Allen was staring out at the rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands, his mind still half-anchored in the bustling, magical chaos of New York, when a sharp rap on the compartment door snapped him back to reality. The door slid open with a decisive click, and Penelope Clearwater stepped inside.
The Ravenclaw prefect seemed taller than Allen remembered, her long legs carrying her into the small space with an air of practiced authority. She was dressed for travel, but there was an elegance to her that set her apart from the younger students currently throwing Dungbombs in the corridors.
"Merry Christmas—or a very late one, I suppose," Penelope said, her voice bright and brisk. She didn't wait for an invitation before sitting down opposite him, extending a slender, cyan-colored gift box. "I tried to send this via owl, but apparently, New York is just outside the standard delivery range for a school bird. I hope the wait didn't ruin the surprise."
"Thanks, Penelope," Allen said, taking the box with a genuine smile. "I actually feel a bit guilty now. I was planning to hunt you down as soon as we reached the Great Hall. I didn't think I'd be lucky enough to have you find me first."
He stood up and hauled his heavy suitcase onto the seat, clicking the brass latches open. As he rummaged through the neatly folded piles of clothes and curiosities, he didn't notice the way Penelope's eyes tracked his movements, or the way she tucked a stray lock of her wavy hair behind her ear when he mentioned he'd brought something back specifically for her.
"Here it is," Allen said, pulling out a shimmering bundle of fabric.
He shook it out, and the compartment was suddenly filled with the soft glow of a magical robe. It was a pale, pearlescent shade that seemed to catch every scrap of winter sunlight, with a texture that looked like liquid silk.
"It's... oh, Allen, it's stunning," Penelope breathed, her fingers grazing the hem. The fabric seemed to hum under her touch, ripples of light flowing through the weave like water.
"It's from the Breeze Series," Allen explained, though a small shadow crossed his face as he spoke. "Designed by Mrs. Klein. She was quite famous in the New York magical fashion scene. I thought the style suited you perfectly."
Penelope looked up, catching the momentary flicker of sadness in his eyes. "You said 'was,' Allen. And you look like you're mourning a lost masterpiece. Was she a friend?"
Allen leaned back, sighing. "Not a friend, exactly. I met her a couple of times. She was... magnetic. The kind of person who could command a room without saying a word. But she got caught up in some dangerous business—illicit creature smuggling. She died during a raid on her property. It's a waste, really. She had more talent in her pinky finger than most Master Tailors have in their whole bodies."
"She must have been very beautiful for you to remember her with such detail," Penelope remarked, her voice dropping an octave. She began to fold the robe with meticulous care, though her movements were a bit more stiff than before.
"She was," Allen admitted honestly. "I don't think I saw a single person—wizard or No-Maj—who didn't do a double-take when she walked by."
Penelope's smile turned a little forced. She clutched the robe a bit tighter against her chest. "Well, what a tragedy. A legendary beauty who died for profit. I almost feel like I'm wearing a piece of history. I wish I could have met her, if only to see what all the fuss was about."
"Trust me, Penelope, you're better off not having been anywhere near that mansion," Allen said, sensing the shift in the air but misinterpreting it as concern for the danger. He spent the next twenty minutes recounting the story of Leonard and the boutique, painting a picture of a tragic, complicated woman.
Penelope listened, her posture relaxing as the story shifted from Mrs. Klein's beauty to the Auror's heartbreak. She seemed much more comfortable with the idea of a dead rival than a living one. "Forget about the Aurors for a second," she said, leaning forward. "Tell me about your trip. I saw the papers, you know. 'Hogwarts Student Assists in Major Smuggling Bust.' You're becoming a bit of a celebrity, Allen."
Allen laughed, pulling out a stack of Wizarding photos he'd taken with Jessica and Ian. They spent the remainder of the journey flipping through images of the Statue of Liberty (which Penelope thought looked remarkably like a stone Golem) and the Metropolitan Museum.
As the train began to slow, the whistle screaming through the cold air, Penelope suddenly looked up from a photo of Allen eating a massive New York pretzel. "What do you think of Percy Weasley?"
The question was so out of left field that Allen blinked twice. "Percy? From Gryffindor?"
He took a moment to mentally profile the eldest Weasley currently at school. Percy was a walking contradiction: brilliant marks, a stickler for rules that made even the prefects roll their eyes, fiercely ambitious, yet deeply insecure about his family's standing. "He's... thorough," Allen said carefully. "Very capable. A bit stiff, maybe, but I think his heart is in the right place. Why do you ask? Did he give you a detention for breathing too loudly near the library?"
Penelope let out a huff that was half-laugh, half-annoyance. "Worse. He gave me a Christmas gift. A clay doll."
"A doll? That's... well, that's actually quite traditional, isn't it?"
"It was a doll of me, Allen! And not just me—it was me in the middle of a duel, looking absolutely savage, brandishing my wand like I was about to curse someone into the next century. I can't decide if he's making fun of me for being 'fierce' or if he's genuinely terrified of me."
Allen bit back a smirk. In the original timeline, those two had been inseparable. It seemed Percy's flirting was as clumsy as his social skills. "Maybe it's his way of saying he admires your technique," Allen suggested.
"Admires my technique by making me look like a harpy?" Penelope stood up, shaking her head. Just before she reached the door, she glanced back at Allen's open trunk. Her eyes narrowed as they landed on another shimmering bundle of fabric—the robe intended for Hermione, which happened to be a very similar shade of cyan.
"Did you give this same robe to everyone you know?" she asked, her voice suddenly cool.
"What? No," Allen said, confused by the sudden frost. "I got one for my sister, Daisy, and I have one here for Hermione. It's a different cut, though. Why?"
Penelope sniffed, her chin tilting upward. "I just don't particularly care to walk into the Great Hall looking like I'm part of a uniformed dance troupe. I like my wardrobe to be unique, Allen."
Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and vanished into the corridor, her footsteps echoing sharply.
"Did I miss something?" Allen muttered to the empty compartment. He looked down at his suitcase. The sleeve of Hermione's robe was draped over the side, its pattern almost identical to the one he'd just given Penelope. He shook his head. "We all wear the same black work robes every single day. Why is this different?"
Deciding that the inner workings of a teenage witch's mind were a puzzle he wasn't yet equipped to solve, Allen opened Penelope's gift. Inside was a heavy, silver-white necklace with a pendant shaped like a single, perfect snowflake.
A small card sat at the bottom: 'The jeweler claimed this was forged by an ancient alchemist. It carries a Permanent Happiness Charm. Use it when the castle gets too gloomy. Wishing you a happy return, P.C.'
Allen looped the chain around his neck. Almost instantly, a wave of warmth radiated from his chest, smoothing out the jagged edges of his travel fatigue. It wasn't a fake, forced euphoria, but a gentle sense of contentment. "Not bad, Penelope," he whispered. "Not bad at all."
But as he stepped off the train and onto the Hogsmeade platform, the 'Happiness Charm' had its work cut out for it. The atmosphere at the school had changed. During the break, the castle had been a ghost town, and the fear of the 'Heir' had started to fade into the background. But as the students reunited, the whispers began anew.
The next morning in the Great Hall, the warmth of the snowflake necklace couldn't touch the chill that swept through the student body.
"Have you heard?" a second-year Hufflepuff whispered loudly as Allen walked toward the Ravenclaw table. "It happened last night. Right under everyone's noses."
"Who was it this time?"
"Granger. The Gryffindor girl. They say she disappeared from her dorm before the feast even started."
Allen froze, his hand tightening on the handle of his bag. Inside was the robe for Hermione—a gift he had been looking forward to giving her. He didn't wait to finish his breakfast. He followed the stream of anxious students toward the hospital wing.
The corridor was packed. Normally, Madam Pomfrey would have cleared the hall with a few sharp words, but today the air was too heavy with dread. When Allen finally reached the front, he saw that the beds were shielded by thick, heavy curtains. No one could see inside, but the silence coming from behind the fabric was more terrifying than any scream.