The aftermath of the pyramid incident left the group in a state of strange, sun-drenched euphoria. For the next few days, Egypt transformed from a land of terrifying ancient curses into a vibrant, golden playground. The air was thick with the scent of spices and heated stone, and the tension that had gripped them in the dark chambers seemed to evaporate under the relentless desert sun.
Of course, the quiet didn't last long, mostly because Ron couldn't stop talking. Every time they sat down for a meal, the story of the underground tomb evolved. In the first telling, they had faced a handful of ancient guardians. By the third day, Ron was describing a tactical retreat from a legion of three hundred mummies while he simultaneously decoded high-level hieroglyphics.
At first, Arthur and Bill listened with genuine interest, leaning in to catch every detail. But as the narrative shifted from "we barely survived" to "I basically led a small army," the audience began to thin out. By the time Ron started explaining how he had personally outmaneuvered a cursed sphinx, even Ginny was busy counting the stitches in her socks rather than listening to him.
"It's educational, really," Ron insisted one afternoon, ignoring the way George was making "yak-yak" motions with his hand behind his head. "People need to know the dangers of improper footwear in a burial chamber."
Bill, ever the professional, decided the best way to keep the peace was to keep them moving. He took them on a tour of the public-access tombs—the "sanitized" versions of what they had experienced. There were no collapsing floors or soul-eating kings here, but the magic was no less breathtaking. The walls were vibrant with colors that had somehow survived five millennia, and the spells woven into the very stone hummed with a low, rhythmic power that made the hair on Allen's arms stand up.
"It's incredible," Allen whispered, tracing his fingers just an inch above a glowing protective rune. "The layering of these enchantments is... it's like music. It's not just one spell; it's a symphony of intent."
"Sure, it's pretty," Ron countered, looking around with a slightly bored expression. "But compared to a mummy trying to rip your head off? This is basically a museum trip. I miss the adrenaline."
"Careful what you wish for, little brother," Fred chirped, leaning over Ron's shoulder. "We could always find a cursed jar for you to open. I hear the ones filled with ancient plague are particularly 'thrilling.'"
"Or we could just find a way to make Percy's life more exciting," George added, his eyes sparkling with a familiar, dangerous glint.
Speaking of Percy, the eldest Weasley boy present was currently vibrating at a frequency of pure self-importance. It wasn't just the fact that he was entering his N.E.W.T. year, which he treated with the gravity of a declaration of war. No, the source of his radiant smugness was the shiny, silver badge pinned to his chest: Head Boy.
Percy didn't just walk anymore; he marched. He didn't just speak; he issued proclamations. He spent a significant portion of his mornings polishing his badge until it could be used as a signaling mirror for passing aircraft.
As they were preparing for an outing to the Great Pyramid, Percy stepped into Allen's path, his chest puffed out so far he looked like a ginger pigeon. "I hope you've been reflecting on your conduct, Allen. As Head Boy, I'll be keeping a much closer eye on cross-house relations this year. Authority isn't a suggestion; it's a responsibility."
Allen blinked, genuinely confused for a moment. "I'm sorry, Percy. Are you practicing for a play, or did you actually just say that?"
Percy's face turned a shade of pink that almost matched his hair. He huffed, adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, and swept out the door with all the dignity he could muster.
"He's still bitter about that time in the common room," Ron said, appearing at Allen's elbow. "Remember? You told him he had as much authority over a Ravenclaw as a flobberworm has over a dragon. He's been stewing on that for months. I think he actually has a calendar in his head where he marks off the days until he can give you a detention."
Allen laughed, shaking his head. "I didn't realize his memory was that good. I'll have to be more careful with my insults if they're going to be stored in a vault for a year."
"Hurry up, everyone!" Arthur Weasley called out from the courtyard. "The correspondent from the Daily Prophet is waiting! We don't want to look like a pack of Ghouls in the paper!"
The photoshoot was a chaotic affair. Despite the blistering heat, the Weasleys were a picture of pure, unadulterated joy. They posed in front of the Great Pyramid, the stone structure looming like a mountain of gold behind them.
Arthur stood tall, his thinning hair ruffled by the desert wind, his arm around Molly, who was beaming with the pride of a woman who had successfully kept all her children alive in a foreign country. The six Weasley children were a sea of flaming red hair and frantic waving. Fred and George were busy making faces at the camera, resulting in several shots where their features were a blurred mess of laughter.
In the center of the frame was Ron, looking gangly and awkward in his too-short trousers, with Scabbers perched precariously on his shoulder. He had one arm around Ginny, who was squinting against the sun but smiling brightly. Percy, of course, had insisted on wearing a traditional Turkish hat he'd picked up in the market, the Head Boy badge positioned perfectly to catch the light and blind anyone looking directly at the photo.
And then there was Allen. He was the visual outlier—the splash of gold in a sea of red. He stood on the edge of the group, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed and strangely mature for his age. He wasn't waving or pulling faces; he just looked... present. The photographer, a middle-aged wizard with a keen eye for aesthetics, seemed enchanted by the blond boy. He took several extra candid shots of Allen looking off toward the horizon, muttering something about "star quality" and "the face of the new generation."
The final stop of the day was a tomb that Bill described as "artistically significant but historically grim."
As they approached the entrance, Molly took one look at the warning signs and the dark, narrow descent and put her foot down. "Ginny, you're staying out here with me. I don't care if you're a witch; no child needs to see what's down there."
Ginny protested with a series of heart-wrenching sobs, but Molly was a fortress. Allen, stepping inside, quickly realized Molly had made the right call. The chamber was a nightmare of Transfiguration. The walls weren't decorated with paintings, but with the skeletal remains of those who had tried to rob the tomb. There were human-headed beasts, skeletons with two heads, and bones fused together in grotesque, impossible shapes.
"Intruding Muggles," Bill explained, his voice low. He glanced at Allen, a silent acknowledgement of the girl they had saved. "The curse here doesn't kill you instantly. It changes you. It twists the body into a form that matches the 'beast' within the thief's soul."
Allen felt a cold shiver go down his spine. He thought of Nancy. If they hadn't found her, if he hadn't been there to counter the initial traps, her bones might have been added to this grisly collection—a silent, twisted monument to a world she didn't belong in.
As they emerged from the gloom of the "Grisly Tomb," Ron suddenly stopped and looked around. "Where's Percy?"
Arthur frowned, counting heads. "He was right behind us... wasn't he?"
"He was talking about the architectural significance of the lintels," Ron said. "I tuned him out around ten minutes ago."
Arthur's face paled. "Percy? Vanished? That's impossible. He follows the rules! He wouldn't just wander off!"
Bill's eyes immediately tracked to Fred and George, who were standing a little too still, their expressions a little too innocent. Bill marched over to them, followed closely by a very worried Arthur.
"Where is he?" Bill asked, his voice dropping into the 'big brother' register that brooked no argument.
"Who?" Fred asked, blinking rapidly.
"The Head Boy?" George added. "Last I saw, he was investigating a very interesting pile of dust."
The twins tried to shuffle away, but they ran directly into the brick wall that was Molly Weasley. She didn't say a word; she just placed a hand on each of their collars and squeezed.
"George. Fred. If your brother is locked in a tomb because of a 'joke,' I will ensure you spend the rest of the summer cleaning the attic of the Burrow with your toothbrushes," Molly said, her voice terrifyingly calm.
"We just thought he needed a moment of silence!" Fred blurted out.
"He was being so loud about the badge!" George added. "We didn't think the door would actually seal!"
They rushed back to the entrance of a side chamber. Allen got there first, hearing the faint, muffled sound of frantic banging against the heavy stone slab.
"He's in there," Allen said, pointing to the door. "The twins must have tripped the locking mechanism from the outside."
"Alohomora!" Arthur cried, waving his wand. Nothing happened. The stone didn't even twitch.
"It's no use, Dad," Bill said, examining the runes around the frame. "This is a sealed-state lock. It requires the original opening incantation. It's a high-level Egyptian dialect. I'll have to go find Sayid and the Ministry team to get the specialized breakers."
From inside, the muffled shouts were turning into hysterical, hoarse screams. Percy, for all his bravado, was clearly losing his mind in the dark, surrounded by the bones of the "beasts."
"Percy! Stay calm!" Bill shouted at the door, but he shook his head. "He can't hear us. The chamber is soundproofed for 'eternal rest.' I'm going for help!"
Bill turned to run, but Allen was already kneeling by the door. His mind was racing back to the underground tomb, back to the moments when he had watched the ancient guardians move. He remembered the flow of the mana, the specific guttural clicks and elongated vowels of the language that lived in the stone.
He closed his eyes, centering himself. On his first attempt, the stone groaned but stayed shut. On the second, a spark of blue light flickered in the grooves. On the third, Allen spoke the words with the absolute authority of a king commanding his gate to open.
"Kha-met-sun!"
The stone gate didn't just rise; it shuddered and retracted with a heavy, grinding sound.
Percy Weasley practically fell out of the chamber. His perfectly parted hair was a chaotic mess, standing up in all directions like a startled bird. His horn-rimmed glasses were crooked, and his prized Turkish hat was lying face-down in the dirt. The Head Boy badge, the symbol of his ultimate authority, was dangling precariously from his pocket, resting right next to a dusty human skull that had rolled out with him.
Percy looked at the sunlight, then at his family, and let out a sound that was half-sob, half-hiccup. The "authority" of the Head Boy had survived fifteen minutes of darkness, and it had not come out on top.