After Professor Pomona Sprout's grueling Herbology lesson on repotting Mandrakes, the second-year students emerged from the greenhouses looking like they had survived a physical assault.
Mandrakes, creatures whose cries could restore the cursed or the Petrified, were currently in their moody, adolescent stage. While their shrieks weren't lethal yet, they were piercing enough to rattle one's teeth.
A rumor quickly spread that a Gryffindor student had actually fainted because their earmuffs weren't fitted properly, though Allen suspected the boy had simply been looking for an excuse to avoid the afternoon's work.
Allen followed the weary crowd back to the castle, feeling the damp earth still clinging to his robes. He reflected briefly on the professor; Pomona Sprout was a name of destiny. Her first name came from the Roman goddess of fruit, and her surname was a literal description of her life's work. Regardless of her soft-spoken nature, no one was better suited to lead the Hufflepuff house and command the botanical wonders of Hogwarts.
However, the respite was brief. Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration lectures were legendary for their difficulty, and today was a trial of patience and precision. The task was seemingly simple: transform a live beetle into a coat button. The catch? The more intricate and elegant the button, the higher the grade.
While most students struggled to keep their beetles from scurrying off the desks, Allen's workstation was a display of high-level artistry. Under his wand, the insect didn't just change; it evolved. Edward, sitting beside him, watched in a state of existential crisis. Allen's beetle was cycling through forms—polished brass military buttons, delicate floral porcelain, antique silver filigree, and finally, a faceted crystal button that caught the sunlight from the high windows.
"Ah, Mr. Harris! Exceptional work," McGonagall noted as she swept past, her sharp eyes gleaming with rare approval. "The structural integrity is flawless, and the aesthetic detail is… well, beyond the curriculum. Five points to Ravenclaw!"
Edward looked at his own beetle, which was currently doing laps around his inkwell. "Allen, help me out before I accidentally squash this thing," he whispered. Allen spent the rest of the period patiently explaining the visualization techniques and the wrist snap required for the Roman style. By the end of the hour, Edward proudly held a heavy Roman-style bronze buckle. He was so enamored with it that he tucked it into his pocket, seemingly forgetting that the spell wasn't permanent. Allen didn't have the heart to tell his roommate that in a few hours, he might find his trousers held up by a very confused, six-legged insect.
The following days saw Allen cementing his reputation as the "Score Controller." Whether it was the dizzying heights of Flying class, the dusty depths of History of Magic, or the delicate chemistry of Potions, Allen was a machine. His performance invigorated the Ravenclaws, widening the gap for the House Cup and leaving the other three houses in a state of perpetual catch-up.
But the atmosphere soured on Friday. News broke that Ron Weasley had accidentally struck Professor Flitwick in the face with his wand during a botched Levitation Charm, leaving the diminutive professor with a pulsating green welt on his forehead. The Ravenclaws were livid—hurting Flitwick was akin to a personal insult to the entire house.
Allen tracked down Harry and Ron near the library to investigate. Ron looked miserable, clutching his wand which had been snapped nearly in half during the flying car incident and held together by a desperate, sticky mess of Spellotape.
"Why don't you just write home and ask for a new one?" Allen asked, looking at the sparking wood.
"And get another Howler?" Ron squeaked. "If my mum finds out I broke this, I'm dead. It belonged to my brother Charlie first. It's a family heirloom, sort of."
Allen took the wand, his fingers sensitive to the magical resonance. "Ash wood... unicorn hair core..." he murmured. He looked at Ron. "You were born in March, right? The Month of the Ash?"
"March 1st," Ron said, surprised. "What's that got to do with it?"
"Wandlore is a fickle science, Ron. People often think that matching a wizard to their birth-tree is the ultimate solution, but it's a simplification. Ash wood is notoriously loyal. It bonds to its first master with a fierce, singular devotion. It cannot be easily passed down or gifted without losing its spirit. When you combine that with a unicorn hair core—which is the most 'principled' of cores—you get a wand that is effectively grieving for Charlie. It's not just broken, Ron; it's resisting you."
Harry frowned. "So it's not just the tape?"
"The breakage was likely the wand's way of trying to escape a master it doesn't recognize," Allen said, mimicking the airy, cryptic tone of Mr. Ollivander. "If you keep forcing it, it might explode. You'll end up with the reputation of a demolition expert rather than a wizard."
Ron's face went pale. "So Charlie's old wand hates me?"
"It doesn't hate you, it just doesn't know you. Ash is for a warrior—someone like Charlie who handles dragons. You need something that matches your temperament. Using this is like trying to wear someone else's skin."
"Merlin's beard," Ron whispered, his shoulders slumping. "I can't afford a new one. Ginny's starting this year and the family is strapped." He looked at Harry with a forced grin. "I'll just save this as an excuse for why I fail my exams. At least they can't blame my brain if my wand is a dud."
Allen felt a pang of sympathy, mixed with a craftsman's itch. He didn't want his favorite professor getting hit in the head again, and he certainly didn't want Ron to repeat the disaster he remembered from the original timeline—where a backfiring memory charm from a broken wand turned a professor into a vegetable.
"Maybe I can make you one," Allen said casually. Harry and Ron both froze. "I've been studying an alchemy handbook by Jeber. It's a hobby, but I need a project to test my skills. Let me see what I can find."
"You'd do that? Seriously?" Ron's eyes lit up. "You're a legend, Allen! You're better than Hermione—she just tells me to read more!"
Allen took the broken wand back to his room to study it, but the wood was truly dying. The magic was leaking out like black smoke. He returned it to Ron with a promise: "Keep that for now. I need to go find the right materials."
That evening, Allen donned his Disillusionment Charm and slipped into the Forbidden Forest. He knew exactly what he was looking for: Willow. Willow wood is associated with healing and protection, a much better fit for Ron's supportive nature. But he didn't want ordinary willow. He headed toward the territory of the Whomping Willow's wilder cousins.
He reached a sun-drenched clearing where a small, vibrant willow tree stood. Its leaves were a brilliant, healthy green, swaying with an unnatural grace. As he approached, the air filled with high-pitched squeaks. A swarm of Bowtruckles—creatures that looked like a blend of bark, twigs, and leaves—emerged from the canopy.
"Perfect," Allen whispered. He spotted the branch he wanted: the 'Wand-Branch.' In any tree guarded by Bowtruckles, there is only one branch strong enough to serve as a wand's heart.
The Bowtruckles weren't happy. They saw Allen as a threat to their home and began leaping down, their long, sharp fingers aimed at his eyes.
"Impedimenta! Petrificus Totalus! Glacius!" Allen's wand moved in a blur. He didn't want to kill them, but he didn't have time to win them over with woodlice and fairy eggs. He froze the leaders and slowed the rest, moving with the precision of a duelist. These creatures were small and agile, but Allen's morning practices had made him faster.
With the defenders incapacitated, he climbed the tree and carefully harvested the branch. It hummed with a soft, resilient energy.
But Allen wasn't a monster. He didn't leave the protectors helpless. He scoured the nearby bushes, catching several large beetles and wood-dwelling insects. He returned and placed the buffet at the base of the tree. He then cast a gentle Rennervate and a cooling charm on the Bowtruckles.
The little creatures woke up, shivering. They bared their tiny teeth, but when they saw the pile of delicious insects, their hostility vanished into greed. They chirped excitedly, dragging the food back into the safety of the willow. They wouldn't bother Allen again.
With the wood secured, Allen moved deeper into the forest toward the unicorn glades. He needed a core. As he reached the silver-lit groves, a familiar figure trotted out from the shadows.
"Allen! I saw you in the sky!" Gaia, the young centaur, beamed at him. She looked as wild and radiant as ever. "Did you eat all the fruit? I can get you more!"
Allen chuckled. "I'm not that greedy, Gaia. Actually, I'm here for something specific. I need a unicorn hair. One that was shed naturally, if possible."