I get back to Scotland, Allen mused, a small smirk playing on his lips. The man is practically a walking encyclopedia for things that want to bite your head off. If anyone knows how to keep this thing from turning into a pile of sulfurous ash, it's him.
While Allen was planning his future as a secret dragon tamer, the atmosphere on the other side of the Wizarding Street was decidedly more murderous.
In a penthouse suite shielded by layers of dark, shimmering wards, the air was thick with the smell of burnt ozone and fear. A witch in elegant, charcoal-colored robes stood by the window, her face obscured by a porcelain mask. At her feet, a gaunt wizard was twitching uncontrollably, the aftereffects of a Cruciatus Curse still racking his frame.
"You really are a special kind of useless, aren't you?" the witch remarked. Her voice was smooth, almost melodic, despite the venom in her words. "First Henry gets himself caught by a schoolboy, and now you've managed to lose our primary asset."
"Madam... please," the thin wizard gasped, clutching at the carpet. "The Aurors... they were right on my heels. I had to ditch the cargo. I thought hiding it in plain sight among the replicas at Thaddeus's was a stroke of genius. Who actually buys fifteen prop eggs at once?"
"Someone with more gold than sense, apparently," she snapped, turning toward him. The languid grace of her movements only made her more terrifying. "Or someone who knew exactly what they were looking for."
"I'll find them! I'll get it back!"
"You'd better," she whispered, leaning down until the cold porcelain of her mask nearly touched his nose. "Because if that egg hatches in the hands of the MACUSA—or worse, some random tourist—I'll ensure that your death is the most interesting thing you've ever accomplished. Now, get out. Find whoever cleared out that display."
By seven-fifteen that evening, the tension of the afternoon had been replaced by the stiff formality of high society.
Allen stood before the full-length mirror in Leonard's hallway, adjusting the cuffs of his formal robes. These weren't the standard black wool robes of Hogwarts; these were bespoke garments he'd acquired during his travels, woven with moon-silk threads that caught the light with every movement. They shifted from a deep navy to a shimmering silver depending on the angle, marking him clearly as a wizard of means and taste.
Leonard, Jessica, Ian, and Professor Flitwick were equally transformed. Leonard looked every bit the rising political star, while Jessica was a whirlwind of silk and lace, her eyes sparkling with the anticipation of a grand ball.
"Everyone ready to look important?" Leonard asked, checking his pocket watch.
With a collective nod and a series of sharp cracks, the group Apparated to the base of the Woolworth Building. The skyscraper was a beacon of light against the New York skyline, its neo-Gothic arches hiding the heart of American magical government.
They bypassed the main tourist entrance, moving toward a nondescript side door guarded by wizards in sharp, gold-trimmed uniforms. Leonard produced a thick, embossed invitation. The guard's eyes widened slightly as he read the names, and he stepped aside with a crisp salute.
The Great Hall of the MACUSA was breathtaking. It was a cavernous space of white marble and gold leaf, with a ceiling so high it seemed to have its own weather system. Massive banners draped from the balconies, and the great Magical Exposure Threat dial hung prominently on the wall. Allen glanced at it—the needle was hovering over "Medium."
The fallout from Henry's mess hasn't settled yet, Allen thought. There are still rats in the walls.
"Mr. Nox! A pleasure, a true pleasure!" A slick, overly friendly voice cut through the ambient chatter.
It was Abernathy, the man from the Wand Permit Office. Gone was the arrogant bureaucrat who had sneered at them earlier. In his place was a bowing, scraping sycophant with a smile that looked like it had been painted on.
"Abernathy," Leonard replied, his tone polite but distant. "Merry Christmas to you."
"And to you, sir! I was just saying to my colleagues—it's only a matter of time before we're addressing you as Director Nox. A brilliant move, handling that Jones business."
The man was a weather vane, Allen realized, always turning toward whichever way the power was blowing. But before Abernathy could continue his brown-nosing, a small paper mouse scurried up Leonard's sleeve and hopped into his palm.
Leonard unfolded the charm, his expression shifting to one of professional gravity. "My apologies, gentlemen, but duty calls. If you'll excuse us?"
The crowd parted like the Red Sea for Leonard as he led Allen and the others away from the main gala and toward the elevators. They ascended to the highest level, eventually arriving at a set of heavy, dark-wood doors.
The Oval Office of the MACUSA Chairman was a masterclass in understated power. The giant seal of the Congress was woven into the center of the plush carpet, and the walls were lined with portraits of past leaders who all seemed to be watching Allen with keen interest.
Behind a massive mahogany desk sat a man who radiated authority. William Piquery, the Chairman, had the eyes of a hawk and the posture of a soldier. He stood as they entered, his gaze lingering on Allen for a heartbeat longer than the others.
"Welcome," Piquery said, his voice a deep baritone that filled the room. "I've spent the last hour reading Leonard's full report. It's not often we have guests from Britain who manage to solve our domestic terrorism problems before they've even finished their holiday."
He walked around the desk, stopping in front of Allen. "Mr. Harris. Capturing Henry Jones was a service to this country. Rescuing a Thunderbird... that was a service to magic itself. You have the gratitude of the Congress."
Allen bowed slightly, his expression modest. "I was simply in the right place at the right time, Chairman. I'm glad the creature is safe."
Piquery smiled—a rare, sharp movement of his lips. He then turned to compliment Jessica's grace, Ian's bravery, and Flitwick's legendary reputation. Once the pleasantries were finished, the Chairman's tone turned serious.
"Henry Jones has a long reach. While he's in a cell, many of his 'associates' are still very much at large. If we were to give you a public medal in the middle of that ballroom tonight, you'd have a target on your back before you reached the buffet. Therefore, we've decided on a more... private acknowledgement."
He gestured to the side table, where four dark red velvet boxes sat.
"Leonard, as a member of this Congress, your reward is being handled through official promotions. I believe the Auror Department is in need of a new Director."
Leonard beamed, though he tried to keep his composure.
Piquery then handed the boxes to the rest of them. "Inside, you will find a token of our appreciation. Use them well, and Merry Christmas."
The meeting was brief—the mark of a man who had a country to run. Leonard led them back out into the hallway, the heavy boxes tucked under their arms.
"I'm going to pop these back to the house," Leonard suggested. "Carrying these around a cocktail party is like wearing a sign that says 'Ask me about my secret reward.' I'll be back in five minutes."
Everyone agreed. They returned to the main hall, where the "State Banquet" was in full swing.
Allen grabbed a plate of lobster thermidor and found a quiet corner. He watched the room with a cynical eye. This wasn't a party; it was a battlefield of egos. Politicians in silk robes moved like sharks, their smiles never reaching their eyes, their every word calculated for maximum leverage.
It was a far cry from the warmth of the Great Hall at Hogwarts, where the laughter was real and the biggest worry was whether the twins would drop a Dungbomb in the gravy.
Jessica looked equally disappointed. She had spent hours preparing for a grand ball, but this was a standing-room-only networking event. There was no dancing, only "meaningful dialogue."
"This is incredibly boring," Ian whispered, drifting over to Allen's corner. "I feel like I'm at a funeral for fun."
"Agreed," Allen said, setting down his empty glass. "I think we've checked the box for 'social appearances' for the year."
When Leonard returned, looking relieved to be rid of the boxes, he found his group huddled together, all wearing the same expression of polite exhaustion.
"Had enough of high society?" Leonard asked with a wink.
"More than enough," Professor Flitwick squeaked, his head barely visible above the champagne fountain. "I believe there are four mysterious boxes waiting for us at home that are far more interesting than this ginger ale."
"Then let's make our exit," Leonard said. "After all, the best part of any Christmas is opening the presents."