The Knox villa was a peculiar architectural achievement that seemed to defy several laws of physics, most likely held together by a combination of stubborn brickwork and a collection of ancient structural charms. It was a cozy jumble of wood and masonry, sitting precariously near a jagged slope that tumbled down toward a winding, ice-fringed stream.
From the outside, the house looked like it had been caught mid-shrug. The roof was tilted at a jaunty, rakish angle—much like a misplaced beret—and the walls had a slight, protruding bulge in the middle that made it look as though the building was leaning out to get a better view of the road. It was far from the sterile, vertical perfection of the Woolworth Building, but as Allen stood in the knee-deep snow, the warm, honey-colored light spilling from the windows made it look like the most welcoming place on Earth.
Before Professor Flitwick could even reach for the iron knocker, the door creaked open. A slender girl with a waterfall of blonde hair and eyes the color of a clear winter sky stepped out into the chill.
"You're late," she said, though her tone was light and teasing rather than accusatory.
The scent of roasting meat and savory spices billowed out behind her, a stark and heavenly contrast to the biting wind. The foyer was bathed in a golden glow that made the snowdrifts at the threshold sparkle like crushed diamonds.
"I am Filius Flitwick, and this young man is Allen Harris," the Professor began, puffing out his chest and adopting a tone of exaggerated British gallantry that Allen found immensely entertaining. "We are guests of the esteemed Leonard Knox. I do hope our unannounced arrival hasn't put you at a disadvantage."
The girl chuckled, stepping aside to let them in. "My uncle sent a frantic owl earlier today. He said two very important, very cold Englishmen would be turning up on my doorstep. I'm Jessica. Please, get inside before you turn into ice sculptures."
As they crossed the threshold, a large, fluffy feather duster detached itself from a hook on the wall. It began to hum a low, busy tune as it circled them, expertly flicking the snow from their cloaks and boots before retreating back to its station.
Allen stepped into the main living area and felt his jaw drop slightly. Jessica had clearly been busy; every light in the house seemed to be turned on, a mix of magical globes and mundane bulbs that filled the space with a brilliant, shadowless warmth. But it wasn't the light that caught his eye—it was the greenery. Despite the blizzard howling outside, the room was a riot of color. Vibrant tropical flowers bloomed in pots, and small, leafy trees lined the walls, their leaves swaying as if caught in a gentle summer breeze.
Time-dilation charms or perhaps localized greenhouse enchantments, Allen mused. He didn't know much about herbology, but he knew that keeping lilies and hibiscus alive in a New York December required some serious magical heavy lifting.
The house breathed with the rhythm of domestic magic. In the corner, a heavy iron was gliding back and forth over a pile of shirts with rhythmic precision. By the fireplace, a wooden coat rack was doing a slow, clumsy dance as it warmed itself. On the plush sofa, a pair of long, shimmering purple knitting needles were clicking away on their own, weaving an intricate square pattern with dizzying speed. A half-finished cup of coffee sat on the marble side table, still swirling with steam, next to a stack of magazines like Witch Whispers and Transformation in the Present Day.
But the real masterpiece was the dining table.
Allen's stomach gave a treacherous growl as he looked at the spread. There were thick, glistening steaks topped with herb butter, a mountain of Buffalo wings lacquered in a spicy, amber sauce, and golden Alaskan cod fillets that looked light enough to float. A Cobb salad, heavy with blue cheese and avocado, sat next to a crystal pitcher of egg liqueur that was topped with a snowdrift of coconut shavings.
He tried to maintain his composure. He was a guest, after all, and staring at the food like a starving stray wasn't exactly the "Harris way." But after miles of walking and a chaotic bus ride, his willpower was fraying at the edges.
"Ian! Stop brooding and get down here! The guests are actually here!" Jessica shouted toward a copper pipe protruding from the ceiling.
A muffled, slightly annoyed voice drifted back: "I'm coming, Jess! Just finishing this theorem!"
"My brother," Jessica explained with a proud, eye-rolling smile. "He's the top of his year at Ilvermorny. Thinks he's going to reinvent the Laws of Transposition before he turns seventeen."
She gestured for them to sit. "Uncle Knox won't be back for hours—maybe days, given the state of the city. He told us to start without him. Please, make yourselves at home."
She flicked her wand, and two white handkerchiefs leaped out of a basin of hot water, wrung themselves dry in mid-air, and flew over to Allen and Flitwick. Wiping the grime and cold from his face with the steaming cloth felt like a rebirth. Every ounce of the day's exhaustion seemed to evaporate.
A moment later, a tall, wiry boy with stubborn, short-cropped blonde hair descended the stairs. He offered Flitwick a polite, albeit slightly stiff, bow and gave Allen a nod that was more clinical than friendly.
"Ian Knox," he said briefly.
The tension of the introductions was quickly dissolved by the food. As soon as they began to eat, the atmosphere shifted from formal to festive. Ian's "cool" facade crumbled the moment he bit into a piece of the crispy steak, and he began to ask Flitwick rapid-fire questions about the dueling circuit in Europe.
Professor Flitwick, meanwhile, had discovered the egg liqueur. After his third glass, his voice had jumped an entire octave, and he was regaling the siblings with a highly embellished account of their encounter with the "rogue" magical creatures in the city. The table erupted in laughter when Flitwick stood on his chair to demonstrate a particularly complex wand movement.
Later that night, after the table had been cleared by a fleet of self-washing plates, Allen and Flitwick retired to the guest room on the second floor. The room was simple but elegant, with two single beds covered in thick, quilted blankets.
Flitwick was humming to himself as he unpacked his trunk, but Allen wasn't quite ready for sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed, flipping through a leather-bound volume titled A Compendium of Self-Defense Spells. It was a rare edition Flitwick had lent him, filled with the Professor's own handwritten marginalia—tips on wrist flicking and internalizing the intent behind the incantations.
A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the door. Jessica entered, carrying a tray with a steaming teapot and two delicate porcelain cups. She had changed into a pair of patterned blue pajamas that made her look much younger than she had downstairs.
"I thought a bit of tea might help you settle in," she said, her voice quiet. "I'm sorry, all I could find in the pantry was some Lipton black tea from the Muggle shop down the road. I wasn't sure if you'd prefer it over the coffee."
"Tea is a marvelous idea, Jessica. Thank you," Flitwick said, accepting a cup with a grateful smile.
Allen took his cup with both hands, the warmth seeping into his palms. He'd placed his book face-down on the nightstand to receive the tray, and he noticed Jessica's eyes fixated on the title.
"Is that what you study in England?" she asked, pointing to the Compendium. "It looks... advanced. Is that your standard textbook?"
Allen let out a soft laugh. "Oh, this? No. This is a personal study. The Professor is helping me with some... extracurricular defense."
"So what do you use?" she asked, her curiosity clearly piqued. "Uncle says British wizards are obsessed with tradition. I bet your textbooks are five hundred years old."
Allen reached into his open suitcase. It took him a moment to find what he was looking for, mostly because he had so many of them. He pulled out a stack of shiny, colorful books and handed them to her.
Jessica stared at the covers. There, in all his golden-haired, pearly-white-teethed glory, was Gilderoy Lockhart. On the cover of Banshee's Breakup, he was winking at the reader with a confidence that bordered on the absurd.
"A Walk with Ghouls... A Journey with Vampires... Magical Me..." Jessica read the titles aloud, her brow furrowing. "Wait, this guy has seven books on the curriculum? Is he some kind of legendary war hero? He looks more like a shampoo model."
Allen felt a twinge of guilt. He knew exactly what Lockhart was—a fraud who was better at memory charms than actual combat—but he wasn't about to trash a Hogwarts professor in front of a foreign witch. It wouldn't be good for the school's reputation.
"He's... our current Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Allen said, choosing his words with surgical care.
"Wow," Jessica breathed, flipping through the pages of Year with the Yeti. "If he's actually done all these things, he must be the most powerful wizard in Europe. I mean, look at that smile. That's the smile of a man who isn't afraid of anything."
She handed the books back to Allen, looking slightly dazed. "Our textbooks at Ilvermorny are mostly dry theory and diagrams. I think I'd actually pay attention if my teacher looked like a movie star."
Allen tucked the books back into his trunk, hiding a smirk. If only she knew that the most dangerous thing about Gilderoy Lockhart was the risk of getting hit by a stray autograph.
"He's definitely... unforgettable," Allen agreed, taking a sip of his tea.
As Jessica left the room, still murmuring about the "impressive" Professor Lockhart, Flitwick looked over at Allen from his own bed. The old charms master gave a knowing, mischievous wink before blowing out the candle.
The snowy night outside continued to howl, but inside the crooked little house, the air was warm, the tea was hot, and for the first time in a long time, the world felt perfectly still.