As Allen and Harry stood before the large iron cage, the sheer violence of the "merchandise" was hard to ignore. Bits of parchment and leather bindings were being spat out from between the bars like confetti at a particularly morbid wedding. Harry looked from the cage to the crumpled booklist in his hand, his eyes widening as the realization hit him.
"Care of Magical Creatures," Harry muttered, his voice a mix of dread and dawning understanding. "Textbook: The Monster Book of Monsters."
He looked back at the snarling, snapping pile of fur and fangs. A small part of him felt a wave of relief. Ever since Hagrid had mentioned a surprise during their brief encounter earlier in the summer, Harry had been plagued by nightmares of having to house-train a baby Manticore or groom a Chimaera. Compared to that, a book that tried to take your fingers off seemed almost... quaint.
"Hagrid's definitely behind this," Allen said, his voice laced with amusement as he watched a particularly aggressive copy try to swallow a smaller one whole. "It has his signature blend of 'educational' and 'lethal' written all over it."
The manager of Flourish and Blotts chose that moment to come charging over. He looked like a man who had been through a war and was currently losing. His robes were frayed, and there was a frantic, wild look in his eyes that suggested he was one minor inconvenience away from a complete breakdown.
"Hogwarts?" he barked, not bothering with pleasantries. "Third years? Here for the... the things in the cage?"
"Yes," Allen nodded, looking entirely too relaxed for the manager's liking.
"Right. Stay back. Both of you," the manager commanded, shoving Harry aside with an impatient grunt. He began pulling on a pair of dragon-hide gloves that were so thick he could barely bend his fingers. He then grabbed a gnarled wooden walking stick that looked like it had been used for more than just walking.
"I need—" Harry started, trying to ask for the rest of his list.
"In a minute, boy! I've been bitten five times since nine a.m., and I'm not looking for a sixth!" The manager's voice rose to a shrill peak. He approached the cage like a lion tamer entering a den of starving predators. "Two copies, right? Just two? Merlin, please let it be just two."
"Actually, I already have mine," Harry said quickly, backing away as the manager unlatched the heavy iron bolt.
The manager froze, his head snapping around to look at Harry. For a second, he looked like he might weep with gratitude. "You do? You truly do? Bless you, young man. Truly. You've saved me a limb."
Allen couldn't help but chuckle at the man's theatrics, while Harry just looked embarrassed.
"I still need one, though," Allen said, his eyes tracking a book that was currently vibrating with murderous intent. "But you really don't need the stick. If you just—"
RRRRIP!
The sound of high-grade vellum being shredded echoed through the shop. Three books had teamed up on a fourth, tearing its cover clean off.
"Stop it! You wretched, over-engineered piles of pulp!" the manager screamed, thrusting the gnarled stick into the cage and swinging it wildly to separate the combatants. "I'm never ordering these again! Never! Last year it was the Invisible Book of Invisibility. We spent two thousand Galleons on stock and haven't found a single copy since. We think they're behind the biography section, but who knows? I thought that was a disaster, but at least those didn't try to eat the staff!"
In his frustration, the manager made a tactical error. He left the cage door open a fraction too wide while trying to bat back a particularly fast book.
"Ah! Get off! Get off me!"
One book had used the stick as a ramp, launched itself with surprising agility, and clamped its teeth firmly onto the manager's shoulder. The stick clattered to the floor, and the rest of the books realized the exit was clear. They began a frantic, scrambling exodus toward the open shop floor.
Allen moved before Harry could even process the threat. His hand shot out, grabbing two escaping books by their spines in mid-air. With a fluid, practiced motion, he tossed them back into the cage and slammed the door shut, the 'clack' of the bolt sounding like a gunshot in the tense silence.
"This isn't a book!" the manager wailed, his face turning a sickly shade of grey as he batted at the thing on his shoulder. "It's a parasite! It's a monster!"
Harry lunged forward, grabbing the spine of the book and pulling with all his might. The only result was a howl of agony from the manager as the book's teeth sank deeper into the fabric of his robes and the flesh beneath.
"Harry, stop. You're making it worse," Allen said calmly. He stepped in, his expression one of bored expertise. He didn't use force. Instead, he reached out and began to gently stroke the very top of the book's spine, right where the fur met the leather.
The change was instantaneous. The book gave a little, shuddering sigh. Its "mouth" went slack, releasing the manager's shoulder, and it flopped into Allen's waiting hands, as docile as a sleeping kitten.
The manager staggered back, clutching his bleeding shoulder and gasping for breath. He stared at the quiet book in Allen's hands, then at Allen himself. "What... what spell was that? I didn't hear an incantation."
"No spell needed," Allen explained, holding the book up so they could see. "They're just like any other magical creature Hagrid would like. They have a temperament. If you stroke the spine, it triggers a submissive reflex. It thinks you're the Alpha."
The book in Allen's hand gave a soft, comfortable wiggle. Harry and the manager both jumped back a foot, clearly not ready to trust the sudden peace.
"It was that simple?" the manager whispered, looking like he wanted to either laugh or cry. "All morning... the gloves... the stick... and all I had to do was pet them?"
With Allen's "Alpha" status established, the rest of the books were quickly tamed. Harry joined in once he saw it was safe, and soon the cage was organized, with every book sitting quietly on the shelves. The manager even assigned a terrified-looking junior clerk to "pet the inventory" every half hour to keep them calm.
"I can't thank you enough," the manager said, his shoulder now patched up thanks to a quick healing charm from Allen. He began piling the rest of the third-year textbooks onto the counter. "Take them. All of them. On the house. Your 'spine-stroking' method probably saved me a fortune in medical bills and lawsuits from parents."
"You don't have to do that," Harry said, feeling guilty about the freebies.
"I insist!" the manager beamed, his nightmare finally over. "You've turned a massacre into a manageable sales day."
As they exited the shop, Harry was beaming, his arms full of free books. "Allen, that was incredible. Even the guy who owns the place didn't know how to handle them. How did you figure it out?"
"I just happened to read a footnote in a naturalist's journal," Allen lied smoothly. In reality, he just remembered the trick from his previous knowledge, but 'happened to know' was his standard cover for everything.
He walked quickly, trying to guide Harry away from a specific display table near the door. He had caught a glimpse of a book titled Death Omens: What to Do When You Know the Worst is Coming. The last thing he needed was Harry spiraling into a panic about grim portents.
But Harry's seeker-vision was too sharp. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the cover.
"Allen... look at that."
The cover featured a massive black dog, its eyes glowing like embers against a dark, foggy background. It looked hauntingly familiar to the stray Harry had seen in Magnolia Crescent.
"Oh, don't waste your time with that rubbish," a clerk said, passing by with a stack of scrolls. "It's a bestseller because people love to be miserable. Read that, and you'll start seeing the Grim in your tea leaves and your breakfast porridge. It's enough to scare a person into an early grave just from the stress."
"Exactly," Allen chimed in, stepping between Harry and the book. "It's a psychological trap. If you look for bad luck, you'll find it. It's called confirmation bias. If you believe a black dog is a death omen, then every time you see a stray, you'll think you're dying. Just move on, Harry."
Harry followed, but he was quiet, his eyes distant. He kept bumping into people on the sidewalk, his mind clearly back in that dark alleyway where the giant dog had stared him down. Allen eventually had to grab Harry's elbow to stop him from walking directly into a cauldron display.
"Lunch," Allen announced as they reached the Leaky Cauldron. "My treat. You need food, and I need a break from your brooding."
Harry managed a weak smile. "Sorry. I'm just... thinking."
The Leaky Cauldron was humming with its usual mid-afternoon crowd. Tom, the landlord, scurried over the moment he saw them. He gave Allen a deep, respectful bow—one that seemed a bit more pointed than the usual service.
"The usual corner table, Mr. Harris? And for Mr. Potter as well?" Tom squeaked.
"That would be perfect, Tom. Two cold juices and whatever the special is. Extra potatoes for Harry, he looks like he's fading away."
As they sat, Allen scanned the room. It was a fascinating cross-section of the wizarding world. A witch from the country was fussing over a basket of sentient ginger roots that kept trying to climb out. A frail wizard in the corner was aggressively pointing at a diagram in Transfiguration Today, arguing with a bored-looking dwarf.
And then there was the figure in the shadows. A person wrapped in a thick, heavy wool coat despite the summer heat, their face hidden behind a balaclava. They were silently consuming a plate of raw, bloody liver.
"Charming place," Allen remarked, taking a long sip of his iced juice. The cold liquid was a welcome relief against the humid afternoon. "Better than a tomb in Egypt, at least. No mummies to judge your table manners."