The air in the Shrieking Shack was thick with the scent of iron and ancient, stagnant rot. Sirius Black, the man who had supposedly betrayed the Potters and laughed in the face of death, was currently a broken heap in the corner, his wheezing breath the only sound in the room.
"You need to get one thing through your head, Black," Allen said, his voice dropping to a cold, clinical octave that cut through Sirius's ragged panting. "The target isn't Harry. It never was. It's Peter Pettigrew. But if you try to take him head-on, you're an idiot. If that coward could level a city block and kill a dozen Muggles with a single curse back then, imagine what he'll do if he's cornered in a castle full of children. He'll blow Hogwarts to the ground before he lets you touch him. Or worse... he'll kill Harry just to ensure he has a distraction to escape."
Allen wasn't just being dramatic to win an argument. He understood the psychology of a cornered rat better than most. Peter Pettigrew had survived twelve years in a cage; he was the embodiment of survival at any cost.
"I have the access," Allen continued, his shadow looming over the fugitive. "I can get close to him without raising an alarm. I can bring him to you, quiet and alive, and leave him to whatever brand of justice you have left in those hollow bones of yours."
Sirius looked up, his bloodshot eyes searching Allen's face for a lie. He saw only the icy determination of a Ravenclaw who had already calculated the odds. "Fine," Black rasped, his voice cracking. "Bring me the rat, and the Black family's legacy—every cursed book, every gold-laden vault, every scrap of hidden knowledge—it's all yours. I have no use for it in a grave."
Allen's eyes flickered with a predatory light, but he didn't relax his posture. "I don't do business on handshakes and 'gentleman's agreements,' Sirius. Especially not with a man the world thinks is a mass murderer. We're going to do this properly. We're making an Unbreakable Vow."
He had no intention of being a nameless hero. He wasn't interested in the 'warm glow' of doing the right thing. He wanted his payment, and he wanted it guaranteed by magic so ancient and binding that even death couldn't wiggle out of the contract.
Black struggled to sit up, a grimace of pain twisting his scarred features. "An Unbreakable Vow? You're a cautious little devil. But we need a witness, boy. Unless you've got a stray ghost hiding in your pocket, we're stuck."
Allen didn't blink. "I have my own ways." He reached into the air, tapping into his Pet Space. "Maggie, come out."
In a soft pop of displaced air, a small figure appeared. Maggie, the House-elf, stood there in her clean, miniature robes, her large eyes blinking at the dilapidated surroundings.
Sirius's jaw practically hit the floor. "A House-elf? You've got a personal elf serving you at school?"
"They are the most powerful magical conduits in Britain, aren't they?" Allen said with a thin smile. "And unlike wizards, they know how to keep a secret."
Sirius let out a dry, hacking bark of a laugh. "Incredible. Fine. If you think a House-elf can anchor a Vow of this magnitude, let's get on with it. It's not like my life can get much worse."
Black extended a skeletal, trembling hand. Allen took it. The contrast was stark—Allen's hand was warm, steady, and full of life; Sirius's felt like grabbing a bundle of dry sticks wrapped in cold leather.
Maggie stepped forward, her expression solemn as she realized the gravity of the moment. She placed her small hand over their joined fingers, her magic beginning to hum in the confined space.
"I, Allen Harris, Vow to hunt down and deliver Peter Pettigrew, alive and bound, to the presence of Sirius Orion Black," Allen intoned, his voice echoing with magical weight.
"I, Sirius Orion Black," the man replied, his voice gaining a sudden, fierce strength, "Vow that upon the delivery of the traitor Pettigrew, I shall transfer all rights, titles, and the entirety of the House of Black's collections and properties to Allen Harris."
A thin tongue of brilliant, red-gold flame shot from the point where Maggie's hand touched theirs. It wound around their wrists like a living snake, searing the promise into the very fabric of their souls. A second flame followed, intertwining with the first, before both vanished into their skin with a faint hiss.
The Vow was set.
"If you break this, you're a dead man," Sirius muttered, though he looked more relieved than threatened. "Now... bring him to me. Go!"
"Patience, Sirius," Allen said, reclaiming his hand and adjusting his sleeve. "I said I'd bring him to you. I never said I'd do it tonight. The castle is crawling with Dementors and teachers on high alert because someone—and I'm looking at you—decided to slash up a portrait like a madman."
Sirius growled, but he didn't have the strength to argue.
"Stay here. Recover. Maggie will bring you food and keep an eye on your injuries," Allen instructed. "I can't have the last living relative of Harry Potter dropping dead of a fever before I get my books. The Black collection hasn't changed hands yet, after all."
He turned to leave, but as he reached the secret passage, he paused. "One more thing. That knot on the Whomping Willow... which one is it? I'd rather not get turned into a pancake on my way out."
Sirius leaned back against the wall, a wicked, jagged smile appearing on his face. "You're so clever, Allen. Why don't you try pressing them all? See which one makes it stop and which one makes it swing harder."
Allen didn't miss a beat. He raised his wand, a faint blue light shimmering at the tip. "I expected as much. Vulnus Transmittere."
The spell hit Sirius squarely in the chest. It didn't hurt, but the man felt a strange, cold tether snap into place between him and the boy.
"A Damage Transfer charm," Allen explained, looking entirely too smug. He slowly reached down and gave the flesh on his own arm a sharp, twisting pinch.
Sirius let out a sharp yelp, clutching his own arm as if he'd been stung by a giant hornet. He glared at Allen with a mixture of fury and newfound respect. "You little monster..."
"The knot, Sirius. My patience is wearing thin."
"The prominent one near the roots," Black spat, hissing through the phantom pain. "Just above the largest branch on the western side. Press it and the tree freezes. Now get out before I figure out a way to curse you from the floor."
Allen nodded, satisfied, and vanished into the darkness of the tunnel.
The walk back through the secret passage was a blur. His mind was racing, calculating the logistics of the 'rat hunt' while his pocket vibrated incessantly. He pulled out the Magic Communication Gold Piece he'd given the Ravenclaws. The surface was covered in frantic, glowing text.
ROLL CALL IN THE GREAT HALL. WHERE ARE YOU?FLITWICK IS ASKING QUESTIONS.ALLEN, PENELOPE IS GONE TOO. GET BACK NOW.
"Damn," Allen muttered. He'd stayed too long.
He emerged from under the Whomping Willow, tapped the knot Sirius had described—it worked perfectly—and sprinted toward the castle under the cover of a Disillusionment Charm. The Forbidden Forest loomed to his left, a wall of impenetrable shadows. He could feel eyes on him—the centaurs, the spiders, or perhaps things far worse—but he didn't slow down.
He reached the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall and took a deep breath. He couldn't sneak in; the doors were too heavy to open silently. He'd have to walk in and face the music.
He cancelled the charm, straightened his ruffled Victorian costume, and pushed the doors open.
The sight inside was surreal. The Great Hall had been stripped of its tables, which were now pushed against the walls. The floor was a sea of purple sleeping bags, looking like hundreds of oversized cocoons. The flickering candlelight from the floating jack-o'-lanterns cast long, dancing shadows across the ceiling.
Percy Weasley was marching up and down the aisles, his chest puffed out with the self-importance of a man who thought he was single-handedly holding back an invasion.
As the door groaned open, hundreds of heads popped out of their sleeping bags like meerkats. The whispering started instantly.
"Allen! Where have you been?" Percy hissed, rushing over and grabbing Allen's arm. His face was pale, and his glasses were slightly crooked. "Wandering the halls is a death sentence tonight! Didn't you hear? Black was in the Gryffindor tower!"
Allen played the part of the confused student. "I was... I didn't realize there was a lockdown. I was in the Charms wing."
"Everyone is supposed to be in their bags!" Percy fretted. "I should report you, Allen, I really should..."
"He was with me, Percy. Calm down."
A calm, authoritative voice came from behind them. Penelope Clearwater stepped out of the shadows of the doorway, her black witch's outfit making her look like a high priestess of the night. Her hair was perfectly in place, and her expression was one of bored professionalism.
Percy froze. "Penelope? You were missing too! Professor Flitwick was nearly having a stroke!"
"We were in the Charms classroom," Penelope said smoothly, her eyes meeting Allen's for a split second—a silent confirmation of their cover story. "We were drafting the training modules for the next D.A. session. We lost track of time. Surely you understand the importance of academic preparation, Percy? Or has your new badge made you forget how Ravenclaws operate?"
Percy stammered, his face turning a shade of red that matched his hair. Penelope's aura was stifling; she had a way of making even the most senior students feel like they were back in first year.
"I... well, fine. But get to your area immediately!" Percy blustered, trying to regain his dignity. "Five points from Ravenclaw for the scare!"
Penelope didn't even acknowledge the point loss. She walked past him with a queenly grace, motioning for Allen to follow. They made their way to the Ravenclaw section near the far wall.
Allen found a vacant sleeping bag and slid inside, the velvet lining feeling strangely restrictive after the freedom of the Shrieking Shack.
Suddenly, a sleeping bag a few feet away began to wriggle toward him. Michael Corner's head popped out, his hair a bird's nest of tangles.
"Allen," Michael whispered, his eyes gleaming with late-night gossip. "Tell me the truth. Were you and Penelope having a 'private study session' in a broom closet? Because the timing is incredible."
Allen looked at his friend and slowly raised a foot inside the sleeping bag, giving Michael a blunt shove. "Go to sleep, Michael. Your imagination is going to get you into trouble one day."
"Hey! I'm just saying, the whole school is talking about the 'King and Queen of Ravenclaw' being AWOL during a massacre," Michael grinned, unfazed. He glanced toward the Gryffindor section. "Seriously though... how did Black get in? They say he walked right through the walls."
"Maybe he flew," a Ravenclaw girl whispered from a bag nearby. "Or turned into smoke."
Allen stared up at the enchanted ceiling, where the stars were shining brightly, oblivious to the drama below. "He's just a man," Allen said softly, half to himself. "And every man has a weakness."
"Ten points from Ravenclaw if I hear another word!" Percy's voice boomed across the hall.