Neither Uncle Vernon nor Aunt Petunia ever indulged in the courtesy of a knock; their interactions with Harry were purely functional, characterized by the mechanical opening of the sliding spy-hatch and the swift exchange of food.
Dudley, conversely, would deliberately beat a heavy, rhythmic tattoo on the wood, a malicious act designed purely to provoke Harry. His knocks were never polite or rhythmic; they were thunderous blows that seemed to transmit vibrations directly through the wall and into Harry's skull.
Now, however, the knock was different. It was firm, controlled, and distinctly magical—the sound of someone who knew precisely what they were doing and was not seeking permission.
"Who… who is it?" Harry whispered, his voice cracking slightly. He hadn't used it properly in days, and the sound felt foreign and unsteady, rasped raw by days of anxiety and isolation.
"It's me, Allen. Stand back from the door," Allen's voice returned, perfectly calm and measured, cutting through the oppressive silence of the Dursley household like a knife.
"Oh, thank God, Allen, you actually made it! You have no idea how glad I am to hear your voice!" Harry's immense relief was audible, the huge weight of his shoulders instantly lifted.
"Uncle Vernon locked me in here almost three days ago. Honestly, the hunger isn't the main problem—I can handle that. My biggest fear was that no one would know I was trapped, that I'd be left here and never allowed back to Hogwarts. I've been completely cut off." He ran a nervous hand across his parched lips.
Allen, still standing invisible outside the door, picked up the key word from Harry's emotional spill: hunger. A magical lock was a minor inconvenience, but unnecessary suffering was not something he would tolerate.
He reached into his storage space, which was currently stuffed with the spoils of his Gringotts trip, and pulled out a large, heavy bag of high-quality, magically preserved food—sandwiches, fresh fruit, and even a large, dark chocolate bar. He carefully began stuffing the items one by one through the small, square hatch, pushing them until they dropped onto the floor inside Harry's room.
"You're an absolute lifesaver!" Harry muffled his gratitude, his voice nearly incoherent around the sheer volume of a huge, expertly layered turkey and stuffing sandwich he had immediately crammed into his mouth.
"Eating isn't the solution, Harry. Getting you out is the priority," Allen stated, his tone brooking no argument. "Lean back from the door. I'm going to try to open it."
Allen automatically reached for his holly and phoenix feather wand, intending to simply blast the lock with a modified Alohomora—a Charm he had refined to dismantle even the most complicated Muggle security.
Then, he hesitated, shaking his head slightly. The sound of a loud, magical lock-breaking charm would undoubtedly attract the neighbors' attention or, worse, trigger some Ministry alarm. He preferred efficiency and non-magical blunt force in this particular, highly Muggle environment.
He placed his wand carefully on the carpet and took a few quick steps backward. Gathering his focus and the raw, unadulterated magical power he channeled into physical augmentation, Allen suddenly accelerated, launching his body forward. He executed a violent, perfectly timed side-kick, driving the heel of his shoe directly into the ancient, rusted padlock.
"BANG!"
The sound was shockingly loud, a seismic collision that echoed through the quiet suburban house, momentarily silencing the birds outside. The cheap, iron lock was instantly vaporized, not by magic, but by sheer, magically enhanced kinetic force.
The door itself—thick oak, but old—slammed inward against the wall, rebounding with a shudder that sent a plume of dust drifting down from the ceiling.
Harry, who had been witnessing the event with wide, startled eyes, momentarily froze, a mouthful of perfectly chewed sandwich held immobile. He stared in disbelief at Allen's utterly crude and destructive behavior—the casual, non-magical, almost barbarian destruction of the lock. After a long, silent moment, he swallowed with effort and muttered, "Thank you, Allen. That was… unexpected."
"It's fine. It's just a lock," Allen replied dismissively, stepping into the room. The oppressive atmosphere of the confinement was palpable. "It's pretty messy in here," he sighed, looking towards the corner where a large, ornate cage housed Harry's majestic snow owl.
"I may not have been fed properly, but Hedwig is in an even more pathetic state," Harry admitted, already halfway through his second sandwich. He was chewing with an intense, focused relish; it was undeniably the best food he had ever eaten. "Allen, you can let her out now. She's clever; she can hunt and find food on her own."
Allen walked over to the cage. Hedwig, recognizing a savior, observed him with intelligent, amber eyes. Allen reached for the cage latch, snapped it open, and gently pulled the wire door aside.
The clever, beautiful owl tilted her head to the side, touched Allen's finger gently with her beak in a silent, affectionate gesture of thanks, and then—with a silent, graceful beat of her massive wings—flew out of the room. She disappeared down the landing, likely exiting through the open kitchen window Allen had noticed downstairs.
"So, where are your essentials?" Allen asked, clapping his hands together once, the sound sharp and final.
"My school trunk, my wand, and my Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick are locked in the secret cupboard downstairs," Harry explained, flushing slightly. He looked at Allen, clearly realizing that his freedom would continue to depend entirely on Allen's ability to bypass heavy-duty Muggle security.
The two wizards—the one capable of the most complex magic and the one capable of the most brutal physical force—ran downstairs. They located the secret, dark cupboard beneath the stairs. Allen used the exact same technique again: a few strategic steps back, a pause for focus, and a terrifying, bone-jarring kick.
The cheap, flimsy door of the cupboard practically exploded off its hinges. Harry and Allen hastily grabbed the heavy trunk, the sleek broomstick, and the precious wand, stuffing them all into the large, self-shrinking box Allen provided and rushing toward the front door.
As they passed the perfectly neat, pastel-colored living room, Allen paused. "Should we leave some kind of note?" he asked Harry.
Although Allen was still simmering with cold fury over the Vernons' abhorrent treatment of the boy, he understood the context: Petunia had adopted her sister's son, and Dumbledore's powerful, if unspoken, threat of magical retaliation had played a role in keeping Harry alive. An unexplained disappearance was a risk, however small.
"They won't worry about me. They'll be thrilled," Harry said flatly, his face completely expressionless. But after a moment of silent contemplation, he took out a quill and a small scrap of parchment. He scribbled a curt message: "I'm going to a friend's house. —Harry."
The note was simple, almost insultingly brief. Allen and Harry left the piece of paper squarely on the kitchen table where the Dursleys usually ate, a final, small act of defiance. They then slipped out the front door and closed it quietly behind them.
Because Harry was now burdened by a sizable, heavy school trunk, they couldn't simply Apparate or take the Floo Network immediately. They walked two streets over and hailed a Muggle taxi. After struggling slightly to jam the massive, regulation-sized trunk into the small boot, the car sped away like an arrow.
Harry pressed his face against the window, watching 4 Privet Drive quickly fade into the mundane suburban scenery. He felt an intense, overwhelming wave of relief and prayed, with all his heart, that he would never be forced to return to that oppressive house of horror again.
When Harry finally stepped out of the Floo Network's green flames and into the familiar, warm, wood-paneled atmosphere of a wizarding supplies shop, he felt a powerful release.
A few minutes later, after a quick taxi ride to a more discreet London location, he was stepping onto the driveway of Allen's house. He saw the familiar red-brick villa with white window frames and breathed in the clean, natural air of the affluent, wizard-aware neighborhood.
All of Harry's deep despair and crushing hopelessness instantly evaporated. Everything here—the light, the quiet, the very air—carried an unmistakable sense of freedom and unconstrained opportunity.
He pushed the door open, but the Harris family was still likely celebrating their Order of Merlin award. The house was empty. Allen, using a quick, non-verbal Levitation Charm, had Harry's heavy suitcases floating up the stairs and deposited neatly into his room. He then insisted on brewing Harry a strong, hot pot of classic black tea, pouring a generous, comforting cup for his friend.
"Sit down, Harry. Tell me everything," Allen prompted, sensing that the immense emotional dam of the last three days was about to burst. "Why exactly were you imprisoned? And what's with the house elf business?"
Harry sat back, sipping the hot tea gratefully. He launched into the whole bizarre saga of Dobby: the frantic warnings, the threats, the constant, invisible presence, the terrible secrecy, and the dramatic culmination in the levitating, shattered Pudding.
"Every time I asked him why he was doing this—why he was so desperate to stop me from going back to Hogwarts—he just started violently banging his head against the wall or hitting himself with anything he could find!" Harry finished, bewildered, completely unable to comprehend the nature of the being who was trying to simultaneously save and sabotage him. "Who would want to prevent me from returning to school so badly?"
Allen leaned back, stirring his own tea. He used the opportunity to educate Harry about a subtle but important aspect of magical ethics and law. "It's a foundational curse, Harry, a deeply embedded magical compulsion. Although House Elves possess incredibly powerful, innate magic, they are physically and psychologically bound by oath to their masters.
They are incapable of easily revealing their masters' secrets, especially those that would directly harm the master's reputation or freedom. If they attempt to speak a secret, the magical compulsion forces them to inflict immediate, often severe, physical punishment upon themselves. It's a mechanism to prevent betrayal and maintain the sanctity of the slave contract."
Harry's eyes widened, putting the puzzle pieces together. "So he can't tell me who his master is. He has to hurt himself. I suspect... it has to be Malfoy. Only he would be so petty and cruel as to order his elf to torment me like this. He wouldn't want me to go back to Hogwarts, and he'd be happy to watch me suffer here."
Allen kept his expression neutral, offering no immediate correction. Dobby is indeed the Malfoy family's House Elf, Allen conceded internally.
But Dobby's reasons for preventing Harry from returning to Hogwarts are entirely selfless and protective, rooted in his accidental knowledge of Lucius Malfoy's true, terrifying plan, a plan that would place Harry in grave danger. Harry's deduction is correct in identity, but tragically wrong in motive.
Allen knew he had to allow Harry to believe the simple, less-dangerous theory for now.
Harry, still settling down, began flipping through the small stack of newspapers lying neatly on Allen's coffee table. He casually opened the latest issue of the Daily Prophet. He froze instantly. Staring back at him was a massive, high-quality photograph of the entire Harris family, standing beside Dumbledore and Fudge, with Allen—wearing the gleaming gold medal—prominently positioned in the front.
It was a long article, but it briefly and breathlessly explained the circumstances: how Mr. Harris and his family had been awarded the Order of Merlin, Third Class, for the heroic, multi-family defeat of the Cornish Sea Serpent.
This was followed by the large group photograph, and the rest of the article was a grand, sensational proclamation of the Harris family's rising positions within the Ministry, with Minister Fudge himself basking in a sizable share of the reflected glory.
"Allen, you actually helped defeat a Sea Serpent!" Harry breathed, utterly astonished. "You know, that's a three-star magical creature! That's almost Dark Lord level!" Harry was momentarily more impressed by the sheer scale of Allen's incredible summer vacation experience than he was by his friend's strength.
"I told you, it was a family effort," Allen repeated, mildly dismissive of the press coverage. "They like to use terms like 'three-star' to sell papers. It was a massive creature, yes, but we handled it efficiently."
Shortly after they began talking, a shadow fell across the window. Hedwig, having successfully hunted and completed her mission, flew in from the clear blue sky. She flapped her huge wings once, elegantly circled the room, and then perched calmly on the empty owl perch that belonged to Allen's own owl, Benny. She drank deeply from the water bowl, looking utterly refreshed, and then began calmly preening her immaculate feathers.
Allen looked at the returned, now-sated owl and offered his final piece of advice for the moment. "I think you should write a quick note to Ron and Hermione, and maybe Hagrid. They must be incredibly worried, especially since they haven't been able to reach you by owl for three days."
Harry's eyes instantly lit up with the memory of his two best friends. He eagerly pulled out a quill and a piece of parchment, finding a clear spot on the table. With a burst of simple, heartfelt relief, he wrote the same short, reassuring message three times:
"I'm at Allen's house, everything is perfectly alright! I'm safe. See you soon, H."
He folded the notes, handed them to Hedwig one by one, and waited for the magnificent owl to take flight, delivering the joyous news that the Boy Who Lived was finally, truly free.