Allen didn't wait for the Pharaoh to finish his villainous monologue. In the world of magic, the one who talked the most was usually the one who ended up face-down in the dirt.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
The spell shot from Allen's wand like a streak of white lightning. Tutankhamun didn't even flinch. With a lazy, practiced flick of Ron's stolen wand, he pointed toward a life-sized stone cat sitting beside the golden sarcophagus. The statue, carved from heavy basalt with eyes made of polished emerald, suddenly shivered. Its stone fur rippled as if it had been turned into flesh and bone, and it leaped into the path of the spell.
The Body-Bind Curse hit the cat squarely in the chest, but the statue merely absorbed the energy, its emerald eyes flashing a brilliant, mocking green.
"Diffindo! Bombarda!"
Allen unleashed a barrage of cutting and exploding charms, but the stone cat was relentless. It moved with a liquid, predatory grace that defied its weight, swallowing Allen's spells one after another as it acted as a living shield for its master.
"Tear them apart!" Tutankhamun's voice was a jagged rasp of sandpaper on bone. He let out a dry, wicked laugh that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. "They have seen the face of a god. They cannot be allowed to carry that memory back to the world of the living!"
The stone cat turned its attention to Allen. It let out a silent, terrifying snarl, its jade eyes locking onto his throat. It blurred—a streak of black stone—and Allen barely had time to tilt his head.
He felt the tip of a stone claw graze the back of his neck. It wasn't just sharp; it was impossibly cold, a freezing, ancient chill that felt like it was trying to drain the very heat from his blood. A sharp, stinging pain flared across his skin, and he felt a warm trickle of blood begin to slide down into his collar.
He didn't panic. As the cat lunged for a second pass, Allen dropped to one knee, letting the beast sail over him. As it passed, he jammed his wand upward, pressing the tip directly against the statue's smooth stone belly.
"Duro-Explodere!"
At point-blank range, the magical detonation was deafening. The stone cat didn't just break; it disintegrated. Shards of basalt and emerald rain down like lethal hail, clattering and pinging against the golden treasures piled in the room.
Tutankhamun's decaying face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. The air around him began to hum with a low, vibrating frequency. He raised Ron's wand high, his tattered bandages whipping around him as if caught in a localized hurricane. He began to chant, a deep, guttural sound that seemed to pull the light out of the torches.
"Allen, move! Now!" Nancy shrieked. She wasn't waiting around to see what a four-thousand-year-old prophet considered 'mighty magic.' She grabbed Allen's shoulder, shoving him with surprising strength toward a narrow, shadow-drenched doorway at the back of the chamber.
Nancy sprinted, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. Ron was right behind her, his trainers skidding on the smooth floor as the entire tomb began to blur in his peripheral vision. Allen brought up the rear, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He kept his wand leveled behind him, casting "Protego" and "Finite Incantatem" in rapid succession, trying to disrupt the gathering storm of Tutankhamun's curse.
The air grew thick and heavy, like walking through chest-deep water. Just as they reached the threshold, a pulse of sickly purple light erupted from the Pharaoh's wand. It wove through the air like a hunting snake, snapping at Allen's heels.
"In! Get in!"
The three of them dived through the doorway, tumbling into a heap on the cold stone floor of the adjacent room. Ron scrambled up first, throwing his entire weight against the heavy stone slab of the door and slamming it shut. The sound of the purple spell impacting the other side echoed like a muffled thunderclap.
"Bloody hell," Ron gasped, leaning his forehead against the door, his chest heaving. "That guy... he's a powerful wizard, sure, but he casts like a snail. If he were at Hogwarts, Flitwick would have him in detention for a week just for his slow rhythm."
"You think that's a good thing?" Nancy's voice was trembling, but it wasn't because of the Pharaoh. "Ron... look around. Just... look."
Allen clicked his tongue and flicked his wand upward. A soft, white glow emanated from the tip, cutting through the suffocating darkness of the new chamber.
The light hit a hand.
It was a grey, withered hand, the skin stretched over the knuckles like parchment. It was attached to a stiff arm, which was attached to an upright, motionless figure.
A mummy.
Allen slowly panned his wand light across the room. The figure was leaning against the far wall, its face completely obscured by tight, yellowed linen. It had no eyes, no mouth, and no expression, yet Allen felt an intense, crawling sensation on his skin—as if the thing was watching him with a focus that didn't require sight.
"Oh, gods," Nancy breathed, shrinking back until she was pressed against Allen's back.
As the wand-light swept further, the true horror of the room was revealed. This wasn't a single burial chamber. It was a barracks.
Dark, linen-wrapped shapes were packed into the room like sardines. They stood in perfectly straight rows, dozens upon dozens of them, surrounding the three teenagers on all sides. The shadows cast by the mummies seemed to stretch and lean toward them, dancing in the flickering light of Allen's wand.
The room was a sea of the dead.
Allen studied them closely. Unlike Tutankhamun, these mummies weren't adorned with gold or jewels. Their wrappings were plain, their stances rigid and military. Along the far wall, a row of ancient wooden sarcophagi stood with their lids cast aside. The wood was so rotted it looked like wet cardboard, and Allen could see the pale, rhythmic movement of white maggots squirming among the splinters and dust.
"Tell me they're just statues," Ron whispered, his hand tightening around the wand Allen had retrieved for him. "Please tell me they're just very realistic, very creepy statues."
"If you hadn't been an idiot and put on that mask, the one in the other room would still be a 'statue' too!" Nancy snapped, her voice cracking under the pressure. "For all we know, this whole room is just waiting for a reason to wake up!"
The air in the room felt stagnant, tasting of dust and the metallic tang of old copper. In the silence that followed Nancy's outburst, the trio stood frozen. The faceless mummies seemed to stare back at them through the layers of cloth. The walls felt like they were inching inward, the ceiling pressing down, and the shadows between the rows of mummies seemed to grow thicker, darker.
"Did... did that one move?" Ron asked, his voice a mere ghost of a sound.
Allen stepped back. Then another. He realized he was gripping his wand so hard his knuckles were aching. He swept the light over the front row again.
They had moved.
Only an inch or two, but the gaps between them had shifted. Another step back, and a wave of pure, cold panic surged over them. Nancy grabbed Allen's arm so hard her nails dug into his skin.
Against the left wall, a mummy leaned forward. The dry linen wrappings began to slither loose, falling to the floor like the skin of a shedding snake. Then came the sound: Creak. Snap. Grind. It was the sound of ancient, dried-out joints being forced to move. A neck tilted. An ankle flexed. Within seconds, the entire room was alive with the sound of dry groans and the rustle of brittle cloth. Every single mummy in the chamber was stirring.
The air became thick with a cloud of ancient dust, stinging their eyes and filling their lungs. In the dim light, the mummies slowly, painfully raised their arms above their blank heads, their fingers twitching.
They began to shuffle forward. It wasn't a fast movement, but it was relentless—a slow, staggering tide of the dead.
"What do we do? Allen, what do we do?" Ron's eyes were wide, white circles of fright.
"What else can we do?" Allen gritted his teeth. He turned back to the door they had just come through. "We take our chances with the King!"
He yanked the stone door open and darted back into the main burial chamber. "Protego!" he roared, thrusting his wand forward just as Tutankhamun unleashed a massive blast of purple energy.
The spell struck Allen's Shield Charm with the force of a battering ram. Sparks of violet light sprayed in every direction, and the sheer kinetic force hurled Allen backward, right into the middle of the emerging mummies.
But something strange happened.
The purple light didn't just dissipate. It ricocheted off the curved surface of the Shield Charm, flaring outward in a wide arc. It struck the front rank of the faceless mummies, sinking into their linen wrappings like water into a sponge.
The mummies stopped. They stood in unison, their blank heads turning toward the doorway. Then, as if controlled by a single mind, they began to march through the opening, shuffling toward Tutankhamun.
The Pharaoh's eyes widened. He shouted in a harsh, ancient tongue that sounded like stones grinding together. Allen caught the intent through the magical residue: "Foolish slaves! Why do you hesitate? Go! Kill the intruders!"
But the mummies didn't listen. They pressed on, encircling their former king. With a roar of frustration, Tutankhamun leveled his staff. A torrent of purple fire burst from the tip, incinerating the front rank of mummies instantly. But it didn't matter. The mummies behind them didn't flinch. They marched directly into the flames, their linen bodies catching fire, turning them into walking pillars of violet light.
Tutankhamun's mouth gaped open in a look of pure, horrified disbelief. He babbled more arcane words, trying to weave a counter-spell, but the flaming mummies were already upon him.
They seized his throat. They grabbed his limbs. He tried to flee, but he was pinned against his own golden sarcophagus. Dozens of burning bodies piled atop him, every one of them alight with the cursed purple fire he had intended for Allen.
"Accio wand!" Allen shouted, seizing the moment of chaos.
The wand in Tutankhamun's hand flew through the air, and Allen caught it, tossing it back to a stunned Ron.
A piercing, inhuman scream tore through the air—a sound of agonizing pain and betrayed pride. Tutankhamun was buried under a mountain of ash and violet flame.
"Think they'll all burn together?" Ron asked, his voice hopeful as he clutched his wand.
"Why would they help us?" Nancy wondered aloud, her eyes fixed on the pyre of mummies. "They were his guards, weren't they?"
"I have no idea," Allen said, shaking his head. He watched the flames intently, his wand still raised.
In reality, Allen had a very good guess. Tutankhamun's spell hadn't been a simple attack; it had been a 'Master's Will'—a spell designed to enslave and control. When it hit Allen's shield and reflected onto the mummies, it had overwritten their original programming. Since Allen was the one who 'cast' the reflection, the mummies now saw him as the master, and Tutankhamun as the target.
Explaining the intricacies of spell-reflection and ancient Egyptian necromancy to Ron and Nancy would take an hour they didn't have. Better to let them think it was a miracle.
The purple flames began to die away, leaving a thick, suffocating bed of grey ash on the floor. For a moment, there was silence.
Then, the ash shifted. Something human-shaped began to struggle, rising slowly from the remains of the fire.