Indeed, as Allen keenly observed, receiving the Order of Merlin was not merely an honor within the Ministry of Magic; it was a currency of respect. While not all witches and wizards could resist the allure of the medal, high society members and career-driven Ministry officials were particularly obsessed with it, treating it as the ultimate status symbol.
Though Allen wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the accolade—after all, the medal could be officially revoked and your reputation destroyed if you made a severe enough political misstep—he understood precisely why the magical world was so passionate about it.
The Order of Merlin was founded in the mid-11th century by the legendary medieval wizard, Merlin himself. Legend held that Merlin had been a graduate of Slytherin House, which was the long-standing, whispered origin of the deep emerald green ribbon associated with the First-Class Order of Merlin.
It was, without a doubt, the oldest and most prestigious magical organization in the international wizarding community. Over the centuries, the Order had evolved into the largest and most widely respected institution in the world, and even though it did not fall directly under the jurisdiction of the British Ministry of Magic, it was the only organization the Ministry formally recognized on an international level.
To receive the Order of Merlin, even the Third Class, was unequivocally considered the greatest honor a wizard could attain in their lifetime.
For wizards who considered themselves part of high society, receiving the Order of Merlin was a potent, undeniable display of their lineage and status, cementing their place at the top of the social pyramid.
For those who, like the Harris family, made their careers within the labyrinthine departments of the Ministry of Magic, securing a medal was like adding a glorious, gold-stamped chapter to their professional resume—a chapter that often led directly to faster promotions and preferential treatment.
As Owen Harris continued his exuberant, walking tour of the Atrium, stopping every few steps to soak up the envious glances, Morgan LeFay finally stepped in, her tone a mixture of maternal firmness and professional haste.
"Owen, darling, we really must hurry, or we will be conspicuously late for our own awards ceremony," she warned, though she soon slowed down herself. Morgan, the usually level-headed witch, spotted something that immediately diverted her attention, causing the entire procession to halt.
A few steps into the central corridor that branched off the Atrium, she found herself passing a circular pool, a smaller sibling to the massive Fountain of Magical Brethren.
Within this pool, a group of gilded statues, slightly larger than life-sized, stood proudly. The statues depicted a diverse, integrated group of magical beings—wizards, witches, centaurs, and goblins—all sculpted with an extraordinary, lifelike realism.
But what truly stopped Mrs. Harris, bringing her momentum to a sudden, emotional stop, were the numerous silver and bronze coins glistening at the bottom of the pool. Beside the pool, nestled into the marble rim, was a small, grimy sign etched in elegant cursive:
All proceeds from the magic fountain will be donated to St. Mungo's Hospital for the treatment of magical illnesses and injuries.
Morgan LeFay, a dedicated healer and nurse at St. Mungo's Hospital for the Magical Arts, knew all too well that the hospital was perpetually struggling, urgently needing every single Galleon and Sickle for vital equipment and patient care.
Without a moment's hesitation, she reached into the small, beaded purse concealed within her robes and pulled out a generous handful of low-value bronze Knuts. With a soft chime, she scattered them into the pool. Daisy, sensing her mother's silent sincerity, immediately followed suit, dropping in several silver Sickles.
Don't ask why they weren't dropping solid gold Galleons, Allen thought wryly, watching the small, sincere gestures. The Harris family is certainly not suffering, but they aren't quite that generous these days.
Yet, as the bronze coins settled among the silver, Allen felt a genuine warmth for his mother's character. Many grains of sand build a magnificent tower, he mused. Many small acts of kindness, when combined across the Ministry's population, could produce great results for those in need. Even if the monetary amount was small, the intention mattered far more than the quantity.
There was absolutely no need to be overly demanding of generosity. For ordinary people, as long as they could secure a comfortable living, being well-intentioned and performing small, consistent acts of good was already highly commendable.
Their journey then proceeded much more smoothly. Realizing the ceremony really was drawing near, Mr. Harris finally checked his enthusiasm, quickened his pace, and avoided the temptation of showing his medal badge to every colleague he passed.
They passed through the required security checks without incident, were waved through several heavily warded doors, and finally arrived at a secondary hall. This hall was dedicated entirely to vertical transport, featuring a dizzying array of at least twenty highly polished, gold-plated elevators, constantly clanking and whirring as they serviced the various departments.
They joined the line for a less crowded booth and quickly boarded the elevator. The gilded doors slammed shut with a heavy thud, and the apparatus slowly began its ascent, the elevator chains clattering with mechanical efficiency.
The same cold, modulated woman's voice Allen had heard in the phone booth echoed again, announcing the offices and departments on each floor as people came and went in flashes of Apparition and small hops from the lift.
Eventually, only Mr. Harris and his family of seven remained in the elevator, ascending past the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Magical Games and Sports. The mechanism finally ground to a stop, the doors sliding open onto the highest level.
"We have arrived on the First Floor," the woman's voice announced emotionlessly. "This floor contains the Minister of Magic's Office, the Office of the Deputy Minister, the Chief Logistics Department, and the Small Conference Room."
"We've made it," Mr. Harris whispered, excitement palpable in his voice. He was the first to step out.
Allen blinked rapidly, momentarily disoriented. He looked out of the immense, arched windows lining the corridor and saw nothing but a spectacularly clear, vibrant blue sky. Golden sunshine streamed into the hall, bathing the polished floor in a warm, welcoming light.
"Dad, have we Apparated outside? We've landed, right?" Emily asked, her innocent voice articulating the exact confusion Allen felt. The Ministry of Magic is deep underground beneath London, he thought, this view is impossible.
"We are very much still underground, little one," Owen chuckled, tapping the glass with his wand.
"These are the magic windows. The Magic Maintenance Department decides what the weather will be like up here every single day. I remember during the last round of pay raise negotiations, we experienced a continuous, torrential downpour and near-hurricane-like weather for almost two solid months. The morale was terrible!" He smirked conspiratorially. "Follow me! We don't want to keep the Minister waiting."
They rounded the corner, their steps immediately softening and slowing. They passed through two sets of thick, imposing oak doors, finding themselves in a quiet, heavily carpeted corridor—a complete contrast to the overwhelming hustle and bustle of the lower floors.
Their steps unconsciously slowed; the atmosphere up here was one of immense, serious power, demanding quiet reverence. They passed a large office bearing the sign of the Chief Logistics Department and a tightly closed door marked Minister of Magic's Office. They finally reached the very end of the corridor, their destination: the Small Conference Room.
The family took a collective breath, straightening their robes. Mr. Harris pushed the heavy, oak-paneled door inward with a dramatic, proud flourish and stepped inside.
The moment they entered, the silence was broken, and every eye in the room turned to them. It wasn't a large crowd, perhaps fifty people in total, including Ministry staff, journalists, and a few invited guests, but their focused attention was intense.
Three imposing, highly significant wizards were seated on the high platform at the front of the hall.
Allen's eyes immediately locked onto the central figure, and he was pleasantly surprised to see his beloved Headmaster, Professor Albus Dumbledore, seated there, his silver beard gleaming, his half-moon spectacles perched precisely on his nose, and a gentle, familiar smile crinkling the corners of his eyes as he looked directly at Allen.
As Allen and his family were courteously led to their reserved seats in the front row by a tall, impeccably dressed Ministry wizard, Allen noticed another familiar face: his favorite professor, Filius Flitwick, sitting near the aisle.
Professor Flitwick, small and nimble as ever, broke into a wide smile and waved a miniature hand enthusiastically. Without hesitation, Allen slipped into the seat next to the Charms Master.
"Professor Flitwick! I'm so glad to see you here," Allen whispered, slightly awestruck by the sudden star-studded company.
"My dear Allen! How could I possibly miss this? A fellow Ravenclaw setting such a magnificent example," Flitwick squeaked in his tiny voice, patting Allen's arm with a surprisingly strong grip. "And what a charming family you have!"
Shortly after the Harris family settled in, the tall, thin wizard who had led them stepped onto the stage and formally introduced the purpose of the meeting and the guests present.
The other two people seated on the platform were none other than Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge, looking plump, slightly nervous, and wearing his signature lime-green bowler hat, and the President of the Wizards' Guild, Ogilvy Scamander—a distant relative of the famous magizoologist, known for his impeccable, if verbose, public speaking.
Scamander then launched into a lengthy, detailed reiteration of the origins and unparalleled prestige of the Order of Merlin, meticulously tracing its history and its importance to the magical community.
Allen noticed his family members, with the notable exception of little Emily (who had been safely settled on Professor Flitwick's lap, instantly captivated by the movement of his tiny, polished boots), were completely familiar with these matters. They listened with rapt attention, nodding repeatedly—Mr. Harris, in particular, looked ready to leap out of his seat with excitement.
"And it is with great pleasure that we note that both the esteemed Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, and the venerable Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus Dumbledore, have been specially invited to lend their immense prestige to this significant awards ceremony!" Scamander concluded, puffing out his chest.
After the lengthy but necessary speech, the moment everyone had been waiting for finally arrived.
"I hereby announce that Owen Harris and five others have been awarded the Order of Merlin, Third Class, for their courageous, united effort in successfully subduing a mutated, world-record-sized Sea Serpent off the coast of Cornwall!" President Ogilvy Scamander announced, his voice soaring with exuberant, theatrical flair, as if he himself had wrestled the beast and won the medal.
Six beautiful, exquisitely detailed gold medals, each suspended from a crisp white ribbon, shimmered as they rose magically from a velvet cushion on the stage and gracefully floated toward the Harris family.
Little Emily remained safely entrusted to Professor Flitwick's care by her mother, Morgan LeFay. While Emily had been registered by the politically savvy Aunt Josephine as part of the 'family effort'—a small, political nod to keep the family unit whole and leverage the connection—she was ultimately not one of the six announced recipients of the physical medal.
Ogilvy Scamander didn't wait. "Minister, Headmaster, perhaps we could have the unique pleasure of presenting the medals together?" he suggested, gesturing grandly to Fudge and Dumbledore. Both readily accepted the invitation to participate in the high-profile photo opportunity.
Dumbledore approached the recipients first. He gently placed the beautiful medal around Allen's neck. The gold felt weighty and cool against his skin.
The incident was instantly captured for posterity by the media members present, who collectively raised their massive cameras and magnesium-flash bulbs, filling the small conference room with a series of blinding, sharp clicks and momentary flashes.
Allen blinked, the gold medal now resting heavy and official on his chest. It was done. The glory was secured. Now came the political maneuvering.