Stepping out of the magically pressurized cabin of the plane and into the Cairo air was like walking directly into a dragon's furnace. The heat wasn't just a temperature; it was a physical weight, a shimmering golden haze that seemed to vibrate off the tarmac. Within seconds, the moisture in Allen's throat had vanished, replaced by the grit of desert dust.
Even with his high-grade wizard robes, which were enchanted with basic thermal regulation, Allen felt the oppressive sun trying to bake him alive. Beside him, the Weasley family looked like they were undergoing a collective meltdown. Their pale, freckled skin—practically a beacon for UV rays—was already beginning to take on a pinkish hue.
Mrs. Weasley was in a state of high-intensity panic. It was the "Molly Special": a mixture of maternal fiercely and logistical nightmare.
"Fred! George! If you wander off into that crowd, I swear by Merlin I will leave you in a pyramid!" she shrieked, her voice cracking in the dry heat. The twins, however, were already halfway to a souvenir stand, their eyes darting around like Niffler's in a jewelry shop.
Then there was the luggage. Seven massive, enchanted trunks sat in a jagged pile. To a Muggle customs officer, they looked like heavy suitcases. To a wizard, they were ticking time bombs of International Secrecy violations. If one of those popped open to reveal a self-scrubbing cauldron or a crate of Dr. Filibuster's fireworks, the Ministry would be filing paperwork for the next decade.
Arthur Weasley was struggling with a particularly stubborn trunk that seemed to have developed a mind of its own, dragging him toward a nearby bench.
"Allow me, Mr. Weasley," Allen said, stepping forward. He didn't use magic—too many eyes—but he used the leverage he'd learned from his physical training. He hoisted the trunk with a grunt, stabilizing the load.
Molly's face snapped from a mask of fury to one of pure, motherly adoration. "Oh, Allen! Look at you! Such a helpful, sensible boy." She then swiveled her head back toward the twins like a turret. "Fred! George! Did you see that? Allen is younger than you and he's already doing more work than the both of you combined! Help your father!"
Ron, seeing an opportunity to claw back some parental approval, lunged for the nearest suitcase. He managed to lift it about two inches before his face turned the color of a beet, but his efforts went entirely unnoticed as Molly was already busy counting heads again.
Percy, not to be outdone, puffed out his chest. He grabbed two of the largest trunks, his knuckles turning white as he strained against the weight. He shot Allen a look of supreme, smug superiority. It was the look of a man who thought lifting heavy things was the ultimate metric of a wizard's worth.
Allen just blinked. Is he seriously trying to out-luggage me? he wondered. If he weren't worried about causing a mass memory-wipe event, he could have snapped his fingers and had the trunks following them like a line of well-behaved ducklings.
The real trouble started at the security checkpoint.
The Weasleys were many things, but "discreet" was rarely one of them. Ron was walking with a strange, stiff gait, his hand constantly slapping at his chest. Scabbers, his ancient, ragged rat, was clearly not a fan of the Egyptian climate. The rat kept trying to squirm out of Ron's collar to catch a breeze, its pink nose twitching irritably.
A tall, stern-looking security guard with a thick moustache and a heavy baton noticed the movement. He stepped into their path, his eyes narrowing. "You. Stop. What is moving under your shirt?"
The Weasleys froze. Arthur was twenty yards ahead, deep in a conversation with a terminal map, and Molly was busy wrestling Ginny's sun hat back onto her head. Ron looked like he was about to faint.
Allen didn't hesitate. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the cool wood of his wand. With a subtle flick through the fabric of his robes, he whispered the incantation.
Confundo.
The guard's eyes glazed over for a split second. The suspicion vanished, replaced by a look of profound, vacant confusion. He wobbled on his feet, looking at his baton as if he'd never seen it before.
"Excuse me, officer," Allen said, stepping in front of Ron. He spoke in fluent Arabic, his voice smooth and polite, though his British accent was unmistakable. "My friend is just a bit nervous about flying. Could you tell us where the nearest restroom is? He's feeling quite unwell."
The guard blinked, his brain rebooting under the influence of the charm. "Ah... yes. Restroom. Turn left at the big sign, then straight past the kiosks." He gestured vaguely, his previous intensity completely forgotten as he wandered off to contemplate why he was standing in the middle of the hallway.
"Bloody hell, Allen," Ron exhaled, his face pale. "I thought Scabbers was going to end up in an Egyptian lab."
"Keep him in your pocket, Ron," Allen warned softly. "And don't worry about the magic. Mr. Weasley already cleared our 'Underage Use' permits for the trip. Though, with this many adult wizards around, the Trace wouldn't be able to pin it on us anyway."
"Ludo Bagman helped out with the paperwork," Arthur said, trotting back to them, oblivious to the near-catastrophe. "He's got friends in every magical department from here to Timbuktu."
Ginny was staring at Allen with a look that was dangerously close to worship. "Allen... you speak Arabic? Is there anything you aren't good at?"
"My accent is terrible," Allen replied, feeling a bit of heat that wasn't from the sun. He quickly adjusted his bag and hurried toward the exit to catch up with Mrs. Weasley, hoping to avoid further questioning.
Outside, the noise of Cairo was a symphony of car horns and shouting vendors. Standing by a row of dusty vehicles was a tall, lean young man with a ponytail and a single fang dangling from his ear. He looked more like a rock star than a Ministry official.
"Bill!" Ron yelled, throwing his arms up.
The reunion was chaotic. Molly practically tackled her eldest son, smothering him in a hug that clearly embarrassed the "cool" Gringotts Curse-Breaker.
"Mum... Mum, I can't breathe," Bill laughed, gently prying her off.
"I'm thirsty!" Ginny complained, tugging at her mother's sleeve.
"You had a soda on the plane, Ginny! Don't be greedy," Molly snapped, though she immediately began rummaging through her bag for a water bottle. Bill caught Ginny's eye and winked, a secret signal between siblings that made the young girl giggle.
Bill then turned to Allen, his expression turning serious but friendly. "And you must be Allen Harris. I've heard the stories. Thanks for looking out for my sister. The Weasleys don't forget a debt like that."
"Happy to help," Allen said, offering a hand. Bill's grip was calloused and strong—the hands of someone who spent his days digging through ancient stone.
"Follow me. I managed to borrow a gold-transport vehicle from the bank. It's built for the dunes," Bill said, leading them to a massive, boxy SUV. It looked like a military transport, with tires the size of manhole covers and reinforced plating.
Arthur Weasley looked like he'd found the Holy Grail. He ran his hands over the hood, whispering to himself about "internal combustion" and "aerodynamics."
The interior of the car was a masterpiece of Wizarding space-distortion. From the outside, it looked like a standard five-seater. Inside, it was a lounge. The seven trunks disappeared into the back as if falling into a black hole, leaving enough room for the boys to sit five-abreast in total comfort.
As Bill pulled out into the chaotic Cairo traffic, the temperature inside the car plummeted to a crisp, refreshing sixty degrees. Molly let out a long, theatrical sigh of relief as she leaned back into the plush leather seats.
Allen watched out the window, fascinated by how Bill navigated. The car was moving at a terrifying speed, weaving through donkeys, mopeds, and luxury cars, yet the interior remained perfectly level.
"How does he account for the visual offset?" Allen mused. If the car was wider on the inside than the outside, the driver's perspective of the road should be warped. It was a high-level application of spatial magic that most wizards never mastered.
The city fell away, replaced by the stark, haunting beauty of the desert. The sky was a blue so deep it almost looked purple against the blinding orange of the sands.
"Look!" Ron shouted, pointing.
On the horizon, the Great Pyramids rose like jagged teeth against the sun. Beside them, the Sphinx sat in eternal silence, half-buried in the shifting dunes. It was a sight that no textbook could do justice.
"We'll get a proper tour once you've settled in!" Bill shouted back. "But for now, we're heading for the river."
They drove for nearly an hour, the desert heat shimmering in waves across the road, until they reached a small, lush village tucked into a bend of the Nile. The green of the palms was a shocking contrast to the dead gold of the desert.
Bill stopped in front of a beautiful, whitewashed villa. It was a strange blend of styles—a pointed Gothic roof sitting atop a rounded, Moorish dome.
The heat hit them again as they stepped out, but the house itself felt... different. Two massive Jacaranda trees stood guard at the entrance, their purple blossoms raining down on the path. A thick vine of bougainvillea covered the gate in a riot of creamy white flowers.
"This belongs to Ahmed, a colleague of mine at Gringotts. He's away on an excavation in the Valley of the Kings, so he's letting us have the run of the place for the month," Bill explained.
The twins were the first through the door, letting out cheers as they hit the cool air of the foyer.
The interior of the villa was a sanctuary. The floors were cool marble, and the air was filled with the scent of mint and damp stone. Allen and Ron dragged their trunks up to the third floor, finding a room with a wide balcony that looked directly out over the glittering blue ribbon of the Nile.
Despite the sun pouring through the windows, the room was as cool as a cellar.
"This is top-tier stuff," Ron said, flopping onto a bed with a plush, patterned quilt. "The temperature regulation must be woven directly into the foundation. My dad says the Egyptians are the best in the world at 'Static Enchantments'."
Allen walked out onto the balcony, feeling the dry breeze pull at his hair. Below, the river moved slowly, a lifeline in the middle of a wasteland. He could feel the pulse of ancient magic here—heavy, dusty, and waiting to be uncovered. This wasn't going to be a normal vacation.