"Oh, you're here for Leonard? Why didn't you say so!" The transformation in Abernathy's face was so violent it was almost physical.
One second, he had been the picture of a miserable, power-tripping clerk; the next, his face had cracked open into a smile so wide it looked painful. He hopped up from his desk, nearly tripping over a stack of files, and began gesturing frantically around the cramped room. He looked like he wanted to offer Professor Flitwick a seat, but since the office was basically a broom closet masquerading as a workspace, there wasn't a single chair intended for visitors.
Abernathy rubbed his palms together, a nervous, sweaty habit that made a wet, sliding sound. "Terribly sorry about the... ambiance. It's a bit rustic down here, isn't it? Professor Flitwick, right? And young Mr. Harris? Leonard—Mr. Knox—is just tied up with some high-priority business upstairs. He's practically the backbone of the department, you understand. He'll be back before you can blink!"
Allen watched the beads of sweat forming on Abernathy's high, pale forehead. It was freezing in the basement, yet the man was perspiring like he'd been standing under a heat charm. It made Allen wonder exactly what kind of reputation Leonard Knox had in this building. Was he a respected leader, or was he a man so volatile that his subordinates lived in a state of perpetual flight-or-fight response?
Or perhaps Abernathy, sensing a career-making opportunity, was just trying to suck up to any friend of a high-ranking official who was clearly "overqualified" for the basement.
"Look, I can send him a priority buzz right now," Abernathy said, finally landing on a way to be useful after a flurry of awkward pleasantries.
"That would be for the best," Flitwick said, his voice clipped. He was standing with his hands behind his back, looking at the dusty corners of the room with a clear sense of distaste. He didn't just want to see Knox; he wanted to escape the suffocating air of this floor.
Abernathy scribbled a few lines on a scrap of paper with a quill that looked like it had been chewed on. He tapped it with his wand, and the parchment didn't just fold; it snapped into the shape of a sleek, aggressive-looking paper mouse. He shoved the mouse into the glass intake pipe on his desk. The little construct scrambled up the tube with terrifying speed, its paper claws scratching against the glass until it vanished into the ceiling.
"So," Abernathy said, settling back into his chair and trying to regain some semblance of authority. "While we wait for the man of the hour, let's talk business. You did secure your Wand Permits, didn't you? New York has its rules, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement doesn't play around with unregistered wood."
"I handled the applications via overseas post weeks before the term ended at Hogwarts," Flitwick replied, his eyes following the flickering lights above. He clearly had no interest in small talk with a man who had tried to kick them out five minutes ago.
Just as the silence was becoming unbearable, a voice boomed from the corridor—rough, loud, and vibrating with an impatient energy. "Abernathy! Where are they? If you've tucked them away in some corner, I'll have your ears!"
Allen saw a tiny, genuine smile tug at the corners of Flitwick's mouth.
Then, Leonard Knox exploded into the room. He didn't just walk in; he displaced the air. He was a tall, lean man in his fifties, built with the wiry strength of a career athlete. Behind thick, heavy glasses, his eyes were large and darted around the room with predatory focus. His nose was long and sharp, like a duelist's blade, and his brow was permanently furrowed into a deep 'V' of concentration.
Allen noticed his stride—exactly ninety centimeters per step, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. This wasn't just an impatient man; this was a man who lived his life at a constant sprint.
"Aha! Filius! You old fox!" Knox roared. Without waiting for a response, he swept the diminutive Professor Flitwick into a bone-crushing hug.
"Leonard! Put me down this instant!" Flitwick shrieked in a high-pitched tone, his face turning a light shade of red. As soon as his feet touched the floor, he delivered a sharp, practiced kick to Knox's shin. Knox just laughed, a barking sound that echoed off the cramped walls.
"And this must be your prize-winning student?" Knox turned his gaze to Allen, scrutinizing him with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.
Allen didn't flinch. He bowed deeply, his movements fluid and respectful. "It's an honor, Mr. Knox. I'm Allen Harris, Professor Flitwick's student. He speaks very highly of your... persistence in the dueling ring."
Knox's grin widened. He looked back at Flitwick. "The English still have their manners, I see! Well done, Filius. You've taught him how to bow; let's hope you've taught him how to fight."
The pleasantries didn't last long. Suddenly, the glass tubes overhead began to scream. A waterfall of paper mice—hundreds of them—began pouring out of the ceiling vents, sliding across Abernathy's desk like a tidal wave of urgent messages.
The muffled sound of an explosion vibrated through the floorboards from somewhere far above.
Knox's face went from jovial to deadly serious in a heartbeat. He snatched one of the paper mice out of the air, tore it open, and his brow furrowed even deeper. "Filius, stay here. Don't move!"
He was out the door before the sentence was finished, his boots thundering down the narrow hallway.
Abernathy grabbed his own message, his face turning the color of curdled milk. "Oh... oh no. Both of you... I just remembered a very pressing family emergency. My... my grandmother. She's... very ill. Make yourselves at home!"
Without a backward glance, Abernathy grabbed his coat and fled the office in the opposite direction of the noise, leaving Flitwick and Allen alone in the chaos of rustling paper.
"Professor? What's going on?" Allen asked, his hand drifting toward his wand holster.
"Something disastrous," Flitwick muttered. He picked up one of the discarded paper mice and smoothed it out. His eyes narrowed as he read: PRISON BREAK. RIOT REPORTED IN CREATURE REGULATION. ALL HANDS TO THE MAIN HALL. LEVEL 4 BREACH.
"Allen, listen to me. You stay in this office. It's tucked away, windowless, and beneath the main combat zones. It's the safest place in this building right now," Flitwick commanded, his voice reaching that authoritative tone he used during dueling practice. "I need to see if Leonard needs backup. Stay put!"
Flitwick hurried out, his small frame moving with surprising speed.
Allen stood in the center of the silent office for a moment, listening to the distant sounds of sirens and shouting. He didn't just sit down; he began sifting through the pile of paper mice on the desk, curious about the specifics of the unfolding disaster.
A scratching sound caught his ear. It wasn't the sound of paper.
Slowly, from the center of the mountain of messages, a small, twitching nose emerged. A pair of beady black eyes looked at Allen. It looked like a common house mouse, but as it scurried across the desk toward the door, Allen saw the telltale growth on its back—a fleshy, sea-anemone-like protrusion.
A Murtlap.
Allen acted instantly. He flicked his wand, and a thick, translucent gel-like substance coated the doorway. The Murtlap, in its frantic escape, slammed into the sticky web and began thrashing, its tiny claws stuck fast.
Allen stepped forward and used his wand to levitate the creature by its tail, bringing it level with his eyes. It was a British native, usually found in coastal waters. The fact that it was here, in the basement of MACUSA, was a testament to the "illegal migration" issues the Aurors had been complaining about.
He knew the value of a Murtlap. Its pickled tentacles could boost a wizard's resistance to curses, though he also remembered the warning from his textbooks: eat too much, and you'd be growing purple hair out of your ears for a month.
The creature hissed and tried to lunge for his fingers, but Allen simply flicked it into a corner of the office where he'd cleared a space. "Stay there, little one. You're safer here than out there."
He didn't have to wait long. The office door was suddenly blasted open—not by an enemy, but by Flitwick, who looked disheveled and frantic. He waved his wand to dissolve Allen's sticky trap.
"We're leaving. Now!" Flitwick shouted. "The upper floors are a war zone. If we don't get out before they lock down the elevators, we'll be trapped in this basement until next year!"
They bolted out of the office, their footsteps echoing in the narrow, stuffy corridor. They bypassed the elevators—which were now smoking and sparking—and took the service stairs. It was an endless, winding climb that made Allen's lungs burn.
Suddenly, Flitwick grabbed Allen's shoulder and yanked him behind a massive stone column.
"Shh!"
A second later, a group of Aurors in heavy robes charged down the stairs, their wands leveled. They were chasing three wizards in tattered black robes and silver masks who were leaping down the steps two at a time.
"Stupefy!" an Auror roared.
A jet of red light missed a masked wizard by an inch, hitting a decorative marble bust and shattering it into a thousand jagged pieces. One of the masked men spun around and threw a curse back—a sickly purple light that cracked the wall right above Allen's head. Bricks and mortar rained down, dusting Allen's hair in gray powder.
The combatants vanished around the bend of the stairs, their shouts fading into the depths of the basement.
"Move," Flitwick hissed, pulling Allen upward.
When they finally reached the entrance hall, the sight was terrifying. The giant threat dial was spinning wildly, the needle buried deep in the crimson Emergency zone. Piercing alarms were screaming from every corner, a sound that felt like it was drilling into Allen's skull.
The magnificent hall was a portrait of total anarchy. Witches and wizards were huddled behind desks, some weeping, others frantically casting shield charms. A squad of Aurors was trying to create a perimeter around the main entrance, while several magical creatures—things Allen didn't even recognize—were skittering across the gold-leafed ceiling.
"Don't look back, Allen! Just keep moving toward the exit!" Flitwick yelled over the din.
The lobby of the Woolworth Building was no longer a place of business; it was a fortress under siege, and they were caught right in the middle of the crossfire.