"Honestly, that Muggle was kind of charming," Jessica remarked, looking back at Simon's frozen, terrified form with a flicker of genuine hesitation. "Do we really need to wipe his memory? It's not like anyone in this town would actually believe a word he says. They'd just think the poor priest finally snapped under the pressure of the blizzard."
"Absolutely not," Ian snapped, his voice hard and uncompromising. He didn't just agree with Allen; he seemed almost offended by the suggestion of mercy. "Jessica, keep your head on straight. You know the Rappaport's Law as well as I do. We don't mingle with the magicless. We don't befriend them, we don't share our secrets, and we certainly don't leave witnesses. Unless they're blood, they're nothing to us."
Jessica blinked, taken aback by the sheer vitriol in her brother's tone. "Good lord, Ian, calm down. Who said anything about marrying the guy? I just thought he was an interesting specimen, that's all. You're acting like I'm trying to elope with him."
Simon, meanwhile, was caught in the middle of this high-stakes debate, looking like a man watching his own executioners discuss the best way to sharpen the axe. His eyes darted between the three of them, his mouth working silently as he tried to process that he was being categorized as a "specimen."
"If you're so concerned about his welfare, why don't you do the honors?" Ian challenged, crossing his arms and leaning back against the alley wall. His expression was a mask of cold, aristocratic disdain.
Allen watched the exchange, finding Ian's personality to be a fascinating, if deeply unsettling, puzzle. The boy was a walking contradiction. At one moment, he was the height of sophistication—witty, brave, and possessed of a refined, gentlemanly charm. The next, he transformed into something primitive and savage, his temper flaring with the ruthlessness of a man who viewed the world as his personal property.
When Ian was happy, he was the best company a wizard could ask for. But when that dark cloud settled over his handsome features, he became something else entirely. It was as if a slave driver from a darker century was peering out from behind those blue eyes.
Jessica hesitated, her wand arm twitching but not quite rising. This indecision only fueled Ian's fury. The air between the siblings was thick with a tension that felt like it might spontaneously combust.
Simon's face was now a sickly shade of grey. His lips were trembling so violently that his teeth chattered, a rhythmic clicking sound that echoed in the narrow alley. He looked like he was standing on the edge of a great, dark abyss.
Allen decided he'd seen enough. The psychological torture of the poor priest was becoming more distasteful than the memory wipe itself. He took a sudden, purposeful step toward Simon. The priest recoiled, nearly tripping over a stack of discarded crates.
"Easy now," Allen said, his voice dropping into a soothing, almost melodic lilt. He reached out as if to steady the man, though he kept his wand hand low. "Don't be scared. This won't hurt a bit. In a few seconds, you won't have a single worry in the world. No birds, no devils, no ghosts."
Simon looked at him, his terror peaking. "You know, saying 'you won't know anything' usually makes people a lot more terrified, not less!"
"Obliviate."
The silver light flared from Allen's wand, hitting Simon square in the chest. The priest's eyes immediately lost their focus, turning hazy and distant like a window fogging up in the cold. The tension left his body, his shoulders slumping as his mind began to rewrite the morning's events into something mundane and forgettable.
"That's that," Allen said, tucking his wand away. He didn't wait for the siblings to finish their staring match. He grabbed both of them by the elbows. "Hold on tight."
With a sharp crack that echoed through the alley like a gunshot, they vanished.
A heartbeat later, they were standing in Leonard's snowy front yard. Having already locked in the coordinates, Allen saw no reason to trek back through the slush like a group of shivering Muggles.
"Lunchtime," Allen announced, trying to dispel the gloom that had followed them from the church. "I figured none of us wanted to spend another minute in that town than absolutely necessary."
Ian shrugged, brushing a stray snowflake off his expensive wool coat, acting as if the entire ordeal had been beneath his notice. Jessica, however, remained strangely silent, her eyes fixed on the distant treeline, her mind clearly miles away. Ian noticed her distraction, and his jaw tightened once more.
"Hey, Jessica," Allen called out, stepping toward the porch. "After that amazing spread you put out yesterday, I think it's only fair I handle the cooking today. I've picked up a few tricks back home—why don't you two relax for a bit?"
He wanted to give them space, hoping that some sibling bonding—or at least a good argument—would clear the air. Allen headed straight for the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves. He wasn't just being polite; he genuinely enjoyed the rhythmic, almost meditative process of food preparation.
He didn't use his hands much. With a series of fluid wand movements, he set the kitchen in motion. A heavy chopping knife danced across a wooden board, dicing vegetables with mathematical precision. Bags of spices flew from the pantry, and even a section of the dining table was drafted into service as a staging ground, piled high with fresh ingredients and clean ceramic plates.
From the living room, Allen's sharp ears picked up the low murmur of the siblings' voices. Jessica's responses were clipped and hushed, sounding weary. Ian, however, had undergone a complete personality shift. The "slave driver" was gone, replaced by a boisterous, energetic storyteller. He was regaling her with hilarious anecdotes, his voice jumping between a thick Brooklyn accent, a posh London drawl, and a caricatured French lilt. He was trying, perhaps too hard, to win back her smile.
"Lunch is served!" Allen shouted once everything was in place.
When the siblings walked into the dining room, they stopped dead. In the center of the table sat a gleaming, polished copper cauldron. It was perched on a sturdy metal stand, and underneath, a small, controlled magical flame licked at the base. The flame provided intense heat to the pot while remaining completely cool to the touch of the wooden table beneath it.
"You actually hauled a cauldron all the way to America?" Ian asked, his eyes wide with genuine shock. "How did you get that past the customs agents? Muggles aren't exactly known for their love of giant metal soup pots in carry-on luggage."
Allen grinned. "A little gift from Professor Flitwick. It's a trick of spatial expansion and a very subtle Confundus Charm. I sailed right through." He didn't mention that he actually had an entire set of brand-new cauldrons tucked away in his expanded storage space.
"Please tell me you haven't brewed Draught of Living Death in that thing," Jessica said, finally cracking a small, genuine smile as she sat down.
"Strictly for culinary use, I promise," Allen laughed. "Copper is the only way to go for a proper hot pot. Iron and pottery just don't distribute the heat the same way."
There was something profoundly comforting about a steaming hot pot on a day that felt like the end of the world. They dove into the meal, the table overflowing with the delicacies Jessica had sourced the day before. The rich, savory broth bubbled in the center, and they dipped thin slices of meat and crisp vegetables into the liquid, the steam fogging up their glasses and warming their faces.
To top it off, Allen brought out a tin of his mother's famous pastries, the sweet scent of cinnamon and butter filling the room.
"And now, for the finishing touch," Ian said, standing up with a newfound lightness. "The coffee. That's my department."
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a silver tray, placing it on a side table near the window. He kept up a steady stream of chatter, looking back at Allen over his shoulder as he spooned dark, aromatic coffee grounds into three delicate cups.
Then, it happened.
It was a movement so fast, so practiced, that it was almost invisible. As Ian reached for the sugar, his fingers brushed a tiny glass vial hidden in his palm. With a flick of his wrist, he emptied the clear liquid into the largest cup—the one he'd clearly intended for his sister.
If Allen hadn't been watching him with the predatory focus of a Seeker, he would have missed it entirely. The liquid vanished into the dark brew without a ripple. Ian didn't even blink; his expression remained one of jovial, brotherly affection. Jessica, who had her back turned to the side table while she cleared a spot for the cups, was completely oblivious.
Ian turned around, a wide, easy grin on his face, holding a cup in each hand. He walked back to the table and set the spiked coffee directly in front of Jessica.
The blood in Allen's veins seemed to turn to ice. A cold, oily dread settled in the pit of his stomach. He was watching a betrayal—a sinister, calculated act—happening inches from his face. His mind raced through a thousand possibilities. Was it a joke? A harmless sleeping draught? Or was it something much darker?
If he spoke up now and it was nothing, he'd look like a paranoid lunatic and ruin the fragile peace they'd built. But if he did nothing, and Ian was truly drugging his own sister... he'd never be able to look at himself in the mirror again. He couldn't let her take a single sip.
In a moment of pure, desperate improvisation, Allen stood up.
"Oh, wait, I forgot the napkins!" he exclaimed, reaching across the long table.
As he lunged forward, he "accidentally" caught the edge of a condiment dish with his elbow. With a well-timed shove, the dish flipped through the air, sending a spray of dark, pungent soy sauce and chili oil directly onto Jessica's pristine, cream-colored sweater.
"Oh, no! I'm so sorry!" Allen cried out, his face flushing with a mix of genuine guilt and staged panic.
Jessica jumped back, looking down at the massive brown stains blooming across her chest. "My sweater! Allen!"
"I am so, so sorry, Jessica. I'm such a klutz today," Allen apologized profusely, grabbing a cloth and making a show of trying to dab at the mess, which only smeared it further. "You should go change. I'll try to get the worst of it out, but I don't want to point a wand at you—it's rude to cast charms on a lady's clothes while she's wearing them."
Jessica sighed, her annoyance tempered by Allen's obvious distress. "It's fine, Allen. Really. It's just wool. Give me five minutes to change." She stood up and headed for the stairs, the smell of the spicy sauce following her.
The moment her footsteps reached the second floor, the air in the room changed. Allen stopped "cleaning" and stood up straight. The bumbling, clumsy guest was gone.
He turned his gaze toward Ian, his eyes hard and piercing.
"What was in the vial, Ian?" Allen whispered, his voice as sharp as a razor.