"Penelope," Allen said, his voice dropping into a serious, grounded tone that pulled her out of her shock. He turned to face her, his eyes locking onto hers with a weight that demanded attention. "I think it's best if we treat the last ten minutes like a fever dream. We keep this to ourselves."
Penelope blinked, her wand hand still trembling slightly. "Why? Allen, he's the most wanted man in the country! There's a massive bounty, and the Dementors... the Ministry is turning the world upside down to find him. If we tell them where he is—"
"What our eyes see and our ears hear isn't always the objective truth, Penelope," Allen interrupted with a tired sigh. He looked at the discarded, oversized prison rags left behind in the struggle. "The world thinks he's a monster. But monsters don't usually try to erase your memory to keep you safe from the truth; they just kill you."
Penelope studied him. She was a Ravenclaw, and a bright one at that. She could hear the gears turning in Allen's head, sensing a hidden depth to his reasoning that she couldn't quite grasp yet.
"Think about it," Allen pushed, seeing her hesitation. "Do you really want to be interrogated by Ministry Aurors? They won't just take a statement. They'll bring Veritaserum. They'll have Legilimens picking through your mind to see if you're hiding anything. They might even bring a Dementor along to 'verify' your emotional state. Is that how you want to spend your final year at Hogwarts?"
He rattled off the worst-case scenarios with a clinical detachment that made them sound inevitable.
Penelope suddenly laughed, a bright, radiant sound that seemed to chase away the lingering chill of the cave. "Allen, you're something else. I'm not a little girl who scares at the mention of Aurors, you know. Dumbledore would never let them pull that kind of stunt on a student. However..." She trailed off, her expression softening. "I don't know why you're so intent on protecting a murderer's secret, but you did just save my life. If you want this buried, I'm willing to keep the shovel for you."
Allen found it difficult to tear his gaze away from her face in that moment. The flickering wandlight caught the gold in her eyes, and he offered her a warm, genuine smile. "I appreciate that. More than you know."
"Well," Penelope said, clearing her throat and looking at the floor. "I suppose that animal carcass we found earlier was Sirius's dinner. Not exactly fine dining."
Allen nodded, his mind shifting back to their friends. "Michael and Edward must be losing their minds by now. We've been down here far too long. Let's get moving."
"Sirius wouldn't... he wouldn't hurt them, would he?" Penelope asked, her pace quickening as they headed back toward the main tunnel.
"No. To them, he'll just be a stray dog looking for a scrap. Just act natural, Penelope. We're about to hit the bat-zone again."
Allen took her hand, and they ran. In the pitch-black stone cave, the thousands of bats were still in a frenzy, their wings creating a chaotic symphony of leather hitting leather. But as they rushed through the swarm, Allen noticed something strange—the bats were no longer diving. They swooped and screeched above their heads, but they seemed indifferent to their escape, almost as if the 'command' had been lifted once Black fled.
They burst out of the cave entrance into the fading afternoon light. Allen saw Edward and Michael crouched behind a boulder, peeking out with wide, terrified eyes.
"Allen! Penelope! You're alive!" Edward scrambled forward, helping Penelope up the last few feet of the sinkhole. "A massive black dog just tore out of there like the devil was chasing it! We thought it had finished you off!"
Allen didn't wait for a hand; he planted his palms on the ledge and vaulted up in one smooth, graceful motion.
"Thanks for the concern, Edward," Allen said, brushing the dirt from his knees. "But we're fine. The cave was just a dead end."
"Why would you even worry about us?" Edward asked, still looking shaky. "That dog was the size of a bear!"
"Because," Penelope said, regaining her composure and smoothing her hair with a quick charm, "who knows if you could hold onto Michael? I was afraid I'd look up and see the both of you halfway to the moon!"
The tension broke, and Michael finally took a deep, shaky breath as he felt the solid, non-levitating ground beneath his feet. "Never again," he muttered. "No more Jelly-Float Balls for me. I'm sticking to chocolate."
On the way back to Hogsmeade, they played the part of ordinary students perfectly. They hit Zonko's Joke Shop, where Michael bought enough Dungbombs to start a small war, and ended the afternoon at the Three Broomsticks. They sat in a cozy corner, sipping on sodas with little paper umbrellas, the warmth of the fire slowly melting the icy memory of the cave.
As they walked the long, winding path back to the castle, the sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long, purple shadows over the Black Lake. Michael was in high spirits, his brush with death already transformed into a heroic tale in his own mind.
"Did you see Madam Rosmerta?" Michael asked, a dreamy look on his face. "She kept looking over at our table. I swear, she smiled right at me when she brought the drinks. I think she's got a thing for 'men of mystery' like me."
Allen, Penelope, and Edward exchanged a silent, amused glance. None of them had the heart to tell the thirteen-year-old that his hair looked like it had been through a centrifuge and he had a smudge of bat-guano on his collar.
"I'm a man who can fly, after all!" Michael added, puffing out his chest when he saw their smiles.
The three of them erupted into laughter, the sound echoing across the water. It was a perfect moment of teenage normalcy—until a cold, sharp snort cut through the air.
It was Ron Weasley.
He was marching up the path, his face a vivid shade of red that almost matched his hair. He was practically dragging a reluctant Hermione behind him. As he drew level with Allen, he threw a look of such pure, concentrated vitriol that even Edward flinched.
Hermione looked mortified. She managed a small, apologetic nod to Allen as they brushed past, but she didn't stop.
"What's his problem?" Edward asked, looking back at the retreating Gryffindors. "Did he eat a bad Puking Pastille or something?"
"He's still fuming about this morning," Penelope said, her eyes narrowing as she watched Ron's stiff back. "Gryffindors... they think loyalty is a one-way street."
"He's angry because I didn't play 'Hero' for Harry when Malfoy started talking," Allen added quietly.
"That's rubbish! Ron didn't say a word to Malfoy either!" Edward realized, his own temper beginning to flare. "As Allen's roommate, I see how much he does for them. Harry would've been expelled or eaten by a giant spider ten times over if it weren't for Allen."
"People forget favors the moment they don't get the next one," Allen mused.
"Well, we'll show them on the Quidditch pitch," Michael growled, looking like a miniature lion ready to pounce. "Nobody snorts at Allen after he literally caught me out of the sky."
When they reached the entrance hall, Filch was waiting. He looked like he'd spent the day sucking on lemons. Beside him, Mrs. Norris sat like a gargoyle, her lamp-like eyes scanning every student for contraband.
When it was Allen's turn, Filch's sour expression softened by a fraction of a degree. Allen had helped him with a few 'cleaning charms' in the past, and the caretaker merely grunted and waved him through. The Weasley twins, however, were currently being turned inside out, their pockets being emptied of every prank item they'd managed to smuggle.
Allen watched George and Fred for a moment. He remembered the trouble they'd caused over the summer—the reckless pranks that had gone a bit too far. It was time for a small correction.
Allen ducked into an empty classroom near the Great Hall. With a silent command, he summoned Maggie from the pocket dimension. The small, ethereal creature appeared, her eyes shining with mischief.
"Maggie," Allen whispered, leaning down. "The twins are going to be setting up something in the Gryffindor common room tonight. I want you to... redirect their efforts. If they try to set off a firework, make sure it douses them in permanent purple ink instead. If they try to lace the snacks, swap the ingredients."
Maggie's little translucent wings fluttered with excitement. She loved a good prank, especially when it was 'authorized' by her master. She found Allen's mischievous side to be his most charming trait.
"Go on then," Allen smiled. "Keep it harmless, but keep it embarrassing."
Maggie vanished into the walls, and Allen, feeling significantly more cheerful, headed toward the Great Hall. Penelope was waiting for him at the entrance, having already changed back into her pristine Ravenclaw robes.
The Great Hall was a masterpiece of Halloween gothic. Hundreds of carved pumpkins hovered beneath the enchanted ceiling, their jagged grins glowing with flickering candlelight. Real bats—thousands of them—fluttered in the rafters, while orange silk banners drifted like lazy sea serpents through the air.
"Ugh, the bats again," Penelope groaned, ducking as one swooped low. "It's like the cave followed us home."
"At least these ones don't seem to be guarding a murderer," Allen joked. He looked up at the ceiling where the bats were thickest. "I just hope the school isn't planning on letting them drop any 'night-shining sand' onto the feast tonight."
Penelope paused, her brow furrowed. "Night-shining sand? What on earth is—" She stopped, her eyes widening as she realized the 'elegant' euphemism for bat droppings. She burst into a fit of giggles, hiding her face behind her hand. "You're disgusting, Allen."
"I'm a realist," he grinned.
But the smile didn't last long. Allen felt a heavy, hostile gaze boring into the side of his head. He turned his eyes toward the Gryffindor table.
It wasn't Ron this time. It was Percy Weasley. The Head Boy was staring at him with a cold, judgmental stiffness that was even more unsettling than Ron's outbursts. Between Ron's temper, the twins' impending 'ink-cident,' and Percy's disdain, Allen realized the bridge between him and the Weasley family wasn't just scorched—it was starting to collapse.