Michael didn't just float; he soared. Under the stunned, wide-eyed gazes of dozens of Young Wizards, the Ravenclaw boy drifted upward like a stray balloon caught in a thermal. Panic, sharp and cold, began to replace the sugary high on his face as the distance between his boots and the cobblestones grew into a dizzying void.
"Merciful Merlin, he's drifting toward the Shrieking Shack!" Penelope gasped, her voice tightening with a sudden, breathless edge. She pointed toward the outskirts of the village where the most haunted house in Britain loomed against the darkening sky.
Allen's eyes sharpened. He followed the trajectory and felt his stomach drop. "We can't let him get anywhere near that perimeter. The Ministry notices were clear—the Dementors aren't just patrolling the streets; they're anchoring the entrance to that ruin."
Michael was already too high for a simple 'Accio' to be safe, and Allen couldn't exactly summon Tina, his Thunderbird, in front of a crowd of gossiping students. That would lead to questions he wasn't ready to answer.
Thinking fast, Allen ducked behind a stack of empty crates. With a flick of his wrist, he retrieved his Nimbus 2001. A quick enlargement charm later, he was straddling the polished wood. He didn't wait for a countdown; he kicked off the ground, the broom answering his intent with a violent surge of speed.
By the time Allen reached Michael's altitude, the boy's initial excitement had curdled into pure, unadulterated terror. He was pale, his eyes bulging as he stared toward the horizon.
"Allen! Look!" Michael choked out, pointing a trembling finger toward the silhouettes of the Dementors.
They were there. Ragged, black-cloaked figures gliding through the mist like ink stains on a gray canvas. They hadn't spotted them yet, but they were moving with a predatory grace toward the source of the "unauthorized flight."
"Don't look at them, and for the love of magic, stop breathing so hard!" Allen commanded, pulling up alongside him. He reached out, grabbing Michael by the scruff of his coat and hauling him onto the back of the Nimbus. "They track by emotion and soul-scent, Michael. Keep your head down and stay stiff. At this distance, we're just a bird to them."
Below them, Penelope and Edward watched the two of them plummet. To the onlookers, it looked like a catastrophic failure—a shooting star made of wood and student robes diving toward the earth.
"What is he doing? He's going too fast!" Penelope cried out, her fingers digging into the hem of her coat.
"They're going to hit! They're actually going to hit the ground!" Edward screamed, shielding his eyes as the broom neared the jagged horizon of the village outskirts.
But Allen didn't crash. At the very last second, he leveled the broom, the tail twigs nearly brushing the frost-covered grass. They skidded across a long stretch of open field, the friction throwing up a spray of dirt and ice, before disappearing into a labyrinthine Boulder Field nestled in a natural depression of the land.
Penelope didn't wait. She broke into a sprint, her athletic grace as a Seeker showing as she leaped over the uneven terrain. Edward followed, huffing and puffing, hopelessly outpaced by the girl's desperation.
"Allen! Michael!" she shouted, her voice echoing off the ancient stones.
She leaped over a particularly smooth, moss-covered rock, but the ground on the other side wasn't solid. The "gravel" beneath her feet was actually a thin crust of slate and loose earth covering a hidden sinkhole.
"Ah!"
The cry was short and sharp. Penelope vanished. The earth seemed to swallow her whole, leaving only a cloud of dust and the sound of sliding stones.
By the time Edward scrambled over the ridge, he found only silence. "Allen? Penelope?" he called out, his voice cracking.
Allen emerged from behind a massive, leaning boulder, dragging a still-shaking Michael by the arm. He looked up and saw Edward standing on a high rock, looking like he'd seen a ghost.
"Edward, where's Penelope? She was right behind us," Allen called out, a sense of dread pooling in his gut.
"Allen! Down there!" Edward waved frantically, pointing at a dark, jagged tear in the earth. "She fell! She just... she disappeared into a hole!"
Allen didn't hesitate. He pushed Michael toward Edward. "Keep him here. If those Dementors move closer, get behind the biggest rock and don't make a sound. I'm going after her."
The opening was narrow—a jagged slit in the limestone, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through. It looked more like a wound in the earth than a cave. Allen knelt, peering into the darkness.
"Penelope?" he called out. A faint, muffled groan answered him from the depths.
He eased himself in, crawling on all fours through a tunnel that smelled of damp earth and ancient decay. The walls were slick with a cold, oily moisture that clung to his robes. After a few yards of claustrophobic squeezing, the ceiling suddenly soared. He was able to stand, his boots clicking against a stone floor that felt unnaturally smooth.
The air here was thick, heavy with the musty, cloying scent of mold and something metallic. A dim, flickering light caught his eye further down a side passage.
"Lumos," Allen whispered.
The tip of his wand flared, revealing a winding corridor that narrowed and twisted. He followed the light—Penelope's light.
He found her at the end of a small chamber. She was a mess; her hair was a bird's nest of cobwebs and dirt, and a nasty red scratch ran down her cheek. But she wasn't crying or looking for an exit. She was kneeling on the ground, her wand held low, illuminating something white and skeletal.
"Penelope, thank the stars," Allen breathed, stepping forward. He touched her face with his wand, murmuring a quick 'Episkey' to seal the scratch. "You nearly gave me a heart attack. Let's get out of here before the ceiling decides to join us."
"Allen, look at this," she said, her voice unusually flat. She didn't move. She just pointed at the floor.
Allen leaned in. It was a skeleton, perfectly preserved, laid out on its side in a fetal position. The bones were bleached a dull, ghostly gray, and the empty eye sockets of the skull seemed to be watching the shadows.
"Is that... human?" Penelope whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
Allen knelt beside her, his analytical mind taking over. He traced the line of the spine and the structure of the limbs. "No. Not unless humans have grown an extra pair of legs and forgotten how to walk upright. Look at the pelvic structure."
Penelope stared at it, her mouth forming a silent 'O'. "Then what is it? It's too big for a dog, and the skull is all wrong for a calf or a deer."
"You're right about the deer," Allen muttered, leaning closer to the skull. "No hooves. Look at the extremities—those are phalanges. Paws. And those teeth... they aren't meant for grinding grass. Those are for tearing through hide and muscle."
He stood up, his face grim. "It's a wolf. A large one."
"A wolf?" Penelope repeated, looking around the cramped, smelly cave. "What would a wolf be doing in a hole like this? And how did it die so... neatly? There's no sign of a struggle, no broken ribs."
"Nature is rarely this tidy," Allen agreed. "If a predator had killed it, the bones would be scattered, gnawed on, or crushed for the marrow. Even if it died of old age, scavengers would have made a mess of the remains. But this... this is like a museum display."
"Who would eat a wolf and leave the bones like this?" Penelope asked, looking genuinely disturbed.
"Maybe something that values protein over presentation," Allen joked, trying to lighten the mood, but the humor fell flat.
Penelope gave him a sharp shove. "Be serious, Allen. Look at the bones. They're pristine. It's like the flesh was just... removed."
Allen's smile vanished. "A Bone-Removing Spell. Or a very precise Scouring Charm. Someone did this on purpose. A wizard."
"But why live here?" Penelope gestured to the damp, stinking walls. "Even the Dementors would find this place too depressing. It smells like a grave."
A sudden realization struck Allen like a bolt of lightning. A fugitive wouldn't care about the smell. A fugitive would care about the shadows. Someone who needed to stay hidden from Aurors, Dementors, and the world alike. Someone like Sirius Black.
If Black was an Animagus—which the rumors hadn't confirmed but Allen's gut suspected—a cave like this would be the perfect den. And if it wasn't Black, then whatever wizard chose to live in the filth of a sinkhole was likely someone they didn't want to meet in the dark.
"We're leaving. Now," Allen said, grabbing Penelope's hand and pulling her to her feet.
"Agreed," she whispered. "This place is giving me the shivers."
They turned to head back toward the narrow tunnel, but a sound stopped them dead in their tracks. It was a soft, wet squeaking sound, coming from the darkness ahead of them. Then came the flapping—the heavy, rhythmic sound of wings beating against the confined air.
"What is that?" Penelope cried out, her voice echoing and distorting against the stone.
The flapping grew louder, turning into a deafening roar of movement. It wasn't birds. It sounded like the very earth was vibrating.
"Down!" Allen yelled.
Above them, the ceiling—a mass of jagged black rock and ancient roots—began to groan. Large cracks snaked across the stone like lightning, and then, with a sound like a mountain shattering, the darkness began to fall.