The walk back from the "Grisly Tomb" was a silent one, at least for Percy. The embarrassment of being rescued from his own "authority" by the very student he had tried to patronize earlier that morning was a bitter pill to swallow. Bill, never one to let a teaching moment pass, had made sure Percy knew exactly who had decoded the ancient lock.
"You should probably say something to him, Perce," Bill said, nudging his younger brother. "Allen didn't have to stay behind and help. He could have just gone back for tea."
Percy's face was a masterpiece of varying shades of crimson. He shuffled over to Allen, clearing his throat so many times it sounded like he was trying to dislodge a bone. "I... er... I appreciate the assistance, Allen. It was a complex lock. Very efficient work."
Allen didn't even look up from the notebook where he was jotting down the phonetic structure of the opening spell. He just waved a hand dismissively. "Don't mention it, Percy. Those ancient dialects can be tricky. It's easy to get turned around when the air starts getting thin."
Under Arthur's stern, disappointed gaze, Percy felt the need to prove he wasn't ungrateful. "No, really! Thank you! It was quite a... specialized situation!" he shouted, his voice cracking slightly. Allen just nodded with a faint, amused smile, letting the older boy suffer in his own awkwardness.
On their final night in Egypt, the group visited the Nile River Wizard Night Market. It was a sensory explosion. Floating lanterns of colored glass drifted above the stalls, reflecting off the dark, slow-moving waters of the Nile. The air was a thick soup of roasting lamb, heavy incense, and the ozone-crackle of raw magic.
While the Weasleys were drawn to the more practical stalls, the tourists were flocking to the amulet vendors. Egyptian magic was famous for its portable protection, and the mummies they had seen earlier had proven just how long-lasting these charms could be.
Ron was currently hovering near a stall draped in purple velvet. His eyes were locked onto a Scarab Amulet carved from deep violet amethyst. For a second, he looked tempted, but then he remembered the skittering legs of the mummies and shivered. He practically bolted to the next stall over, which was selling small, glass objects that looked like spinning tops.
"A Pocket Sneakoscope, young master!" the vendor cried, his white turban gleaming under the magical lights. "If there is a dark wizard, a liar, or a cheat within a hundred paces, it will dance and sing for you!"
"It's already doing that," Ron noted, pointing to the device in the vendor's hand, which was spinning so fast it was whistling and emitting a bright red glow.
"Well... yes," the vendor said, his eyes darting toward a group of shady-looking wizards haggling over a bag of powdered dragon claw. "It is a very... popular market. Many untrustworthy types. A testament to the device's accuracy, wouldn't you say?"
After some intense bargaining that involved Ron threatening to walk away three times, he secured the Sneakoscope for five silver sickles. He felt like a master of commerce until he looked back and saw Allen still at the amulet stall.
Allen wasn't just looking; he was shopping with the precision of a predator. He had a small mountain of amulets piled on the counter—scarabs for luck, cats for intuition, monkeys for agility, and even a strange, golden pig that the vendor claimed brought "abundance in the larder."
"Allen, what are you doing?" Ron asked, his eyes widening at the pile. "You're going to need a separate trunk just for the jewelry. Do you even have that much gold?"
"They're for my family, Ron," Allen replied, picking up a delicate falcon-shaped pendant. "My mother loves protective charms, and I haven't seen my sisters in weeks. Besides, the enchantment layering on these is unique to the region. You can't get this quality at Borgin and Burkes."
The vendor was practically vibrating with joy as Allen settled the bill. It was likely the largest single transaction the man had made all month.
As they sat by the river later, sampling a thick, green, and suspiciously slimy Mallow Soup, Ron's new Sneakoscope wouldn't stop its frantic whistling.
"It's definitely a dud," Percy remarked, trying to wipe a drop of the green soup off his Head Boy badge. "You should have listened to me, Ron. You bought a paperweight."
"The man won't take it back now," Bill said, taking a massive gulp of the soup. "They have a 'no refunds once the sun sets' policy. Usually because the goods stop working by sunrise."
"It's not broken," Ron insisted, looking pointedly at Bill's bowl. "It's probably reacting to the fact that Fred and George just dropped three desert beetles into your soup while you were looking at the stars."
Bill froze, looked down at his bowl, and let out a string of words that made Molly shout "William!" in her most dangerous voice.
Allen, however, wasn't looking at the soup. He was watching Scabbers. The rat was huddled in Ron's pocket, his tiny whiskers twitching in sync with the Sneakoscope's frantic rotation. Allen knew the device was working perfectly. It was detecting Peter Pettigrew—the traitor hiding in plain sight.
'Not here,' Allen thought, his eyes narrowing as he watched the rat. 'An Animagus of that caliber would vanish into the Nile in seconds if I made a move. I need a controlled environment. I'll wait until we're back in Britain. A good deed is worth doing, but only if the timing is right for a reward.'
The return to Britain was a blur of Portkeys and chilly wind. Allen politely declined the invitation to stay at the Burrow. As much as he enjoyed the Weasleys' chaotic energy, he missed the quiet sophistication of the Harris household.
The final week of the holidays was spent in a cocoon of family warmth. Morgan le Fay, his mother, treated his return like the homecoming of a conquering hero. Every meal was a feast designed to "put back the weight those dusty tombs took off you."
Owen and Lenn were less interested in his health and more interested in the magical theory of the pyramids. They spent hours in the library, poring over Allen's notes on the sound-based locking mechanisms. Meanwhile, Daisy and Emily were busy colonizing the living room with the amulets Allen had brought back.
"This one is yours, Little Sweet Bear," Daisy said, hanging a small, wooden bear amulet around Emily's neck.
"Do they have bears in the desert, Allen?" Emily asked, clutching the charm. "Or did they have to fly there?"
"Only magical ones, Emily," Allen lied smoothly, earning a wink from Daisy.
When the Hogwarts letters finally arrived, Allen opted to go to Diagon Alley alone. He loved his family, but shopping for school supplies was a tactical mission, not a social outing.
His first stop was Gringotts. After the spending spree in Egypt, his coin pouch was feeling dangerously light. He traded several bars of pure gold for a heavy, clinking weight of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. With his financial power restored, he made a beeline for Quality Quidditch Supplies.
A crowd had gathered at the window, thick enough that people were standing on their tiptoes just to catch a glimpse of the display. Allen elbowed his way through, ignoring the grunts of annoyed wizards, until he saw it.
The Firebolt.
It didn't look like a broomstick; it looked like a weapon. The ash handle was polished to such a high sheen it looked like dark glass. The birch twigs in the tail weren't just bundled; they were aerodynamically honed to lethal points.
"The Irish team just ordered seven," the shopkeeper was telling a group of wide-eyed enthusiasts. "It's not just a broom; it's a revolution. 0 to 150 in ten seconds. It has a Braking Charm that can stop a fall in mid-air without snapping the rider's neck."
Allen didn't hesitate. He walked into the shop, bypassed the crowd, and placed a mountain of gold on the counter. "One Firebolt. Shipping to the Harris estate by the end of the week."
The clerk stared at him, then at the gold, then back at the blond boy who looked far too young to be dropping that kind of money. "I... yes, sir. Of course, sir. It will be packaged with the utmost care."
As Allen stepped back out into the street, a voice caught him. "Allen! Did you see it?"
It was Harry Potter. He looked thinner than usual, his clothes hanging off his frame, but his eyes were bright as he stared at the window.
"I saw it, Harry. In fact, I just bought one," Allen said.
Harry's jaw practically hit the pavement. "You... you bought it? Just like that? Allen, that's thousands of Galleons!"
"Every time I see my brother Albert, he complains about his old Cleansweep. I figured it's time he had something that actually flies," Allen said, shrugging. "Besides, you're looking at it like it's a miracle. You could probably afford ten of them if you wanted."
Harry looked confused. "What do you mean? My uncle... he doesn't give me a penny. I have to beg just to get my school books."
Allen sighed, leaning against the shop front. "Harry, your grandfather was Fleamont Potter. He invented Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. It's the reason half the witches in Britain don't look like they've been struck by lightning. He sold the company for a fortune. Your family vault at Gringotts is one of the wealthiest in the bank."
Harry blinked. He remembered the gold he'd seen in first year, but he'd always thought of it as a finite pile—something to be guarded.
"Dumbledore says I shouldn't spend it," Harry whispered. "And Hagrid says if the Dursleys knew, they'd take it all."
Allen felt a surge of genuine irritation toward the Headmaster's methods. "Harry, think for a second. The Dursleys are Muggles. They couldn't get into Gringotts if they had a tank. And as for Dumbledore... if he's so worried about your life there, why doesn't he have Hagrid withdraw some of your gold, exchange it for Muggle money, and pay your aunt an adoption fee?"
Harry went silent. The idea was so simple, so logical, that it made his brain hurt.
"If you brought back a thousand pounds every summer to pay for your 'room and board,' do you think they'd still treat you like a burden?" Allen continued. "Money talks, Harry, even to Muggles. Especially to Muggles like the Dursleys. Dumbledore claims he wants you to have a normal life, yet he keeps you in poverty while you sit on a mountain of gold. It doesn't add up."
"He's probably just busy," Harry said, though his voice lacked conviction. "He has the whole school to run."
"He's busy with your affairs, Harry. Believe me," Allen said, patting Harry on the shoulder. "Anyway, I have to go to Flourish and Blotts. Want to come? I hear the new textbook for Care of Magical Creatures is... lively."