The Harris family had visited Aunt Josephine's estate before, but those visits had always been informal, entering through the side garden or via Apparition directly into the drawing room. This was the first time Allen had approached the manor through the main iron gates, and the experience was entirely different.
As the small Honda crunched over the gravel driveway, the high stone walls seemed to rise up like the sides of a canyon. The manor was a sprawling, gothic beast of a house, built from dark, weathered stone that looked as though it had absorbed centuries of damp moorland mist. It didn't sit under the sun; even in the middle of a winter afternoon, it seemed tucked away in the permanent shadow of the towering crags that loomed behind it like silent sentinels.
The moment Emily stepped out of the heated car, she let out a sharp gasp. A gust of wind, cutting and laden with frost, whipped around the corner of the house. It wasn't just the winter cold; Allen felt a localized, piercing chill that seemed to emanate from the very foundations of the manor. It was the kind of cold that magic struggled to keep at bay.
Emily instinctively grabbed Allen's sleeve, her small hand trembling slightly. She didn't look at the gardens or the statues; she pointed a shaky finger upward toward the second floor.
Allen followed her gaze. High above the porch were two massive bay windows, identical and perfectly symmetrical. In the dimming light, they looked less like architectural features and more like a pair of vast, hollow eye sockets, staring down with a blind, judgmental intensity at the new arrivals.
"Looking for the best view?" Aunt Josephine's voice broke the silence, though she seemed to misinterpret the siblings' apprehension. "Don't worry, those rooms are the sunniest in the house—well, as sunny as this valley allows. I've aired them out specifically for you two. Plenty of space to get into trouble."
They stepped inside, crossing a vast living room dominated by a fireplace large enough to roast an entire ox. The warmth of the fire was a welcome relief, but as they followed Josephine down a branching corridor toward the grand staircase, the air grew heavy again.
The second floor was a labyrinth of narrow passages. Josephine led them on a tour, her heels clicking sharply against the dark wood floors. Emily's initial fear began to fade into the typical curiosity of a child. This house was a treasure trove of nooks, crannies, and heavy oak wardrobes that smelled of cedar and old secrets.
"Here we are, Emily. This one is yours," Josephine said, pushing open a door.
The room was a paradise for a young girl, filled with antique dolls and shelves of toys. Emily immediately ran to the bed, picking up a plush kitten that looked like it had been loved through at least three generations. Its fur was matted and faded, but to Emily, it was a newfound treasure.
"I'll stay with her while she unpacks," Albert volunteered, leaning against the doorframe with a tired smile. The "confidential mission" at the Ministry clearly had him drained.
Josephine nodded and gestured for Allen to follow her further down the hall. As they walked, Allen couldn't help but notice the portraits. The walls were lined with them—men in stiff lace collars and women in heavy velvet gowns that looked far too restrictive for comfort.
Usually, wizarding portraits were a boisterous lot, shouting greetings or snoozing loudly. These, however, were unnervingly still. They didn't wave; they didn't even blink. They simply stared at Allen with painted, glassy eyes, their silence more oppressive than any noise could be.
His own room was at the very end of the wing. It was enormous, featuring a private bathroom with copper fittings and a deep window seat built into the bay window he had seen from the outside.
"Get yourself settled," Josephine said, checking a delicate silver watch on her wrist. "I'm going to start on the roast. Come down when the trunks are empty."
Once she left, the silence of the room settled over Allen like a physical weight. He walked to the window seat and looked out. Through the swirling white curtain of the blizzard, he could see Albert's car parked below, a tiny speck of Muggle technology in this ancient, magical landscape. Beyond the walls, the moor stretched out, dotted with the lonely, flickering lights of distant farmhouses.
Allen began to unpack, his movements methodical. He had just finished hanging his robes when a flash of color in the doorway caught his eye.
He froze.
Standing in the hall was a girl. She looked to be about twelve, wearing a dress of such deep, vibrant red it looked like spilled wine against the grey stone walls. The fabric was heavy brocade, woven with intricate patterns of gold and silver thread that seemed to shimmer in the low light.
In her hands, she cradled a large, dark green toad. The girl didn't speak. Her gaze was sharp, old, and entirely too intense for someone her age. Before Allen could even open his mouth to ask who she was, she turned with a fluid, ghostly grace and vanished around the corner.
"Hey! Wait a second!" Allen called out.
He sprinted to the door and looked down the corridor. It was empty. The long stretch of hallway was a tunnel of shadows, and every single door was shut tight. There was no sound of footsteps, no rustle of silk.
"Albert?" Allen shouted, his voice echoing unpleasantly. No one answered.
A cold prickle of sweat moved down Allen's spine. He didn't linger. He practically bolted down the stairs, his heart hammering against his ribs. He found Aunt Josephine in the kitchen, casually flicking her wand to direct a string of sausages into a sizzling pan.
"Aunt Josephine," Allen said, trying to keep his voice steady as he leaned against the counter. "Is this place... haunted? Honestly?"
Josephine paused, a small, amused smirk playing on her lips. She didn't look up from the frying pan. "I'm afraid I have to disappoint you, Allen. It's not. No wailing banshees or headless knights here."
She turned then, her blue eyes searching his. "The house is old, and sound travels strangely through stone. Why? Did a floorboard creak?"
"I saw a girl," Allen insisted, stepping closer. "In a red dress. Down the hall from my room. She was holding a toad."
Josephine's expression didn't change, but there was a flicker of something—perhaps recognition—in her eyes. "Ah. You must have seen Miss Clark. She's the only portrait in the manor with the 'privilege' of wandering. Most of the ancestors prefer their frames, but she was always a restless soul."
"She wasn't in a frame," Allen argued. "She was standing there. Real as you or me."
"Paintings can be very convincing in the right light, dear," Josephine said smoothly.
Before Allen could press her on why a "restless" portrait would look so lifelike, or why the others were so unnaturally still, a heavy thud sounded at the front door. Josephine looked visibly relieved at the interruption.
Mr. Harris and Lenn walked in, looking like two abominable snowmen. They were hauling a mountain of suitcases, their faces red from the biting wind.
"Blimey, it's a whiteout out there!" Mr. Harris boomed, shaking his coat and sending a spray of slush across the rug. "I hope Daisy and your mother make it before the roads vanish entirely."
He peeled off his heavy outer layers, revealing a plain shirt that struggled to contain a belly that had grown significantly since the summer. Mr. Harris tried to tuck the hem into his trousers, but the fabric kept popping back out with stubborn persistence. Giving up, he let out a jolly sigh and sat down at the kitchen table next to Allen.
Josephine looked from Mr. Harris to Lenn and then to Allen, nodding approvingly. "Goodness, Arthur. These two really are your shadows. It's like looking at a set of Russian nesting dolls."
Allen bristled slightly. He and Lenn were both tall, lean, and possessed the same shock of blond hair and pale blue eyes as their father, but that was where the similarities ended. Lenn was "The Serious One," a man who treated every conversation like a legal deposition. Allen liked to think he had a bit more... flair.
The tension of the encounter in the hallway began to dissipate as the house filled with the sounds of family. Emily, bored with her toys, dragged Allen out into the yard to build a snowman.
Under the falling snow, Allen used his father's wand—since he couldn't use his own—to animate the snow. He didn't just build a snowman; he crafted a menagerie of icy rabbits and birds that hopped and fluttered around Emily, making her shriek with delight. For a while, he forgot about the cold eyes of the bay windows.
As dusk turned into a deep, bruised purple, Mrs. Harris and Daisy finally arrived, bearing the scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke. Allen was pulled into a suffocatingly warm hug by his mother, who immediately handed him a tin of her legendary pastries.
"Lead the way, Emily! Show us where we're sleeping!" Mrs. Harris laughed as the youngest Harris skipped toward the porch.
Allen started to follow them, but a sudden intuition made him stop. He turned back, looking up at the second floor.
The blizzard had slowed to a light drift. Through the clear air, he looked at the two bay windows above the porch.
In the window on the left—his window—a face was pressed against the glass.
It was the girl in the red dress. She wasn't a painting. She was standing in his room, her pale face framed by the dark stone, looking down at him with a chilling, unblinking curiosity.