The hospital wing was hushed, save for the rhythmic bubbling of various medicinal cauldrons in Madam Pomfrey's office. Allen walked past the rows of empty beds until he reached the one at the very end, which was currently encased in heavy, floor-to-ceiling white curtains.
He didn't need to ask to know what had happened. Given the timeline and the panicked whispers he'd overheard from Ron and Harry earlier, the trio had clearly gone through with their harebrained Polyjuice scheme over the holidays. Harry and Ron had likely spent an hour as Goyle and Crabbe, but Hermione... well, Hermione had always been more meticulous with her research than her ingredients. A single strand of cat hair plucked from Millicent Bulstrode's robes had turned the brightest witch of her age into something that belonged in a creature shop rather than a classroom.
Allen stopped before the fabric barrier. "Hermione? It's Allen. I brought you something."
There was a frantic shuffling sound from behind the curtain, followed by a small, distressed squeak. "Allen! You—you shouldn't be here. Madam Pomfrey said visitors are... discouraged."
"I think she said 'discouraged' for the people who want to treat you like a museum exhibit," Allen said softly, leaning against the bedpost. Unlike the other students who were desperate to know if she'd seen the 'Monster of Slytherin,' Allen didn't ask a single question about the Chamber. "How are you feeling? Did the nurse give you a timeline for when you'll be back in the library?"
"February," Hermione groaned, her voice sounding slightly more gravelly than usual. "She says the fur is... stubborn. Even with the strongest depilatory charms, it keeps growing back. I'm going to miss weeks of lessons!"
"At least you'll have a quiet place to study," Allen consoled her. He felt a wave of sympathy for her. While others were gossiping, he could sense the sheer embarrassment radiating from behind the curtain.
He reached into his bag and pulled out the massive, heavy box he'd prepared. "I brought your Christmas gift. I know it's a bit late, but considering you're stuck here for a month, I think the timing might actually be perfect."
A small gap opened in the curtains. A hand reached out to take the box—but it wasn't a hand Allen recognized. It was covered in a thick layer of sleek, black fur, with sharp, curved claws peeking out from the fingertips. Above the hand, for a fleeting second, he saw a pair of tufted cat ears twitching atop a very human-looking head.
Allen didn't flinch. He didn't gasp or make a joke. He simply handed the box over as if she were perfectly normal.
The box was so large it nearly took up the entire width of the hospital bed. As Hermione hauled it inside, her pillow slid off the mattress and landed at Allen's feet. He leaned down to retrieve it, and as he did, his eyes caught a brightly colored card that had been tucked under it.
To Miss Granger, wishing you a swift return to your studies. Your devoted teacher, Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin (Third Class), Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award.
Allen felt a sudden, sharp pang of irritation. That golden-haired fraud, he thought, his lip curling slightly. Lockhart couldn't brew a simple Cure for Boils, yet he had the audacity to send signed photos and "get well" cards to a student who had been genuinely transformed by a complex potion.
He slipped the card back through the curtain gap and straightened the fabric, ensuring Hermione's long, furry tail—which had accidentally flopped out during the struggle with the box—was tucked safely back inside. "I'll leave you to it, Hermione. If you need any specific notes from Transfiguration, just send an owl to the Ravenclaw tower."
Inside the curtain, Hermione's face was burning a deep crimson. She hadn't realized her tail had escaped, but she appreciated Allen's silent, tactful way of handling it. He didn't treat her like a freak, and he didn't treat her like a victim. He just treated her like Allen.
When the sound of his footsteps faded, she eagerly tore into the wrapping of the massive box. She had expected a robe—she'd seen the one he gave Penelope—but when the lid came off, her jaw dropped.
It was a complete, leather-bound set of every textbook used at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, from year one through seven.
"Oh, Allen," she whispered, her feline eyes wide with wonder. To anyone else, a pile of schoolbooks was a chore. To Hermione, it was a lifeline. She realized that Allen had changed his mind about the robe, likely knowing she wouldn't want to be compared to Penelope. This was better. This was a whole new world of magic to memorize while she waited for her whiskers to fall out.
Allen's next stop was the library. He had a similar, though slightly smaller, package for Madam Pince.
The librarian was currently prowling the aisles like a hungry raptor, looking for anyone who dared to whisper or, heaven forbid, eat a chocolate frog near the parchment. When Allen approached her desk and presented the gift—a rare collection of American magical history volumes for the school's permanent collection—the woman actually stopped mid-snarl.
"For the library, Mr. Walker?" she asked, her voice raspy from years of hushing people.
"And a personal copy of 'The Archive's Guide to Ancient Bindings' for you, Ma'am," Allen added with a polite bow. "I spent a lot of time in the New York Public Library over the break. I thought you might appreciate the techniques they use over there."
Madam Pince's face did something truly terrifying—it attempted to smile. It was a stiff, rusty movement, but it was genuine. She was used to being the most hated woman in the castle after Filch. To have a student recognize her profession rather than her temper was... unexpected.
"Most generous," she managed to say, clutching the book to her chest. "Most generous indeed. Now, move along before you start a crowd."
Allen smiled and headed for the exit. He knew the value of having the staff on his side. Information flowed through the library just as much as it did through the Great Hall, and Pince heard everything.
Later that afternoon, Allen tracked down Harry and Ron. He found them in a rather peculiar spot—the corridor outside the second-floor girls' lavatory, the one haunted by Moaning Myrtle.
They were hunched over, their heads nearly touching as they stared at a small, tattered black book. They looked like they were plotting a bank heist.
"Harry! Ron!" Allen called out, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
The two boys jumped a foot into the air. Ron scrambled to his feet so fast he nearly tripped over his own cloak, while Harry frantically shoved the black book behind his back.
"Bloody hell, Allen!" Ron gasped, clutching his chest. "You trying to give us a heart attack?"
"I've been looking for you guys since lunch," Allen said, eyeing them suspiciously. "What are you two doing hanging around a girls' bathroom? If Percy catches you, he'll have you in detention until your third year."
"We just found something," Harry started, his eyes darting toward the bathroom door. "It's a diary, we think. It was just lying there—"
He was cut off by the sound of heavy, rhythmic footsteps. A tall, lanky figure with flaming red hair and a shiny Prefect badge pinned to his chest rounded the corner. Percy Weasley looked like he had smelled something particularly foul.
"What is the meaning of this?" Percy demanded, his eyes fixed on Allen with a strange intensity.
Allen noticed the look immediately. It wasn't just 'Prefect suspicion.' It was personal. He wondered if Penelope had mentioned his gift, or if Percy simply resented Allen's academic standing. Whatever it was, Percy looked ready to deduct points for the crime of existing.
"We were just talking, Percy," Ron said, his voice laced with the usual sibling resentment.
"In front of a girls' toilet?" Percy sneered. He turned his gaze toward Allen. "And what is a Ravenclaw doing all the way over here? Shouldn't you be in your tower, Walker? Or are you the one encouraging my brother to loiter in inappropriate places?"
Allen didn't blink. He reached into his bag and pulled out two boxes—one containing a set of high-quality, realistic dragon eggs for Harry and a luxury wizard's chess set for Ron.
"I was delivering Christmas presents, Prefect," Allen said, his tone perfectly neutral, bordering on icy. "I didn't realize there was a law against friendship in the second-floor corridor. Do we need to call Professor McGonagall to clarify the zoning regulations?"
Percy's face turned a shade of red that almost matched his hair. He puffed out his chest, looking like a rooster preparing for a fight. "I don't like your attitude, Walker. Just because you've had a few mentions in the Daily Prophet doesn't mean you're above school rules. A Prefect deserves respect."
"Respect is earned, Percy. It's not just a piece of tin on your chest," Allen replied calmly.
The air between them was thick with tension. Harry and Ron looked between the two, stunned. No one ever talked back to Percy like that.
"Move along," Percy hissed, his voice trembling with indignation. "All of you. And if I see you near this bathroom again, I'll see to it that you're scrubbing bedpans in the hospital wing for a month!"
As Percy stormed off, his cloak billowing behind him, Ron let out a long whistle. "Blimey, Allen. You've got guts. He's going to be gunning for you now, you know. He's obsessed with his 'authority.'"
"Let him be obsessed," Allen said, handing the gifts to the two stunned boys. "He's a student, not the High Inquisitor. "