The Great Hall was a riot of color and sound, the kind of sensory overload that only a Hogwarts Halloween could provide. The tables groaned under the weight of silver platters piled high with roast meats, golden pies, and more sweets than a dental professional could fathom in their darkest nightmares. Even Edward and Michael, who had spent the better part of the afternoon treating Honeydukes like an all-you-can-eat buffet, found a second wind. There was something about the magic of the hall that made 'feeling full' a temporary suggestion rather than a physical limit.
Allen, however, had his eyes on the Gryffindor table. For a long time, two seats remained conspicuously empty. It wasn't until the feast was well underway that Fred and George Weasley finally slinked into the hall. They looked like they had been dragged through a hedge backward—their hair was disheveled, their robes were singed, and their expressions were a mixture of pure misery and simmering resentment.
Following close behind them, looking like he had just won the lottery, was Argus Filch. The caretaker didn't even glance at the students; he marched straight to the high table. Allen watched as Filch leaned in to whisper to Professor McGonagall. Her lips thinned into a dangerous line, and her eyes flashed toward the twins with the kind of sharpness that usually preceded a month's worth of detention.
Allen took a slow sip of his pumpkin juice, hideously satisfied. Maggie had done her job perfectly. By leading Filch toward the specific 'secret' corridor the twins were using to bypass the Dementor checkpoints with their contraband, she had ensured they were caught red-handed. It was a subtle lesson in consequences—one that the twins wouldn't be able to trace back to him, but one that would definitely keep them busy for the foreseeable future.
Looking back at the staff table, Allen noticed he wasn't the only one observing. Severus Snape was sitting at the edge of his seat, his fork hovering motionless over his plate. His gaze wasn't on the students, but on Remus Lupin. Snape's eyes were narrowed, filled with a dark, obsessive scrutiny that went far beyond professional dislike. He looked like a man watching a ticking time bomb, waiting for the exact second it might explode.
Lupin, by contrast, seemed to be having the time of his life. He looked healthier than he had at the start of term, his pale face flushed with the warmth of the hall. He was engaged in a lively, animated debate with Professor Flitwick, gesturing wildly with a piece of bread as they discussed the finer points of defensive charms. The contrast between the two men was jarring—one a picture of scholarly joy, the other a portrait of Gothic suspicion.
As the plates cleared, the entertainment began. The ghosts of Hogwarts rose from the floorboards and drifted through the walls, putting on a coordinated display of spectral acrobatics. Nearly Headless Nick was the star of the show for the Gryffindors, gleefully reenacting his botched execution to thunderous applause.
But for the Ravenclaw table, the highlight was the Grey Lady. She drifted to the center of the hall, her silver form shimmering under the floating candles. She began to sing—a haunting, mournful melody that felt like a cold breeze on a summer day. It didn't exactly scream 'party vibe,' but the Ravenclaws were mesmerized. When she finished, she didn't stick around for the accolades. She drifted haughtily over the tables, her gaze briefly catching Allen's as she passed, before she vanished through the oak doors.
"She's magnificent," Edward sighed, his voice muffled by a massive mouthful of treacle pudding. "She's got that... intellectual mystery. Easily the best ghost in the castle."
The surrounding Ravenclaws nodded in fervent agreement. Allen looked at the amount of food Edward had consumed and made a mental note to brew a batch of extra-strength Digestive Potion. If the boy didn't have a magical constitution, he'd be in the hospital wing by midnight.
Michael Corner leaned in close, checking to see if any of the older prefects were listening. "I'm telling you, Allen, you've got a gift. Even the dead ones are into you. I saw her look at you—that wasn't just a 'passing through' glance. That was a 'see you in the library' look."
Allen just rolled his eyes. "Maybe she just thinks I look like I need a tutor, Michael. Eat your pudding."
The celebration moved from the Great Hall to the Ravenclaw Common Room, which had been transformed for the annual masquerade ball. The room was draped in sky-blue silks and silver gossamer. Allen had opted for a classic Victorian aesthetic—a high-collared, black velvet frock coat and a lace cravat. He looked every bit the aristocratic vampire, sitting on a plush sofa with a goblet of pomegranate juice that looked suspiciously like blood.
Penelope appeared through the crowd, and Allen's breath hitched slightly. She had chosen to portray Laverne de Montmorency, the legendary love-potion pioneer. While the original witch was said to look like a swamp-dwelling banshee, Penelope had taken some 'artistic liberties.' Her costume featured emerald-green silk that clung to her curves in a way that had half the boys in the room tripping over their own feet.
She flopped down onto the sofa next to him, grabbed a butterbeer from a passing tray, and finished it in a single, unladylike gulp.
"You're not out there dancing?" she asked, leaning back and letting out a long sigh of relief. "The fifth years are persistent. I think one of them tried to propose halfway through a waltz."
"I'm much more comfortable here," Allen replied, his eyes tracing the line of her costume. "Besides, if I'm sitting here, I get the best view of you warding off your admirers."
Penelope smirked, reaching over to steal a sip of his pomegranate juice. "Good. If this were real wine, I'd have to report you to Flitwick. Though, honestly, after the day we've had, I could use something stronger."
Allen stood up to open the window behind them, hoping the cool night air would clear the 'stifling' feeling Penelope had mentioned. But as the sash slid up, his casual smile vanished.
In the moonlit courtyard below, a dark shape moved with terrifying speed. It was a shadow against shadows, but Allen recognized the gait—the powerful, low-slung run of a massive black dog.
Sirius.
"Penelope, I'm so sorry," Allen said, his voice urgent and low. "I just remembered something I have to take care of. Don't wait up."
Before she could even ask 'why,' Allen was gone, disappearing into the crowd of costumed students. Penelope stood up, moving to the window to see what had spooked him, but the courtyard was empty. Only the wind whistled through the stone arches, ruffling the blue curtains.
Allen didn't bother with the stairs. He used a series of shortcuts, casting a Disillusionment Charm on himself as he hit the ground floor. He burst out into the night air. The transition from the warm, scented common room to the biting October chill was like a slap in the face.
He tracked the direction of the shadow, his mind racing. Black wasn't just wandering; he was heading toward the outskirts of the grounds. Specifically, toward the Forbidden Forest.
Allen followed, his boots crunching on the frost-covered grass. The forest was a wall of obsidian, the leafless branches of the trees clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. Every snap of a twig sounded like a gunshot in the silence.
If I were a man everyone wanted dead, where would I hide? Allen asked himself. The answer was immediate. The Shrieking Shack. It was the only place nearby that even the locals were too terrified to visit.
"Lumos," he whispered, the tip of his wand igniting with a soft, blue-white glow.
He skirted the edges of the Acromantula territory, keeping his light low to avoid drawing eyes. Soon, he reached the clearing of the Whomping Willow. The tree was a massive, thrashing silhouette in the dark. Its branches creaked and groaned as they whipped through the air, sensing his presence before he even stepped into its reach.
Allen watched it. He knew there was a knot—a specific pressure point that would freeze the tree—but in the pitch black, with the branches moving at lethal speeds, finding it was a suicide mission.
He didn't have time for a scavenger hunt.
"Incendio!" Allen shouted. A jet of flame erupted from his wand, not aiming to burn the tree down, but to force the lower branches to recoil from the heat.
While the tree flinched, Allen used a rapid-fire Transfiguration. He slammed his wand toward the earth, transmuting the mud and roots into thick, jagged mounds of stone and packed soil—a temporary trench that led toward the base of the trunk.
He moved like a predator, darting into the 'kill zone.' The Willow roared, its upper branches slamming down with enough force to shatter bone. Allen dived behind his makeshift stone barriers, the wood splintering against the rock just inches from his head. He felt the vibration in his teeth.
A smaller branch lashed out, catching him across the shoulder. Even through his reinforced robes, it felt like a white-hot iron bar. He gritted his teeth, ignored the burning pain, and made a final, desperate leap.
He tumbled headfirst into the dark opening beneath the roots.
He slid down a steep, muddy slope, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. The tunnel was low and cramped, smelling of damp earth and rot. Allen didn't stop to catch his breath. He crawled, his shoulders brushing the ceiling, moving as fast as the terrain would allow.
The tunnel felt endless. His lungs burned, and his hands were caked in filth, but the upward slope finally told him he was close. The air changed—it became stagnant, smelling of old dust and peeling wallpaper.
He reached a small, wooden exit.
Allen stopped. He extinguished his wand, letting his eyes adjust to the sliver of moonlight filtering through the boarded-up windows above. He gripped his wand so tight his knuckles turned white.
He's in there. The man who broke out of Azkaban. The man who's been haunting my steps all day.
Allen stepped out into the room. It was a graveyard of broken furniture. The wallpaper hung in long, sickly strips like peeling skin. Every surface was coated in a decade's worth of grime. It looked like the site of a violent struggle that had ended years ago.
He spun around, his wand sweeping the corners of the room.
"Black?" he whispered.
But there was nothing. No dog. No man. Just the hollow whistling of the wind through the cracks in the wood and the distant, mocking sound of the Halloween feast continuing far away in the castle.