By early February, the air in the Scottish Highlands still carried a biting chill, but the mood inside Hogwarts was finally beginning to thaw. The hospital wing, once a site of feline misery, finally saw its most famous patient discharged. Hermione Granger stepped out from behind the white curtains, looking human again—thankfully without the whiskers, the tail, or the persistent urge to chase laser pointers.
She was struggling, however. In one hand, she clutched a small bag of personal items, and in the other, she was trying to lug a massive, enchanted wooden crate that looked like it weighed as much as a mountain troll.
"Need a hand with that?" a smooth, mature voice asked.
Hermione blinked, looking up to see Penelope Clearwater standing nearby. The Ravenclaw prefect looked as composed as ever, though her eyes immediately zeroed in on the heavy box.
"Oh, Penelope! Yes, please," Hermione panted, leaning the box against the stone wall. "Harry and Ron promised they'd meet me to help, but I've been waiting for twenty minutes. I think they might have gotten distracted by a Quidditch debate or another one of Lockhart's 'life-changing' announcements."
Penelope stepped forward and reached for the handle. The moment she tried to lift it, her eyebrows shot up. "Good heavens, Hermione! What do you have in here? Is this a collection of lead weights?"
"It's my Christmas gift from Allen," Hermione explained, wiping a bit of dust from her sleeve. "It's a bit of a burden to carry, but I wouldn't trade it for anything."
Penelope's grip on the handle tightened almost imperceptibly. "A gift from Allen? This... this giant thing?"
"It's a complete set of Ilvermorny textbooks," Hermione said, a note of pride creeping into her voice. "First year all the way through seventh. It kept me sane while I was stuck in that bed. It's probably the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever given me."
Penelope didn't respond immediately. She stared at the box for a long moment, her expression unreadable. There was a flicker of something—was it surprise? Or perhaps a realization that Allen's gifts were tailored with surgical precision to the recipient's soul.
"Books," Penelope whispered, her voice sounding a bit airy. "Of course. He gave you a library."
"Is it too heavy?" Hermione asked, feeling a sudden pang of guilt. "I can take a few out and carry them in my arms. I shouldn't have let you take the whole thing."
"No, don't be silly," Penelope said, regaining her composure. She drew her wand with a graceful flick. "We are witches, Hermione. We don't struggle with manual labor."
With a sharp tap on the lid, the box groaned open. Penelope whispered an incantation, and to Hermione's delight, the heavy leather-bound volumes began to rise into the air like a flock of migrating birds. They hovered in a neat, vertical line, bobbing gently in the drafty corridor.
"Let them follow us," Penelope said lightly. There was a new spark in her eyes, a sort of playful competitiveness that Hermione didn't quite understand.
As Penelope turned to lead the way, the sunlight hitting the corridor through a high window caught her robes. The fabric didn't just reflect the light; it seemed to drink it in and breathe it back out in a soft, iridescent shimmer that shifted from deep blue to a subtle, ethereal silver.
"Your robes..." Hermione breathed, her eyes widening. "They're incredible. I've never seen material like that."
Penelope stopped and smoothed the front of her attire, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. "This? It's also a Christmas gift. From Allen. It's a custom piece by Mrs. Klein, a famous designer in New York. Apparently, it's spelled to resist stains and minor hexes, though I mostly just like how it feels."
Penelope stood tall, the shimmering fabric hugging her frame perfectly, making her look every bit the sophisticated upperclassman. For a moment, Hermione felt very small and very much like a second-year student.
"Oh," Hermione said softly. "I... I meant to say your spellwork was beautiful. The way you made the books fly."
Penelope's smile widened, becoming warm and perhaps a bit predatory. "Thank you, Hermione. But don't worry. You're top of your year, and I'm top of mine. It seems Allen has a very high opinion of both of us, doesn't he?" She gave a playful wink that felt like a challenge.
Hermione managed a small smile, though her mind was racing. She loved her books—she really did—but seeing Penelope in that robe made her realize that Allen saw Penelope as a woman, while he saw her as... well, a student who liked to read. It was a realization that stung more than any cat-transformation ever could.
As February progressed, the castle's atmosphere began to shift. The fear that had gripped the school since the petrification of Justin Finch-Fletchley was starting to ebb. No new attacks had occurred, and even the creatures of the Forbidden Forest seemed to sense the change.
Allen had visited the forest recently to bring some enchanted toys for Gaia, the young unicorn. The foal had grown significantly, her silver coat shimmering even in the dim forest light. Gaia had nuzzled Allen's hand, her telepathic presence conveying a sense of peace; she mentioned that the "skulking shadows" that had been bothering the birds and small game hadn't been felt in weeks.
Even Madam Pomfrey was in high spirits. The Mandrakes in the greenhouse were entering their "moody" phase, which was the magical equivalent of puberty.
"Once the acne clears up and they start trying to move into each other's pots secretly, we'll know they're ready," the matron told a group of students. "Then we'll have them sliced, diced, and stewed. Those poor souls in the ward will be back to normal before the spring term ends."
Peeves the Poltergeist had also recovered his nerve. No longer hiding from the 'Heir of Slytherin,' he took great pleasure in swooping down on Harry Potter whenever he saw him, singing a particularly nasty song about "Potter the Rotter" while performing a synchronized pelvic thrust dance mid-air.
However, the true source of the school's "morale boost" wasn't the Mandrakes or the lack of attacks. It was Gilderoy Lockhart.
Allen had overheard Lockhart cornering Professor McGonagall in the staff room doorway.
"Minerva, really, the gloom is quite stifling!" Lockhart had chirped, flashing a smile that was supposedly award-winning but mostly just blinding. "A little celebration is exactly what's needed to wash away those nasty memories. I've planned the whole thing. It'll be a Valentine's Day that Hogwarts will never forget!"
McGonagall's expression suggested she would very much like to forget the conversation immediately. Allen, watching from a distance, felt a cold dread. Lockhart's idea of a 'morale boost' usually involved everyone looking at Lockhart.
When February 14th finally arrived, Allen walked into the Great Hall for breakfast and nearly turned right back around.
The Great Hall had been violated.
Massive, garish pink flowers—the kind that looked like they belonged in a fever dream—covered every inch of the stone walls. From the enchanted ceiling, which usually showed the weather, heart-shaped confetti in shades of rose and gold fell in a constant, suffocating drizzle.
Allen looked down at his bowl of porridge. Three heart-shaped flakes of glitter had already landed in it. He poked one with his spoon, watching it dissolve into a pinkish sludge. His appetite died instantly.
"It's romantic, isn't it?" a third-year girl sighed nearby, looking at the decorations with starry eyes.
"It looks like a giant bled out on the walls," Allen muttered, grabbing a dry piece of toast and shaking the confetti off it like he was dusting for fingerprints.
Across the hall, Lockhart was holding court at the High Table, wearing robes of a vibrant, aggressive pink that made the flowers look dull by comparison. He was waving his arms, calling for silence so he could announce his 'special surprise.'
Allen didn't wait. He pocketed a few pieces of cake and made a strategic retreat before the "surprises" could begin.
But the nightmare was just starting.
As he reached the Entrance Hall, he ran into the vanguard of Lockhart's Valentine's army: twelve dwarves. But these weren't ordinary dwarves. They were wearing golden, glitter-covered wings that looked incredibly uncomfortable and were carrying small harps. Their faces were fixed in expressions of pure, unadulterated grimness. They looked like they would rather be mining coal in a thunderstorm than acting as Cupids.
Throughout the day, these 'Cupids' were a menace. They had the authority to barge into any classroom, interrupting Charms, Transfiguration, and even Snape's Potions class—though the dwarf who tried that last one looked like he had barely escaped with his beard intact.
In the afternoon, Allen was heading to the fourth floor for Charms when he spotted a familiar sight. Penelope was walking briskly down the hall, her face a mask of polite annoyance. Behind her, a dwarf with a particularly crooked set of wings was jogging to keep up, strumming a harp aggressively.
"Miss Clearwater! I have a musical tribute for you!" the dwarf bellowed.
Penelope didn't stop. "Not now, I'm late for class!" She was clearly trying to stick to the rules about not casting spells in the corridors, but her hand was twitching toward her wand.
Allen, seeing his friend's distress, decided to intervene. As the dwarf hurried past him, Allen casually shifted his weight and stuck out his right boot.
Thump.
The dwarf went sprawling, his harp letting out a discordant twang as it hit the floor. Penelope didn't look back, but the corner of her mouth quirked upward as she disappeared around the corner.
Allen prepared to walk away, satisfied with a job well done. However, the dwarf scrambled up with surprising agility. He didn't look angry; he looked focused.
"Allen Harris!" the dwarf grunted, blocking his path. "I've been looking for you. I have five musical messages to deliver to you personally. Five!"
He began to tune his harp with a series of sharp, violent snaps. A group of first-year witches stopped nearby, giggling and pointing. Allen felt his face heat up. This was a direct threat to his dignity.
The dwarf opened his mouth, drawing in a massive breath to belt out the first "tribute."
Allen didn't hesitate. Rules be damned. He whipped out his wand and pointed it directly at the dwarf's face.
"Oscausi!"
The spell hit with a soft pop. The dwarf's lips didn't just close; they vanished, replaced by smooth, seamless skin. He let out a muffled "Mmph!" of surprise, his eyes widening as he realized he couldn't utter a single note.
The dwarf gave Allen a look of pure, concentrated spite, realized he couldn't fulfill his contract, and stomped away, his golden wings flapping pathetically behind him.
Allen exhaled, stowing his wand. He could deal with McGonagall if she caught him using magic in the halls, but he could not—and would not—be sung to by a dwarf in a diaper.