"Take them, seriously," Allen said, waving a hand toward the stack of Gilderoy Lockhart's shimmering hardbacks. He was being genuine; while he found the man to be a preening peacock, the books themselves were actually quite entertaining if you read them as works of fiction rather than educational manuals. Besides, some of the more obscure counter-charms hidden in the fluff were surprisingly effective if one knew how to filter out the ego.
Jessica's eyes went wide, reflecting the golden candlelight of the room. "You're just giving them to me? For real? These must have cost a fortune in Diagon Alley!"
"Consider it a thank-Teacher-appreciation gift for the tea," Allen joked, leaning back against his pillow. "Besides, I've already memorized the... important bits."
"This is amazing! I can't wait to show these off at Ilvermorny," Jessica squealed, hugging the books to her chest. "The girls in my dorm are going to lose their minds. Everyone thinks British magic is so mysterious and ancient."
"Ilvermorny?" Allen repeated, the name catching him off guard. He'd heard of it, of course, but his British-centric education had rarely focused on the colonies. "Ah, the American school."
Jessica's playful demeanor shifted instantly into one of fierce, localized pride. She stood a little straighter, her blue eyes flashing. "Not just 'the American school,' Allen. Ilvermorny is widely considered the most egalitarian and prestigious magical institution in the modern world. We don't care about bloodlines nearly as much as you lot do, and our curriculum is far more integrated with practical defense."
Allen couldn't help a small, mischievous smile from tugging at his lips. "I think you'll find that Hogwarts usually takes the top spot in the international rankings, Jessica. And if we're talking about history, your founder—Isolt Sayre—was a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. She basically modeled the whole place on Hogwarts after she ran away from home in the 17th century. It's essentially a very successful spin-off."
Jessica's jaw dropped, her eyebrows knitting together in a frown. "A spin-off? We have four houses based on indigenous magical creatures! We have a completely different wand-selection ceremony! Just because the founder was Irish doesn't mean—"
"Jessica! Ian! I'm home! Is everyone still in one piece?"
The booming voice of Leonard Knox saved the room from a full-blown international incident. The sound vibrated out of the same bowl-shaped copper receiver Allen had noticed earlier. The magical intercom system seemed to be a staple of American households, presumably to save people from having to walk up and down stairs in these sprawling, eccentric villas.
"Uncle's back!" Jessica shouted, her annoyance with Allen forgotten as she scrambled toward the door, clutching her new literary treasures.
Professor Flitwick poked his head out of his own room, sharing a knowing look with Allen. "It seems the master of the house has returned from the front lines. Shall we?"
Downstairs, the atmosphere was a mix of relief and exhaustion. Ian had already beaten them to the foyer, expertly catching Leonard's heavy, snow-dusted wool coat and tossing it onto a hook that immediately began vibrating to shake off the moisture.
Leonard looked like he'd been through a centrifuge. His hair was windswept, and there were dark circles under his eyes that hadn't been there that morning. However, his smile remained broad as he spotted his friend. "Filius! I trust my niece hasn't bored you to death with stories about the New York Philharmonic?"
"On the contrary, Leonard, the hospitality has been top-tier," Flitwick squeaked, patting his stomach.
After a quick, late-night snack that Leonard devoured with the intensity of a man who hadn't eaten in forty-eight hours, they moved to the living room. Flitwick, ever the proud teacher, couldn't resist showing off the Billywig fish Allen had managed to snag during their chaotic arrival.
The two Knox siblings leaned over the glass container, fascinated. "I've heard the sting makes you float for days," Ian muttered, poking at the glass. "One of the seniors at school tried to harvest the slime for a levitation potion and ended up stuck to the ceiling of the Great Hall for a week."
"And if you're allergic, you stay that way," Jessica added with a pointed look at her brother. "So keep your fingers away from the water, Ian."
Leonard watched the kids with a thoughtful expression, his fingers drumming on the arm of the sofa. The Billywig was just one small piece of a much larger, uglier puzzle. "I wish I could tell you the city was safe, Filius, but it's a mess. We've got dozens of sightings—everything from runaway Diricawls in Central Park to a very confused Erumpent near the docks. My holiday is officially dead in the water."
He looked at Flitwick with a pained expression. "I feel terrible. You come all this way for a quiet visit, and I'm stuck at the Congress until three in the morning every night."
Flitwick waved a hand dismissively. "Don't be absurd, Leonard. We're wizards; we thrive on a bit of chaos. Besides, I believe we had an agreement regarding our young proteges?"
Allen and Ian locked eyes. The friendly atmosphere suddenly sharpened. There was a silent, crackling energy between them—the classic tension of two top students from rival schools suddenly finding themselves in the same room.
"A duel?" Ian asked, his voice low and eager.
"It's too late for spell-slinging in the living room," Leonard intervened, though his eyes were twinkling. "But I have a better idea. The city needs help. MACUSA is shorthanded. How about a field test? Tomorrow, I'll head to the Congress and pull some strings to get Ian a temporary wand permit—since you Brits are so much more relaxed about your underage wizards carrying 'firearms' during the holidays, it's only fair he has his, too."
He leaned forward, looking at both boys. "A competition. Search and rescue. The one who captures the most escaped magical creatures—or provides the most critical intel to the department—wins. We'll call it a contribution to international wizarding relations."
"I'm in," Ian said immediately.
"Count me in as well," Allen replied, his competitive streak finally flaring up.
"And I'm going too," Jessica announced, crossing her arms. "Someone has to make sure they don't accidentally blow up a subway station. Besides, I'm a fifth-year; I can legally use magic in emergencies to keep them out of trouble."
Leonard nodded. "Agreed. Jessica, you're the supervisor. But try to let them do the heavy lifting."
That night, Allen found it hard to sleep. The wind rattled the windowpanes of the guest room, sounding like a chorus of ghosts. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking of his parents and the quiet, predictable comfort of home. New York was loud, dangerous, and brilliantly alive, even under a blanket of snow.
The next morning, the world was a blinding, silent white.
Allen woke before the others, driven by the restless habit of his morning routine. He dressed quietly, pulled on his heavy cloak, and stepped out into the crisp, biting air. The hillside was a pristine sheet of silver, the mist rolling off the winding river like steam from a giant's tea. There was no sound—no cars, no sirens, not even the distant crowing of a rooster. Just the crunch of his boots on the crusty snow.
He spent thirty minutes performing his stretching exercises and basic wand-drills, his movements fluid and precise. By the time the sun began to bleed a deep, bruised red over the eastern horizon, he was glowing with warmth despite the sub-zero temperatures.
When he finally stepped back inside, the smell of breakfast was already wafting through the house. Jessica was in the kitchen, her hair tied back in a messy bun. She jumped slightly as the cold air followed him in.
"Gosh, you're freezing!" she laughed, shivering. "What were you doing? Running laps in a blizzard?"
"Just a habit," Allen said, wiping a bit of frost from his eyebrows. "I find I think better when my blood is moving."
"Spoken like a true jock," she teased, waving her wand.
The kitchen was a masterclass in automated efficiency. Carrots and apples were being diced by a hovering silver knife; dough was rolling itself out on a floured board; and a skillet was whistling as it flipped pancakes with perfect timing. Allen watched, fascinated, as Jessica flicked her wrist, causing a stream of raisins and applesauce to spiral into the air, mixing perfectly before diving into a cylindrical pie crust.
"You Americans really do love your gadgets," Allen noted, sitting at the table.
"It's not a gadget, it's efficiency," Jessica corrected, though she sighed as she pulled a cake from the oven. "Though I will admit, we might overdo the sugar." She began to spread a layer of cream so thick it looked like structural insulation. "It's the American way: if it doesn't give you a heart attack, it's not breakfast."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Several owls were huddled on the windowsill, their feathers puffed out against the cold.
"Allen, be a doll and get the mail? My hands are covered in flour," Jessica called out.
Allen opened the window, and a flurry of feathers and cold air rushed in. The owls were remarkably well-behaved, lining up on the counter and extending their legs in unison. Allen untied the scrolls and newspapers, tossing a handful of Knuts from the coffee table drawer into their collection pouches.
As the owls departed, Allen spread the newspapers out on the table. The headlines were grim.
THE GHOST OF NEW YORK: SMUGGLING KING HENRY JONES ESCAPES.
Beneath the bold ink, moving photographs showed the twisted iron bars of the magical prison and the frantic faces of MACUSA officials. Allen flipped the page.
MACUSA INCREASES SECURITY—WHERE IS JONES?MAGICAL CREATURES WREAK HAVOC ON MUGGLE MIDTOWN.
There were pictures of a destroyed bakery, a group of terrified No-Majs pointing at a shimmering trail of silver slime, and a blurry shot of what looked like a Thunderbird circling the Empire State Building.
Professor Flitwick and Leonard entered the room moments later, their faces falling as they saw the front pages.
Leonard picked up the top paper, his hand shaking slightly. "It's worse than the briefing said. Jones didn't just walk out; he took half the high-security wing with him. The concealment breach is reaching critical levels. If we don't get these creatures—and these criminals—back under wraps soon, the President is going to have to authorize a city-wide memory wipe."
He looked at Flitwick, his expression grim. "Filius, I know I asked you here for a holiday, but I think the 'investigation' part of our trip just became a necessity. I need an extra pair of eyes—especially eyes as sharp as yours."
Flitwick straightened his waistcoat, his expression turning solemn. "My dear Leonard, you only had to ask. Protecting the Veil is a duty that transcends borders."
Allen looked at Ian, who had just entered the room. The competition was no longer just a game between students. The city was falling apart, and they were about to walk right into the center of the storm.