The group stepped out of the church's cold, hallowed interior and back into the biting winter air. The view ahead was a stark reminder of the chaos sweeping through New York; the magnificent manor they had explored earlier was now a skeletal ruin of charred timber and blackened brick.
The roof had completely given way, and a massive gable wall had tumbled outward like a falling giant, crushing the garden below. Scorched bushes, stripped of their leaves and blackened by the magical heat, looked like jagged scars on the snowy landscape. Even in the dead, windless air, thin ribbons of oily black smoke rose straight into the sky, leaking from the piles of ash and debris that filled the gaps between the remaining walls.
"Lord, have mercy on us," Simon whispered, his fingers flying in a frantic sign of the cross across his chest. His eyes were wide with a mix of pity for the lost home and a burgeoning terror of the three teenagers standing beside him.
"Save the prayers for later, Simon. We have a schedule to keep," Ian urged. His patience was wearing thin, his breath puffing out in sharp, irritable clouds of white vapor.
Their progress through the town was agonizingly slow. The alleys were narrow and treacherous with black ice, but the real obstacle was Simon himself. The young priest seemed physically incapable of walking in a straight line without turning back to lob a fresh compliment at Jessica. It was a classic display of a man completely smitten; his steps lagged, his body unconsciously leaning toward her like a flower reaching for the sun.
Allen watched the display with a dry sense of amusement. He'd seen the same look on half the boys at Hogwarts when a Veela walked into the Great Hall, though Jessica's charm was far more natural and subtle. Ian, however, looked ready to explode. Every time Simon's foot dragged or he started a new sentence about "angelic grace," Ian's grip on his hidden wand tightened. Allen suspected that if they didn't reach their destination soon, Simon might find himself on the receiving end of a very unpleasant Jelly-Legs Jinx.
Finally, they stopped in front of a house that looked strikingly out of place amidst the morning's gloom. It had pristine white walls and vibrant green shutters that looked as though they had been painted just yesterday.
"This is it," Simon said, his voice dropping into a somber register. "Mr. Beltrini's residence. A good man, a pious man... until the bird came."
The house looked cozy and well-kept in the midday sun, but the silence surrounding it was unnatural. Every door was barred, and every window was shuttered tight, sealing the interior off from the world like a tomb. Allen, Jessica, and Ian circled the perimeter twice, their eyes scanning for a flash of pink or the telltale shimmer of magical feathers, but the Fwooper—the Hag-bird, as some called it—was nowhere to be seen.
"Well, I suppose we're doing this the hard way," Allen said, a small, daring smile playing on his lips. He drew his wand in a smooth, practiced motion.
"Wait, what are you—?" Simon started, but the word died in his throat.
"Alohomora."
The heavy oak door didn't just unlock; it yielded with a soft, magical sigh, swinging open into the darkened foyer.
"Inside," Ian commanded, giving Simon a firm shove between the shoulder blades.
"This is breaking and entering! This is a sin!" Simon hissed, resisting with every fiber of his being.
"Keep moving, Simon, or I'll show you a few things that aren't in your Bible," Ian growled. The ferocity in the American boy's expression was genuine now; the pressure of the competition and the cold had stripped away his politeness.
Simon looked at the long, polished stick Ian was pointing at him. He didn't know what it was, but he wasn't a fool. He'd seen the door open without a key, and he knew that these three "angels" were packing more heat than a Bronx street gang. Muttering a frantic prayer under his breath, he crossed his chest one last time and stumbled into the house.
Ian stepped in last, clicking the door shut and sliding the bolt home. Before they could move deeper into the living quarters, Allen raised a hand, signaling for absolute silence.
"Muffliato," Allen whispered.
Jessica and Ian nodded, instantly understanding the strategy. They cast the same charm on themselves, and Allen kindly flicked his wand toward Simon as well.
The effect was instantaneous and jarring. For Simon, the world simply ceased to exist. The sound of his own breathing, the rustle of his clothes, even the frantic thumping of his heart vanished into a thick, buzzing silence. He clutched his ears, his mouth opening in a silent scream of terror. "What have you done? I'm deaf! I can't hear my own soul!"
Ian rolled his eyes. He could read the priest's lips perfectly. Shut up, you idiot, he thought, though he didn't bother saying it aloud since Simon couldn't hear him anyway.
Allen led the way into the main parlor. He reached out and flipped the light switch, and a massive crystal chandelier overhead flickered to life, bathing the room in a warm, artificial glow.
The house was surprisingly sparse but elegantly decorated. A mahogany cupboard held a few gleaming golden plates; a small shelf was lined with thick, leather-bound classics; and a full suit of polished plate armor stood sentry between two tall windows. Exquisite tapestries lined the walls—one showed a poignant scene of the crucifixion, while another, more cheerful one depicted shepherds and shepherdesses lounging by a crystal stream.
It was a home built by someone who appreciated beauty and order. It was hard to believe the man who owned this place was currently wearing a lace tablecloth as a hat back at the church.
Simon, meanwhile, had found the crucifixion tapestry and was kneeling before it, his eyes shut tight as he prayed for the "devils" to leave his side and for the "angel" to stay.
The three wizards began their search. They knew the Fwooper was likely still inside; the blizzard the night before and the biting frost of the morning would have kept any tropical magical creature seeking the warmth of a sturdy house. They checked the rafters, behind the heavy furniture, and even inside the suit of armor, but the bird remained hidden.
Jessica walked over to the windows, pulling back the heavy velvet curtains to check the sills. She shook her head, her expression one of frustration.
But her movement caught Ian's eye. He noticed the way the shepherds tapestry flapped slightly in the breeze from the window. With the grace of a hunting cat, he crept toward the wall. He reached out and lifted the heavy fabric. Behind it was a hollowed-out cavity in the stone.
Inside sat a small iron lockbox. Allen glanced at it but quickly turned away; if his Niffler were here, the box would already be open, but he had more important things to worry about than Mr. Beltrini's life savings.
Allen moved toward the other tapestry—the one depicting Jesus. He felt a faint, thrumming vibration in the air, a frequency that bypassed his ears and went straight to his nerves. He reached out, his fingers brushing the hem of the heavy cloth.
The moment he lifted the corner, a streak of iridescent, shimmering pink light exploded from the shadows.
The Fwooper was beautiful—and deadly. Its feathers glowed with a soft, pulsating radiance that beckoned the viewer to look closer, to listen harder. But the three teenagers were ready.
Working in perfect, wordless synchronicity, Jessica flicked her wand, conjuring a shimmering silver net that expanded in mid-air like a spider's web. The Fwooper let out a high, melodic trill—a sound that would have shattered Simon's sanity if the Muffliato hadn't been in place—and dove for the open doorway.
Jessica's net caught the bird by the wing, slowing its flight just enough for Ian to finish the job.
"Accio!" Ian shouted.
The bound, struggling bird flew directly into Ian's outstretched hand. Allen didn't waste a heartbeat. He stepped forward and tapped his wand against the bird's beak, casting a localized Silencing Charm that effectively sealed its song.
"Well done," Allen said, though the words were lost in the silence. He waved his wand again, lifting the Muffliato from the room.
Sound rushed back in like a tidal wave. Simon stumbled, gasping as he heard the rustle of the tapestries and the heavy breathing of the boys. He stared at the pink bird in Ian's hand, his eyes bulging. "That's it? That's the devil's pet?"
"It's a Fwooper, Simon," Ian said, his mood significantly improved now that they had a win on the board. "And it's a witch's pet, not a devil's."
"We should move," Allen said, his eyes scanning the room. "We've overstayed our welcome in this house, and the neighbors will be wondering why the lights are on."
They beat a quick retreat, slipping out the back door and into the shadows of a nearby alley. The town was beginning to stir, the smell of woodsmoke and breakfast finally overcoming the scent of charred ruins.
"Friends... miss... if you confess now, the Lord might still forgive the trespassing," Simon stammered, his conscience finally catching up with him.
Allen looked at the young priest. He admired the man's courage—he'd walked into a "demon's" lair armed with nothing but a cross—but their time together had reached its natural conclusion.
"You've been a great help, Simon," Allen said kindly, drawing his wand one last time. "But I think your magical journey ends here. It's better for everyone if you remember this as just a very strange, very quiet morning at church."
The tip of Allen's wand began to glow with a soft, white light.