The air in Hogsmeade was crisp, smelling of pine needles, woodsmoke, and the sugary scent of magical confections wafting from Honeydukes. For Allen and Hermione, the transition from the dusty quiet of the library to the vibrant, snowy streets felt like stepping into a different world.
Honeydukes was, as always, a madhouse. Pink and gold streamers hung from the ceiling, and the shelves were packed so tightly with sweets that the wood groaned under the weight. Hermione moved through the aisles with a look of intense concentration, as if she were researching a particularly difficult potion rather than selecting snacks.
She carefully chose a bag of Pepper Imps, but her hands lingered over a jar of Peppermint Toads—neon green treats that actually mimicked the pulse of a living creature.
"I suppose I can afford to be a bit indulgent for Christmas," she murmured, more to herself than Allen. "One extra piece a day means twenty minutes more with the toothbrush, but the flavor profile is quite unique."
Allen laughed, watching her treat a candy purchase like a tactical maneuver. Meanwhile, his own shopping basket was rapidly filling with an assortment of colorful boxes.
"You're buying enough to stock a small shop, Allen," Hermione noted, her eyebrows arching. "Do you secretly have a massive sweet tooth I didn't know about?"
"Not for me," Allen replied, his expression softening as he picked up a box of Sugar Quills. "My sister, Emily, would probably disown me if I came home without a tribute from Hogsmeade. We call her 'Little Sweet Bear' at home. She's surprisingly clever—she can tell the difference between a Strawberry Every Flavor Bean and a Liver-flavored one just by the scent. She usually tricks our brother Lenn into eating the earwax ones while she keeps the treasures for herself. But she always saves a few for me."
Hermione opened her mouth to give a very 'Hermione-esque' lecture on the dangers of childhood tooth decay, but she caught the look of genuine affection in Allen's eyes and stopped. It was a side of him she rarely saw—the doting older brother rather than the untouchable academic prodigy.
"Lenn sounds like he has a difficult time of it," she said instead, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"Lenn is... well, he's the Percy Weasley of our family, but with slightly better hair," Allen joked. He led her toward a back corner of the shop where a discreet sign hung: (Special Flavors – For the Bold). "I'm looking for something to knock the seriousness off his face. Pranking Lenn is a family tradition."
He picked up a platter of Blood-flavored lollipops, their deep crimson swirling like a nebula. He held one up to the light, then looked at Hermione with a mischievous glint in his eye. "What do you think? Would this suit your refined palate, Miss Granger?"
Hermione wrinkled her nose, looking at the dark, viscous-looking treat. "Unless I've suddenly developed an interest in the nocturnal habits of vampires, I think I'll pass."
"How about these?" Allen lunged for a jar of Cockroach Clusters, shoving it playfully toward her.
"Allen! Absolutely not!" Hermione squealed, pushing the jar away while trying to maintain her dignity, though a giggle escaped her despite her best efforts.
As they laughed, Allen's gaze shifted toward the Every Flavor Beans shelf. About ten yards away, a shock of red hair was visible. Ron was standing there, pretending to examine a box of Droobles, but his eyes were fixed entirely on them, his face a shade of red that almost matched his hair.
Allen didn't miss a beat. He stepped slightly to the left, using his taller frame to completely block Ron's line of sight, shielding Hermione from the boy's burning glare.
"Why are you buying so many of those lollipops?" Hermione asked, noticing Allen dumping a dozen of the blood-flavored sticks into his basket. "Is Emily... into that sort of thing?"
"No, these are for Lenn," Allen said without a hint of remorse. "He'll appreciate the... irony. Probably."
Their next stop was Zonko's Joke Shop. The air inside was thick with the smell of sulfur and wet dog. Allen moved through the store with the efficiency of a general, stocking up on Dungbombs, Frog Spawn Soap, and Hiccup Sweets.
Once again, the red-headed shadow appeared. Ron was standing near the shelves of Dr. Filibuster's Fireworks, his expression transitioning from mere annoyance to pure, unadulterated rage.
Hermione saw him this time. The light in her eyes flickered out for a moment, replaced by a look of profound disgust. She didn't say anything, but she pulled her coat tighter and looked away, her jaw set in a hard line.
Allen noticed. He placed a gentle hand on the small of her back—a subtle, guiding gesture—and led her out of the shop before Ron could summon the courage to say something stupid.
They were walking toward the upper end of the village when a group of Slytherin girls approached, led by the pug-faced Pansy Parkinson.
"Well, look at this!" Pansy shrieked, her voice like glass on a chalkboard. "Harris and Granger. Honestly, Allen, I thought your standards were higher. I mean, even Crivatt is better to look at than a mud—"
She stopped abruptly. She had expected her friends to join in on the mocking, but the other Slytherin girls were strangely silent. They were looking at Allen—who stood there looking like a model for a high-end wizarding magazine—and then at Hermione.
Hermione's transformation hadn't gone unnoticed. The lavender coat, the elegant hair, the newfound confidence; she didn't look like the 'insufferable know-it-all' today. She looked like a threat.
Allen didn't engage in a shouting match. He simply looked at Pansy, raised his hand, and made a sharp, cutting motion across his own hair—a silent, chilling reminder of a previous encounter or a subtle threat of a 'hair-altering' jinx.
Pansy turned pale. She let out a weak, forced huff, but she practically ran past them, her shrill chatter becoming incoherent as she fled.
Hermione looked a bit shaken, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Allen, sensing the shift, decided it was time to get her out of the cold.
"Hermione, look at your nose," he said softly, reaching out to touch the tip of it. "It's freezing. Let's go somewhere warm."
"Is it red?" she asked instantly, covering it with her hand. "I must look ridiculous."
"You look charming," Allen countered, "but a red nose is a sign of impending frostbite. Let's head into Madam Puddifoot's."
Hermione hesitated. She knew the reputation of the tea shop—it was the unofficial headquarters for Hogwarts couples. But the cold was biting, and the idea of sitting down with Allen was too tempting to resist.
The tea shop was a claustrophobic nightmare of pink lace, floating golden cherubs, and the suffocating smell of rosewater. Every small, round table was occupied by couples holding hands or whispering into each other's ears.
Hermione felt her coordination deserting her. She nearly tripped over a lace-covered stool as they moved toward a small table by the window.
Outside, obscured by a large, snow-laden cedar tree, a familiar figure was lurking. Ron was huddled in the shadows, his eyes fixed on the window with an intensity that bordered on obsessive.
Allen sat down, leaning forward slightly. He reached across the table, his fingers grazing Hermione's hair as he brushed away a stray snowflake.
Outside, Ron kicked the cedar tree in a fit of pique. A massive shelf of snow collapsed directly onto his head, burying him up to his shoulders. He began flailing his arms like a panicked bird, trying to dig himself out.
Allen couldn't help it; a genuine, hearty laugh broke from his lips.
"What is it?" Hermione asked, looking around in confusion.
Before she could spot the snowy disaster outside, Madam Puddifoot squeezed through the narrow gap between tables. She was a stout woman who looked like she'd been decorated by the same person who did the shop.
"What can I get for you two dearie-hearts?" she asked, beaming.
"It's a bit too cold for tea, don't you think?" Allen said, looking at Hermione. "How about two coffees? Black for me, and...?"
"Milk, no sugar," Hermione added, her voice a bit breathy.
She looked at the table next to them, where a Hufflepuff boy was practically swallowing his girlfriend's face over a bowl of sugar cubes. Hermione looked down at her lap, her ears turning the same color as the pink lace.
"Don't mind them," Allen said, reclaiming her attention. "I heard Professor Flitwick is planning something special for the Cheering Charms next week. I saw the handouts when I was helping him in the staff room. It's quite a complex bit of magic—it might even be the lead question on the practical exam."
The mention of exams worked like a charm. Hermione's posture straightened, and the awkwardness in her eyes was replaced by her trademark intellectual hunger.
"Really? The Cheering Charm is notoriously difficult to calibrate," she said, leaning in. "Too little and nothing happens; too much and you have a student laughing until they pass out from lack of oxygen."
As they delved into the mechanics of emotional magic, the atmosphere became comfortable again. But the peace was shattered when the door to the tea shop swung open with a violent thwack.
Draco Malfoy stepped in. He wasn't flanked by Goyle or Crabbe for once. His eyes scanned the room with disdain until they landed on Allen. To the shock of every couple in the room, he marched straight over and pulled out a chair at their table.
"Harris," Draco said, ignoring Hermione as if she were a piece of the furniture. "We need to talk."
Outside the window, Ron had finally finished shaking the snow off his robes. His eyes bugged out as he saw Malfoy join them.
"I knew it!" Ron hissed to the empty air, his breath frosting in the cold. "Harry thinks Allen is just 'competitive,' but look at them! Malfoy's giving him orders! And Hermione's just sitting there like a loyal little spy!"
He stomped his feet against the frozen ground, his mind racing with conspiracies. He needed to prove it. He needed to show Harry that their 'friend' was a traitor.
But as he looked around the snowy village, he realized with a sinking heart that he had no one to help him. No Harry to back him up, no Hermione to plan the strategy. He was just a boy in the snow, watching through a window.
Suddenly, a firm tap landed on his shoulder.
Ron spun around, his wand half-drawn, but the space behind him was empty. The wind whistled through the cedar trees, and the snow continued to fall, but there wasn't a soul in sight.
"Who's there?" Ron whispered, his voice trembling. "I... I'm not imagining it. I know someone's there!"
But the only answer was the distant sound of laughter from the tea shop.