The warmth of the apartment felt almost offensive after the biting chill of Central Park.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, the silence of the house hit them. It was empty. Leonard and Professor Flitwick hadn't returned. Without wasting a second, the trio scrambled to find parchment and ink. Two owls were dispatched in quick succession—one carrying a frantic summary of the "Henry Jones" lead to the American Congress, and the other a more detailed, coded message for Flitwick.
But then, the waiting began.
Outside the window, the New York twilight didn't just fade; it collapsed under the weight of a sudden, brutal blizzard. The wind began to howl like a wounded beast, whipping the snowflakes into a frenzied, endless vortex that erased the streetlights.
Allen stood by the frosted glass, watching the white chaos. His mind, wired for over-analysis, began to drift into strange territories. Is this what Jupiter looks like when he's having a pillow fight on Olympus? he wondered idly. Or maybe the angels are shedding their winter coats? Or, more likely, some giant neighbor in the clouds is shaking out a particularly bad case of cosmic dandruff. "Why hasn't he written back?" Jessica's voice was small, cutting through his thoughts. She was slumped over the dining table, her head resting on her arms. On the sofa nearby, a pair of enchanted knitting needles clicked away rhythmically, weaving a scarf that no one was in the mood to wear. The sound, usually cozy, now felt like a ticking clock counting down to something terrible.
Ian, who had been pacing the floor like a caged leopard, suddenly leaped down from the window bench. He'd reached his limit.
"This is stupid," Ian declared, his eyes flashing with a restless, dangerous energy. "We're sitting here like decorative bookends while Uncle Leonard is out there potentially walking into a trap."
Jessica looked up, her worry-clouded eyes focusing on her brother. Allen turned away from the window, sensing the shift in the room's gravity.
"Think about it," Ian continued, his voice gaining momentum. "If those ostriches weren't hallucinating, and there really are prison breakers hiding out in a cemetery, they aren't going to sit around waiting for a polite owl from the MACUSA. They'll be moving. Every minute we spend watching these knitting needles is a minute they use to disappear."
Jessica sat up straighter, her fear being replaced by the fiery, reckless spark that seemed to run in the American side of the family. "He's right. We have the location. We have the advantage of surprise if we move now."
"It's suicide," Allen countered, though he knew it was a losing battle. "We're three students. If these people really broke out of a high-security wizarding prison, they aren't going to be scared of a few school charms."
Ian walked right up to Allen, his height advantage making him loom. "Look, Harris, if you're too chicken to step out into the snow, stay here. Wrap yourself in that half-finished scarf and wait for the adults to save the day. But I'm going to find my uncle. With or without you."
Jessica didn't say anything, but she was already grabbing her cloak. Allen sighed, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. He couldn't let them go alone; they'd get themselves killed within ten minutes.
"Fine," Allen muttered, walking to the desk. He scribbled a quick note explaining where they were going and pinned it to the center of the table with a heavy inkwell. "But if we die, I'm hauntng your bedroom for the next century, Ian."
The transition back into the cold was like a physical blow. The snow was so thick it felt like walking through a wall of white wool. They Apparated to the outskirts of Brooklyn, appearing near the towering Gothic gates of Green-Wood Cemetery.
The place was a haunting masterpiece of Victorian sorrow. Hundreds of elaborate tombs rose out of the drifts like frozen ghosts. Marble angels wore heavy caps of snow, their carved eyes staring blindly into the blizzard. The taller obelisks stood in solemn rows, looking like a forest of white-washed stone.
In the pitch black of the storm, the only light came from a distant, flickering lantern in the caretaker's hut. They spent an hour patrolling the perimeter, their breaths coming in ragged white plumes.
"Allen, are you sure about the bird-talk?" Jessica asked, her voice shivering. She was hugging herself, her teeth chattering so loud it was audible. "It's freezing. Maybe they were just... talking about a different cemetery."
"The birds weren't lying, Jess," Ian said, surprisingly coming to Allen's defense. He was squinting into the dark, his wand held low. "Look. Over there. Past the back wall."
Allen followed his gaze. Tucked away in the shadows of the cemetery's edge, partially hidden by a cluster of gnarled, hardy oaks, sat a two-story Italian-style cottage. It looked abandoned. The windows were shuttered tight, and the snow had piled up against the front door, undisturbed.
"How did we miss that?" Jessica whispered. "We've walked past this spot three times."
"Muggle-Repelling charms? Or a high-level Fidelius lite?" Allen guessed, his pulse quickening. "The spell must be decaying, or someone inside just deactivated the ward."
"Only one way to find out," Ian said, stepping forward with that characteristic blend of bravery and idiocy.
"Wait!" Jessica hissed, grabbing his sleeve. "There are perimeter wards. I can feel the tingle on my skin. If we walk through the front gate, we might as well ring a dinner bell for them."
Allen reached into his expanded storage bag—the one that seemed to hold half the contents of a wizarding department store. He pulled out two broomsticks.
"We fly in," Allen whispered.
"Seriously?" Jessica looked at the bag in awe. "Do you have a kitchen sink in there too? You carry more gear than a girl on a weekend trip."
"Be glad I do," Allen replied dryly.
He cast a complex Disillusionment Charm over the three of them. Their bodies blurred, turning into ripples in the falling snow, like heat haze on a winter's night. They mounted the brooms and rose silently into the howling wind. The cold was even sharper up there, but it provided the perfect cover. They soared over the stone wall and touched down softly in the overgrown courtyard of the cottage.
They crept toward a side window, crouching low beneath the sill. Allen leaned his ear against the cold glass.
"—You, do you have any accomplices? Who else knows we are here?"
The voice from inside was sharp, like breaking ice. Allen's blood turned to slush when he heard the response.
"No... just me..."
It was Leonard. His voice was ragged, thick with pain and exhaustion, but the defiance was still there, buried deep in his throat. Jessica gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Ian's knuckles turned white as he gripped his wand.
"How did you find us, Leonard?" another voice asked—this one smoother, colder, and infinitely more sinister.
"Hmph!" A sickening thud followed, then a muffled groan of agony.
"It seems you're a fan of the hard way," the cold voice drawled. "I can respect that. But my patience is a very short resource. Crucio!"
The scream that followed ripped through the air, vibrating against the windowpane. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated torment. Jessica and Ian lunged toward the door, their faces twisted in a mix of rage and horror, but Allen threw his arms out, pinning them against the stone wall.
"Don't!" Allen hissed into their ears. "If you go in now, you're just three more hostages. We need a plan."
"He's killing him, Allen!" Ian whispered, his voice shaking with a terrifying fury.
"Listen!" Allen commanded.
Inside, the torture subsided into heavy, wet breathing.
"Boss, maybe we should move?" a new, slicker voice suggested. "The MACUSA might have picked up the trace."
"No," a deep, soul-chilling authority commanded. "Tiberius is on his way with the delivery. We stay until the exchange is made. Continue the interrogation. Break him if you have to."
Suddenly, the crunch of boots on snow echoed from the courtyard behind them. Three figures in heavy, black traveling cloaks appeared out of the blizzard. They were masked, their faces hidden behind silver-filigreed visors. They were lugging a massive wooden crate between them. Water was dripping from the bottom of the box, freezing into long, jagged icicles as they moved. The shortest wizard in the middle kept kicking the icicles away to keep the box level.
"I'm going in," Allen whispered to the siblings. "I can slip in behind them with the Disillusionment. You two stay here. Do not move until I give the signal."
"Allen, you can't—" Jessica started.
"I have a few oranges in my bag," Allen interrupted, his voice strangely calm. "When I get back, I'll give them to you. We'll sit by the fire and peel them. Deal?"
The "orange" comment was a piece of bizarre British levity that left both Jessica and Ian looking utterly confused and slightly uncomfortable—but it served its purpose. It broke their panic for a split second. Allen didn't wait for a reply. He ghosted away from the wall, trailing the three newcomers as the front door creaked open.
The interior of the house was a nightmare of shadows. Leonard was chained to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the room, his face a roadmap of bruises and cuts. His hands were locked in heavy, enchanted shackles that glowed with a dull, suppressing light.
But the most terrifying thing in the room wasn't the blood. It was the man sitting by the arched fireplace.
He was framed by the orange glow of the embers. His hair was a shock of thick, snowy white, and a jagged scar ran from the bridge of his nose across his temple, giving him the look of a predatory bird. His expression was one of absolute, effortless arrogance. He didn't look like a common criminal; he looked like a general waiting for a report.
To his right stood a thin, dark-skinned wizard with eyes like a hungry wolf. He held his wand with a practiced ease, his face a mask of greed and malice.
The three newcomers dropped the dripping box on the floor with a heavy thud.
"You're late, Tiberius," the white-haired man said. His voice was a low, sibilant rasp that seemed to suck the warmth right out of the room. "I hope for your sake that what's inside this box is worth the delay."
Allen, invisible and pressed against the peeling wallpaper, held his breath. He was inches away from some of the most dangerous wizards in the world, and Leonard was fading fast. The game had truly begun.