The double attack on Justin Finch-Fletchley and Nearly Headless Nick didn't just rattle the school; it broke the collective spirit of the student body. While the previous attacks on Mrs. Norris and Colin Creevey were terrifying, there had been a lingering, desperate hope that ghosts—beings who had already crossed the finish line of life—were somehow immune to the horrors of the living world.
Seeing the Gryffindor ghost turned into a charred, horizontal shadow sent a shockwave of pure panic through the corridors. If a ghost could be "murdered" a second time, what hope did a eleven-year-old with a wooden stick have? The library was no longer a place for study, but a fortress of whispers. The sign-up sheet for the Hogwarts Express wasn't just a list; it was a frantic scramble for survival. Students who had planned to stay for the feast were now practically clawing over each other to secure a seat on the train back to London.
Allen, however, found himself in a state of focused anticipation. While the rest of the school was running away from a monster, he was preparing to fly toward a different kind of challenge. The American exchange program wasn't just a getaway; it was an arena. He was going to face the so-called "New World geniuses," and while the competitive spark in him was lit, the prospect of seeing the skyline of New York and breathing the air of a different magical culture was far more intoxicating.
"New clothes for new adventures, and new faces for a new perspective," Allen mused as he packed. But before he could leave the Highlands, he had debts of friendship to settle.
He made one last trip into the Forbidden Forest, the snow crunching under his boots like broken glass. He found Gaia and Firenze near the silver-mirrored surface of Star Lake. The centaurs were as stoic as ever, their gaze fixed on the pale morning sky where the moon still lingered.
Firenze didn't offer a dramatic goodbye. To the centaurs, time was a fluid thing, more of a circle than a line. "You go where the stars have already walked, Allen Harris," Firenze said, his voice deep and resonant. "A short winter's absence is but a blink in the eye of the forest. We will see you when the sap begins to rise again."
Firenze had spent the previous night charting the American constellations from the reflection in the lake. He turned his sapphire eyes toward Allen, a shadow of concern crossing his face. "The heavens suggest your path will be... uneven. There are shadows in the West that do not move with the sun. You will be safe, but you will not be bored." He paused, giving a small, wise smile. "But remember, even the stars can be obscured by clouds. Do not lean too heavily on prophecy. A man's feet determine his path more than the planets do."
Allen appreciated the honesty. He wasn't one to live his life by a horoscope, especially when he had a literal game-breaking system integrated into his soul. He gave a mental nod to his "poisonous motivational speech" from earlier: Life was a buffet of experiences, and if some of them were bitter, they only made the sweets taste better.
Gaia, the young adult unicorn, was far less philosophical. Her long, elegant face was pulled into an expression of clear, equine poutiness. She didn't care about the stars; she cared about her friends.
"I'm going to miss you all," Gaia huffed, her breath blooming in the cold air. "How is Tina? And the little one? I feel like I haven't seen them in ages."
Allen smiled and tapped the pet module of his system. In a shimmer of light, Tina the Occamy and her kitten-like hatchling appeared in the clearing. Their feathers were vibrant—iridescent purples and blues that stood out sharply against the white snow. They looked healthy, plump, and very well-groomed.
Gaia's eyes lit up, and she nuzzled Tina affectionately.
"Tina," Allen said softly, looking at the creature. "Christmas is here. I'm heading across the Atlantic with Professor Flitwick. It's going to be cold, loud, and probably a bit chaotic. You can stay here with Gaia in the forest where it's quiet, or you can come with me to see the Statue of Liberty. What do you think?"
Tina didn't even hesitate. She coiled her serpentine body around Allen's arm, her head resting on his shoulder. "America. Definitely America," she chirped.
She looked at Gaia with a bit of a guilty shrug. "Don't take it personally, Gaia. But there's a monster stalking the halls of that castle, and quite frankly, Allen's pet space is like a five-star hotel. It's climate-controlled, the food is top-tier, and I get to see the world. Why would I stay in a frozen forest?"
"You could come too, you know," Tina added, looking at the unicorn. "The pet area has plenty of room."
Gaia looked tempted, her ears twitching with curiosity. But then she sighed, looking back toward the deeper woods. "I wish I could. But my father... the herd... they wouldn't understand. I can't just vanish into a magical pocket dimension for a month. But bring me back something from the 'No-Maj' world, will you?"
Returning to the castle, Allen bumped into Harry Potter. The atmosphere in Gryffindor had turned toxic for the Boy Who Lived. People were skipping over him in the common room, and the whispers of "Heir of Slytherin" followed him like a bad smell. Harry looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped under the weight of a thousand accusing glares.
When Allen greeted him with his usual calm, easy-going demeanor, Harry looked like he might cry with relief.
"You're still staying then, Harry?" Allen asked, leaning against a stone pillar.
"Yeah," Harry sighed. "Better here than Privet Drive, I suppose. Even if everyone thinks I'm about to grow fangs and bite them. I'm just looking forward to the holidays so the hallways will be empty. I'm tired of being the school's bogeyman."
Allen clapped him on the shoulder. "People are sheep, Harry. They need someone to blame when they're scared. The truth has a funny way of taking the long road, but it always arrives eventually. Just keep your head down and enjoy the quiet. They'll find someone else to gossip about by February."
He felt a slight pang of guilt—after all, he actually did have the snake-tongue ability Harry was being persecuted for—but he wasn't about to volunteer that information.
The day of departure arrived. Allen followed the tiny, rhythmic footprints of Professor Flitwick through the deep drifts of snow to the Hogwarts Express. They traveled to London in a quiet compartment, Flitwick humming a cheery tune while Allen watched the frosted English countryside blur past.
Once at Heathrow, the transition to the Muggle world was jarring. Flitwick had undergone a transformation. To blend in, the Professor had used a complex series of charms to give himself a shock of golden-blonde hair and a thick, bushy beard that made him look like a very sturdy, very short Norwegian traveler. He wore a tweed suit that looked slightly too large, giving him the appearance of a dignified eccentric.
"Professor," Allen whispered as they navigated the crowded terminal, feeling a bit stiff in his Muggle jeans and jacket. "Why are we doing this the slow way? No Apparition? No Portkeys? I thought wizards hated queues."
Flitwick chuckled, his voice muffled by the fake beard. "Ah, Allen. International travel is a bureaucratic nightmare. Apparition across an ocean? That's a one-way ticket to being splinched into a thousand pieces across the Atlantic. Very messy. And Portkeys? The paperwork required by the MACUSA—the Magical Congress of the United States—is taller than I am! They are incredibly touchy about unauthorized 'incursions' onto their soil."
He adjusted his heavy suitcases, refusing Allen's help. "Floo powder is point-to-point and strictly monitored for international 'hot-lines.' And besides," Flitwick winked, "there is a certain... dignity in traveling like a Muggle. It reminds us that the world is large. Also, I rather enjoy the in-flight films."
The seven-hour flight was a blur of mediocre food and the low hum of jet engines. When they finally touched down at JFK, the cold of New York hit them like a physical blow. It wasn't the damp, biting cold of Scotland; it was a dry, aggressive freeze that seemed to vibrate through the skyscrapers.
At security, they were pulled aside. A burly officer with a thick Queens accent stared down at the diminutive Flitwick and the polished young Allen.
"Passports," the officer barked.
Flitwick handed over two weathered British passports. The officer flipped through them, his eyes darting between Flitwick's bearded face and the photo.
"British, huh?"
"Born and bred," Flitwick squeaked, trying to deepen his voice.
The officer looked at Allen, then back at Flitwick. "You two related? You don't exactly look like a matching set."
"Father and son," Flitwick said firmly.
Allen nearly choked on his own breath. Father and son? He looked at the tiny, bearded man and then at his own tall, lean frame. He quickly adjusted his expression to one of "innocent child," looking up at the officer with wide, tired eyes. The Professor really should have cleared the 'dad' thing with me first, he thought.
"You got anything prohibited in here? Seeds? Meat? Magic wands?" The officer joked on the last one, reaching for Flitwick's suitcase.
"Just the essentials for a winter holiday," Flitwick said smoothly. He surreptitiously tapped a brass dial on the side of his trunk, clicking it into 'Muggle Mode.'
The officer flipped the lid. Inside was a perfectly mundane collection of oversized pajamas, an old-fashioned alarm clock, a scarf, and some books on "Ancient Architecture." The officer sighed, a look of genuine pity crossing his face as he looked at the "father" and his "son." He probably thought they were a pair of traveling oddballs with no fashion sense.
"Welcome to New York. Try not to freeze," the officer said, waving them through.
"Much obliged!" Flitwick chirped. He grabbed his bags and scurried toward the exit, Allen trailing behind him.
Outside, the city was a white wilderness. The snow was piled high against the curbs, and the yellow taxis were sliding through slush. The wind whipped between the buildings, howling like a banshee.
"Where to now, 'Dad'?" Allen asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Flitwick checked his watch, ignoring the jab. "First, we must check in at the Woolworth Building—the seat of MACUSA. We need to register our wands and our presence. American wizards are... let's just say they're fond of their rules."
Flitwick looked around to ensure no 'No-Majs' were looking, then flicked his wand inside his coat pocket. A glowing, golden cursor appeared on the pavement, visible only to them.
"Follow the breadcrumbs, Allen," Flitwick said, grabbing his suitcase with surprising strength. "New York doesn't wait for anyone, and we have a Congress to impress."