The silence in the Shrieking Shack was heavy, layered with years of dust and the lingering echo of old screams. Allen stood in the center of the dilapidated room, his wand held in a white-knuckled grip. He didn't move, his ears straining for the slightest vibration. The floorboards beneath his boots were treacherous, groaned under even the slightest shift in weight.
Creak... Creak...
It was a rhythmic sound, like a rusted hinge being forced open. It was coming from the far end of the hallway, past a door that hung precariously by a single hinge. Allen didn't rush. He moved with the calculated grace of a predator, his shadow stretching long and distorted against the peeling wallpaper as his wand-light flickered.
He rounded the corner and saw it—a small, broken window near the floorboards, its frame flapping weakly in the wind. Something had just gone through there. Allen knelt, peering out into the darkness, expecting to see the silhouette of a man or a massive dog. Instead, he saw a bushy, ginger tail disappearing into the high grass.
Crookshanks.
Hermione's cat. The realization hit Allen like a bucket of ice water. He hadn't been following a mindless beast; he had been lured. The cat wasn't just a pet; it was an accomplice.
"Dammit," Allen hissed, his instincts screaming at him to move.
But he was a second too late.
From the ceiling beams above or perhaps the dark corner he had just ignored, a massive weight slammed into his back. The force was astronomical, sending Allen sprawling onto the grimy floor. His forehead collided with the stone base of a wall with a sickening thud, sending white sparks dancing across his vision.
Before he could even register the pain, he was pinned. A heavy, muscular body pressed him into the dust, and the air was instantly choked by a foul, metallic stench—the smell of wet fur, unwashed skin, and old blood.
He looked up into a pair of crazed, grey eyes. A massive black dog was standing over him, its chest heaving with ragged, wet breaths. Hot, thick saliva dripped from its bared teeth, splashing onto Allen's cheek. The creature looked less like a dog and more like a demon carved from shadow, its ribs visible beneath its matted coat.
Allen didn't panic. He focused on the pressure. He managed to wedge his arms between his chest and the dog's neck, pushing upward with every ounce of strength he possessed. He felt the animal's hot breath against his throat, a low, guttural vibration that promised death.
"Off!" Allen roared, more a command of will than a plea.
He used the wall behind his head as leverage, kicking out and twisting his hips in one fluid motion. The dog, perhaps weakened by malnutrition, was caught off guard by the sheer explosive force of the boy beneath it. Allen flipped the beast over, scrambling to his feet and diving for his wand, which had rolled toward a broken chair.
He spun around, wand leveled at the dog's snout. The creature was already back on its paws, its hair standing on end, letting out a chilling, hoarse growl that sounded like stones grinding together in a deep well.
"I'm not here to turn you in, Black! I know the truth!" Allen shouted. The room was small, and his voice bounced off the boarded-up windows, creating an eerie echo.
The dog froze. For a fleeting second, the predatory madness in its eyes was replaced by a flickering spark of human intelligence. The growling subsided into a series of harsh, pained gasps, as if the very act of standing was an agony.
"I know you're innocent," Allen said, lowering his voice but keeping his wand steady. "And more importantly, I know exactly where the rat is hiding. The one you've been hunting. Put your teeth away, and we can end this tonight."
He tried to keep his expression neutral, projecting the calm of a Ravenclaw dealing with a complex equation. But Sirius Black was past the point of rational debate. The trauma of Azkaban hadn't just scarred him; it had rewired him.
With a sudden, explosive bark, the dog leaped again, aiming straight for Allen's throat.
"Protego!"
A shimmering, translucent barrier erupted from Allen's wand just as the dog's weight hit it. The Shield Charm acted like a physical wall; Black hit it and was hurled backward, his body crashing into a stack of rotted crates. A cloud of ancient dust and cobwebs rained down on him, turning his black fur grey.
The dog scrambled out of the debris, its legs shaking. It didn't transform. It just stared at him with those hollow, haunted eyes, baring its teeth in a silent snarl.
Allen's patience snapped. "Fine. If you want a fight before you listen, I'll give you one."
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Black was fast. Even in his weakened state, his Animagus form possessed a grace that was almost supernatural. He dived under the streak of white light, the spell shattering a vase on the mantlepiece behind him.
Suddenly, a blur of ginger fur launched itself at Allen's face.
"Argh!" Allen hissed as Crookshanks' claws sank deep into his forearm, shredding the expensive Victorian silk of his costume. The cat was a fury of hissing and scratching, aiming for his eyes.
Allen grabbed the cat by its scruff and flung it toward a moth-eaten sofa. "Stay out of this, you overgrown rug!"
But the distraction was all Black needed. By the time Allen turned back, the dog was gone, replaced by a man who looked more like a corpse than a wizard. His skin was the color of old parchment, hanging loosely over a skeletal frame. His hair was a matted curtain of filth.
Before Allen could raise his wand, Black's hands—bony and cold as ice—clamped around his neck.
The strength was terrifying. It wasn't the strength of a healthy man; it was the desperate, hysterical strength of a man who had nothing left to lose. Allen's vision began to blur as his airway was crushed. His face turned a deep, bruised purple.
He dropped his wand—it was useless at this range. Instead, he reached up, digging his thumbs into the pressure points on Black's wrists. When the grip didn't loosen, Allen brought his knee up with a brutal, sickening force directly into Black's midsection.
Black let out a wheezing groan, his grip faltering. Allen didn't give him a chance to recover. He twisted out of the hold, pivoted on his heel, and delivered a sharp, tactical kick to Black's groin.
The fugitive collapsed to his knees, his face hitting the floorboards with a dull thud.
Allen didn't stop. He leaped onto the man's back, pinning his arms and raining a series of clinical, heavy punches into the back of Black's head and shoulders. It wasn't a schoolyard scrap; it was an assault. He needed to break the man's will to fight.
Crookshanks lunged again, hissing like a tea kettle. Allen rolled off Black, narrowly avoiding a face full of claws, and stood up, panting heavily. His Victorian cravat was ruined, his face was scratched, and his knuckles were bleeding, but he had the upper hand.
He snatched his wand from the floor and pointed it directly between Black's eyes.
"Are we done?" Allen spat, his breath coming in ragged heaves. "Because the next spell won't be a Shield Charm."
Black was huddled in the corner, a pathetic heap of rags and bone. His nose was gushing blood, and one of his eyes was swelling shut from Allen's fists. He looked up, his chest heaving with a terrifying rattle.
"Kill me then..." Black croaked, his voice like dry leaves blowing over a grave. "It wouldn't be the first thing... you've stolen... from me today."
Allen didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his robes and pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment—the photograph of the Weasley family in Egypt. He flicked it onto the floor in front of Black.
In the photo, Ron was waving happily, and perched on his shoulder was a fat, grey rat with a missing toe.
The change in Black was instantaneous. The lethargy vanished. He lunged for the photo, his fingers trembling so violently he could barely pick it up. He stared at the rat with a look of such pure, undiluted hatred that Allen felt a chill run down his spine.
"I know who he is," Allen said quietly. "Peter Pettigrew. Wormtail. The 'hero' who blew up a street and then spent twelve years living as a pampered pet. He's in the Gryffindor dormitories right now."
Black's eyes snapped to Allen's. "How? How do you know?"
"I make it my business to know things," Allen replied, his voice returning to its cool, detached Ravenclaw tone. "The world thinks you're the monster, Sirius. But I see a man who was framed by a coward. I can give him to you."
Black's breathing slowed, though his eyes never left the photo. "Why help me? You're a child. You should be screaming for the Dementors."
Allen leaned against a rotted support beam, a small, dark smile playing on his lips. "Because I'm a Ravenclaw, Sirius. And Ravenclaws are the birds of the air—we see the whole board, and we take what we want from the wreckage."
He stepped closer, his wand tip glowing inches from Black's chest. "The House of Black is one of the 'Sacred Twenty-Eight.' Your family has spent centuries hoarding artifacts, forbidden scrolls, and grimoires that haven't seen the light of day since the middle ages. You are the last heir. When you die, that wealth—that knowledge—it vanishes."
Sirius let out a dry, hacking laugh. "You want gold? You've risked your life for a few galleons?"
"Gold is for Gringotts," Allen said, his eyes flashing with a hunger that caught Black off guard. "I want the library. I want the journals of your ancestors. I want the things the Ministry would burn if they ever found them. I want the knowledge that makes a wizard more than just a man with a stick."
Sirius stared at him, really seeing him for the first time. He didn't see a student. He saw a soul that was just as ambitious, just as cold, as the family he had run away from.
"You're a little vulture, aren't you?" Black rasped.
"I prefer 'collector'," Allen blinked innocently. "And let's be honest, Sirius. You're a skeletal wreck hiding in a shack, eating rats to survive. You don't have the strength to get past the wards of the castle, let alone catch Pettigrew before he vanishes again. I am the only bridge you have to your revenge."
Sirius looked at the photo of the rat again. His grip tightened, crumpling the edges of the picture. The desire for vengeance outweighed a thousand years of family heritage.
"Everything," Sirius whispered. "The house in London... the vaults... the books that scream when you open them. If you bring me Pettigrew alive, it's all yours. I don't care about the dead antiques of a dead family."
Allen tucked his wand back into his sleeve, though he kept his hand close to the hilt.