"Take a breath, Jessica. He's alive, and that's the hard part over with," Professor Flitwick said, his voice a soothing balm in the frantic hallway. He stood over Ian, performing a quick diagnostic sweep with his wand. "It's a standard Stunning Spell—heavy-handed, but nothing a counter-curse won't fix. My real concern is the chemical cocktail in his system. They pumped him full of Veritaserum, and considering who we were dealing with, the Legilimency he endured was likely far from gentle. His mind has been through a blender, and I'm worried about the long-term structural integrity of his memories."
The tiny professor looked up at the clock. "We should get him to the Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. This isn't a job for home remedies."
Just then, the front door groaned open. Leonard stepped into the foyer, the soot from the mansion still clinging to his brow, making him look a decade older. He didn't say a word to the room at large; his eyes locked onto Ian with a desperate, singular focus. He knelt by the boy, checking his pulse with a trembling hand before looking at Flitwick.
"St. Mungo's. Now," Leonard commanded, his voice raspy from the smoke. It was a rare moment where the two seasoned wizards were in perfect, somber agreement.
As Leonard and Flitwick prepared to move Ian, Allen and Jessica stepped forward, but Leonard held up a sharp, forbidding hand.
"You two stay put. You're not leaving this house tonight. Do you understand?"
"But Uncle, we should be there!" Jessica protested, her eyes red-rimmed.
"No," Leonard snapped, his exhaustion turning into a brittle, sharp-edged agitation. His fists were white-knuckled at his sides. "There are Aurors already taking positions in the shadows around this property. We don't know if Klein was working alone or if there are stragglers looking for a pound of flesh. If you two go out there and give some desperate criminal a target, you're just handing them more leverage. I can't handle another kidnapping tonight. Just... stay here."
The raw vulnerability in Leonard's voice silenced Jessica. She bit her lip, watching through the window as they disappeared into the night with her brother. She looked like a bird trapped in a cage, her spirit flagging under the weight of the silence that followed.
Allen watched her for a moment. He knew that if he let her sit there and stare at the driveway, she'd vibrate with anxiety until she broke. He needed to ground her.
"Jessica," Allen said, stepping into the kitchen and flipping on the light. "Ian's going to come back with an empty stomach and a head that feels like it's been kicked by a Hippogriff. He won't want a heavy feast, but he'll need something. Why don't we get the stove going? Let's make something he can actually digest."
Jessica blinked, her mind slowly latching onto the suggestion. "He... he always liked that chicken stew. The one with the herbs from the garden."
"Exactly," Allen encouraged. "And maybe some oatmeal. Soft food for a rough night. Let's get to work."
It worked. As Jessica began to move, the paralyzing fear started to lift. There is a specific kind of magic in the kitchen, one that doesn't require a wand. It's the magic of routine—the rhythmic thud of a knife against a cutting board, the hiss of the pot, the steam rising to fog the windows.
Jessica threw herself into the task with a desperate vigor. She chopped carrots and potatoes with surgical precision, her wand occasionally flicking to stir the pot while her hands worked on the next ingredient. Allen played the role of the diligent assistant, peeling vegetables and keeping the fire stoked. He watched her transform from a grieving girl into a focused chef. It was far healthier than watching her wither away by the window, lost in a cycle of 'what-ifs.'
The night dragged on. One pot of stew turned into a full-spread dinner as Jessica's nervous energy refused to dissipate. She baked rolls, prepped salads, and monitored the oatmeal like it was a life-saving potion.
It wasn't until the first grey streaks of dawn touched the horizon that the back door finally clicked open. Leonard, Flitwick, and a very groggy Ian shuffled into the kitchen. They looked like they had been through a war, their faces haggard and their eyes bloodshot.
But the sight of the table—laden with more food than five people could eat in a week—brought a sudden, warm light to the room.
"Ian!" Jessica didn't even wait for him to take off his coat. She threw herself at him, nearly knocking the boy over. Normally, Ian would have grumbled about his personal space or made a sarcastic comment, but this time, he just let out a tired sigh and leaned into his sister's hug.
"Smells like heaven in here," Leonard muttered, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. He looked at the table, then at the two kids who had clearly pulled an all-nighter of their own. "I'm starving. I didn't realize how much I needed this until I smelled it."
Leonard's mood had shifted. The shadow of Mrs. Klein still lingered in his eyes—a man doesn't watch the woman he loved die and simply forget it—but the sight of his family, whole and safe, was a powerful anesthetic. He could mourn her later. Right now, he needed to be an uncle.
They sat down, the clink of silverware providing a rhythmic soundtrack to their exhaustion. Jessica hovered over Ian, pushing a bowl of chicken stew toward him with such intensity she might as well have been trying to feed a porcelain doll.
"Eat, Ian. You need your strength. Does your head hurt? I can get more oatmeal," she fussed, her hand hovering near his forehead.
Ian rolled his eyes, though there was a twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Jess, lay off. I'm fine. I just have a bit of a gap in my memory, I'm not an invalid."
"A gap?" Jessica's hand froze. "How much?"
"The doctors called it a 'protective block,'" Leonard explained between bites of stew. "The Legilimency was invasive. To protect his mind, his subconscious basically purged everything from the moment he was snatched until we found him. He's missing about twelve hours."
Ian shrugged, taking a deliberate gulp of stew. "Honestly? Best gift I could've asked for. Why would I want to remember being tied up in a basement by a crazy fashion designer and her pet thugs? It's a clean slate. Let's keep it that way."
The table fell into a comfortable, if tired, silence. Once the plates were cleared, however, Leonard pulled four heavy, ornate boxes from his coat pockets, placing them on the table with a dull thud.
"Chairman Picquery wanted to express her... gratitude," Leonard said, his voice regaining some of its formal weight. "The Congress doesn't like being embarrassed on its own soil, and you four prevented a major diplomatic disaster. Consider these tokens of appreciation from the United States government."
Jessica went first. Her box revealed a heavy pouch that jingled with the distinct weight of gold Galleons, alongside a shimmering, iridescent magical robe. When she draped it over her shoulders, the fabric seemed to ripple like water under moonlight. She stood before the kitchen mirror, a genuine smile finally breaking across her face.
Ian's box was next. Along with his own pouch of gold, he pulled out a gold-embossed voucher. His eyes went wide, and he let out a sharp, uncharacteristic bark of a laugh. "A Nimbus 2000? From the Quidditch Emporium? Are they serious?" He pumped a fist in the air, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the face of the fastest broom on the market.
Professor Flitwick opened his box with a practiced, calm curiosity. He peered inside for a long moment, then slowly closed the lid, his expression unreadable.
"Well? Don't keep us in suspense, Professor!" Jessica chirped.
Flitwick chuckled and slid the box into the center of the table, opening it once more. Next to the gold was an official, heavy-duty vellum certificate. Allen leaned in to read the script: Honorary Professor Appointment for Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
"A professor at Ilvermorny?" Jessica gasped, her eyes wide with awe. To her and Ian, who lived in the shadow of the great American school, this was the equivalent of being knighted. "Professor, that's incredible! You're one of us now!"
Allen and Flitwick shared a knowing, subtle glance. To the Americans, this was a supreme honor. To a man who sat at the High Table of Hogwarts, it was a nice gesture, perhaps a lovely addition to a resume, but Hogwarts was home. Still, they were far too polite to dampen the kids' excitement.
Finally, all eyes turned to Allen's box.
Allen reached out and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in a bed of enchanted velvet, sat a massive, heavy egg. It was beautiful and terrifying all at once, covered in swirling patterns of electric blue and slate grey that seemed to pulse with a faint, internal light.
"Another egg," Allen whispered, a sense of déjà vu washing over him. "I'm starting to think the universe wants me to be an omelet chef."
He picked up a small card tucked into the corner of the box. "In recognition of your outstanding contributions to the protection of endangered magical entities... an unhatched Thunderbird egg. Note: Successfully hatching a Class XXXX creature requires federal registration and significant oversight fees. Fees are the responsibility of the owner."
Allen stared at the card. "Fees are my responsibility? If I gave this to the Weasleys, the registration tax alone would bankrupt them for three generations." He shook his head, though he couldn't stop himself from gently stroking the warm shell. Thunderbirds were majestic, weather-controlling beasts of the American West. Keeping one in a suburban London backyard was a logistical nightmare waiting to happen.
Beneath the egg, he found a second card—a voucher for his own Nimbus 2000, identical to Ian's.
"Well," Allen said, looking around the table at his tired, battered, but very wealthy friends. "I'd say this was a productive Christmas."
One by one, they retreated to their rooms as the sun climbed higher into the sky. The house, which had been a theater of shadows and fear only hours ago, was now quiet and filled with the scent of apple oatmeal and expensive wood. It was a Christmas that none of them would ever truly be able to explain to anyone else, but as Allen drifted off to sleep with the Thunderbird egg glowing softly on his nightstand, he knew it was a memory he'd carry forever.