The problem with a Basilisk wasn't just its size or the legendary potency of its venom; it was the absolute authority it commanded. According to the ancient texts Allen had been scouring, a Basilisk was essentially a living weapon designed for a single purpose: to serve a master of the serpent tongue.
The books were quite blunt about it—unless you could speak Parseltongue, reach a diplomatic stalemate, or somehow hijack its primal instincts, you were nothing more than prey. Even for most Dark Wizards, a Basilisk was too volatile to keep as a pet. It was a creature of singular loyalty, left behind by Salazar Slytherin to be awakened only by one who shared his blood and his specific brand of madness.
However, Allen found himself stuck on a peculiar detail. If this "Heir"—the fragment of Tom Riddle residing in the diary—truly had absolute control over the beast, why was the body count still zero? In the original timeline, as well as this one, the victims were only being petrified. It was easy to call it a series of fortunate accidents involving mirrors and water, but Allen wasn't a big believer in that much luck. If the Basilisk wanted to kill, it was efficient. The fact that it hadn't suggested something was slightly off in the connection between the diary and the monster.
He closed the heavy tome, the dust motes dancing in the candlelight of his dorm. He ran through the physical logistics in his head. The creature's hide was a nightmare of magical resistance, nearly impervious to standard hexes. But physical violence? That was a different story. In the tales, a phoenix had pecked its eyes out, and a boy with more courage than sense had driven a silver sword through its skull. If it could bleed, it could die. And then there was the rooster's crow—the ultimate biological "off switch" for the King of Serpents.
"But that gaze..." Allen whispered, staring at his own reflection in the window. "The 'Death Gaze' is the real hurdle. Instant cardiac arrest just from making eye contact." He needed to understand the mechanics of that magic. Was it a light-based curse? A soul-severing connection? He decided he wouldn't stop until he'd deconstructed the science behind those yellow eyes.
The following days were a blur of research and mundane school life. In the library, the trio—Harry, Ron, and Hermione—finally tracked him down. Allen didn't look up immediately; he was focused on a very long piece of parchment, meticulously measuring it with a wooden ruler.
"Give me a second, guys. I need to make sure this meets the 'Binns Standard' of boredom," Allen said, his voice flat as he dragged the ruler down the scroll.
Professor Binns, the ghost who taught History of Magic, had assigned a three-foot essay on "Medieval European Wizarding Gatherings." Most students were struggling to hit the thirty-six-inch mark by writing in massive, looping script. Allen, however, had gotten carried away. His ruler hit the four-foot mark and kept going.
"Five feet, three inches," Allen muttered, finally rolling up the parchment with a satisfying thwack. "That should satisfy the old ghost's appetite for dates and dullness."
Ron stared at the massive roll of parchment with a look of pure, unadulterated envy. He had spent three hours sweating over his own essay, and despite his best efforts to expand his handwriting until it looked like a toddler's scrawl, he was still eight inches short.
"Allen, listen," Harry said, leaning over the table and speaking in an urgent whisper. "Ron's wand... it's been through the air-drying process seven times now. It's practically whistling when the wind blows. We think it's ready."
"Is it time for the final stage?" Hermione asked, her eyes bright with academic curiosity. She was even more excited than Ron, who was currently clutching a bundle of black silk as if it were a dragon egg.
Allen looked out the arched library window. The sun was dipping below the horizon, and a pale, silver moon was beginning to climb over the Forbidden Forest. "The moon is in the right phase. Tonight's the night."
The trio's muffled cheers were loud enough to earn a lethal glare from Madam Pince, who appeared between the stacks like a vengeful spirit. Allen quickly gathered his things. "Go on ahead. I need to grab my kit from the Ravenclaw tower. Meet me by the lake, near the old willow—the one that doesn't try to kill you."
The night air was crisp and carried the scent of damp earth and pine. As Allen walked toward the Black Lake, he felt a sense of profound stillness. The stars were scattered like crushed diamonds across a velvet sky, and the rhythmic chirping of crickets provided a natural soundtrack for the ritual. It was the perfect environment for a Blessing.
When he reached the water's edge, the three were already there, shifting nervously.
"I've got it right here," Ron said, handing over the silk-wrapped bundle. His hands were actually trembling a little.
Allen unwrapped it. The willow branch was beautiful—stripped of its bark, sanded to a satin finish, and tempered by the magical drying process. It was a sturdy, flexible piece of wood. Although Ron usually acted like nothing bothered him, Allen could tell the boy was deeply connected to this project. This wasn't a hand-me-down from Bill or Charlie; this was his.
Allen took out the 'seed'—a strand of pure white unicorn hair, braided with such precision it looked like a solid needle of light. He placed it at the base of the wand. In a display of seamless magic that made Hermione gasp, the unicorn hair didn't meet resistance. It didn't need a hole. It simply phased into the wood, threading itself through the grain until it reached the exact geometric center. The wood seemed to ripple like water, then sealed itself shut, trapping the core inside.
"Now for the purification," Allen said. He pulled out a small stone brazier, a pouch of rare spices, and a crystal pitcher filled with Starlight Water—water that had been distilled under the light of a full moon.
He began to pour the water in a slow, steady stream over the length of the wand. As he did, he began to chant. This wasn't the standard Latin used in Hogwarts; his lips moved in a rhythmic, ancient cadence. Every syllable that left his mouth shimmered into silver runes that hung in the air for a heartbeat before sinking into the willow. The wand began to emit a soft, pulsating white glow.
Next, he tossed the spices into the brazier. A thick, aromatic smoke rose, smelling of salt, deep-sea kelp, and something ancient.
"This is an extract of marine flora," Allen explained, his eyes reflecting the embers. "The sea represents the primordial state of magic. Burning this removes the lingering 'noise' from the wood and the core. It aligns the wand's temperament with its owner."
He passed the glowing wand through the thick smoke. To the trio's horror, wisps of black, oily vapor began to leak out of the wood, sizzling as they hit the air.
"What's that?" Ron asked, looking worried.
"Just the impurities," Allen reassured him. "Residual oils, old memories of the tree, the stress of the drying process. We're stripping it down to its soul."
Once the smoke turned pure white, Allen extinguished the flame and held the wand out. It looked different now—cleaner, more vibrant, as if it were humming. "Give it a go, Ron. It's yours."
Ron took it tentatively. The moment his fingers closed around the handle, a shower of gold and red sparks erupted from the tip. He gave it a playful swish, and a jet of crystal-clear water shot out, drenching Harry's face before the boy could even blink.
"Blimey!" Ron shouted, his face splitting into a massive grin. "I didn't even have to try! It's like the wand knew what I wanted before I did!"
"That's the difference between a tool and a partner," Allen said, smiling as Harry wiped his glasses with a disgruntled expression.
"You should save that for Malfoy next time, Ron," Harry grumbled, though he couldn't hide his grin for his friend.
Hermione looked at the wand with something approaching reverence. "The Jabir method... I read about that in an old alchemy text, but I never thought I'd see someone actually perform it. Thank you, Allen. This means a lot."
On the walk back to the castle, Ron didn't put the wand in his pocket. He held it like a treasure. For a boy who grew up with hand-me-down robes, hand-me-down books, and even a hand-me-down rat, having something brand new and high-quality was a transformative experience. He looked an inch taller.
Allen parted ways with them at the grand staircase. He had planned to spend the night comparing different editions of Fantastic Beasts, but as he entered his room, a familiar tawny owl was waiting on his windowsill. It was Benny, and he was carrying a piece of parchment with Florence's elegant, flowing script.
"Tina says the Occamy is hatching! Don't miss it—it's starting now!"
Allen didn't hesitate. He grabbed his cloak and sprinted back out, heading toward the dark silhouette of the Forbidden Forest. He found Firenze waiting in the shadows of the first few trees, the centaur's eyes glowing with starlight.
"The cycle of life waits for no one, Allen," Firenze said, turning and trotting deeper into the woods without a word.
They reached the hidden clearing where the Occamy, Tina, had made her nest. The atmosphere was electric. In the center of the nest, a silver-scaled egg was rocking violently, cracks spider-webbing across its surface.
With a final, sharp crack, a small, iridescent blue head poked through. It was a beautiful, serpentine bird with shimmering feathers that changed from sapphire to turquoise in the moonlight. The hatchling let out a tiny, melodic chirp.
Tina, the mother, let out a low, crooning sound, nuzzling her new child with a tenderness that defied her fierce reputation. Gaia, the other centaur present, reached out and touched the hatchling's head with a single finger, whispering a blessing in a language that sounded like the wind through the leaves.
Tina then looked at Allen. With her beak, she nudged the broken, silver eggshells toward him.
"She wants you to have them," Gaia translated softly. "She recognizes your part in this. To a mother, the protection of the nest is the greatest gift."
Allen knelt and gathered the silver shells. They were cold to the touch but heavy, like real silver. In the wizarding world, Occamy eggshells were worth a fortune because they were made of pure, high-quality silver, but to Allen, they weren't just a commodity. They were a token of trust from a creature that usually feared and hated humans.
He looked at the tiny, blue creature stretching its wings for the first time and felt a strange sense of peace. In a school full of petrified cats and hidden monsters, this little spark of new life was exactly what he needed to see.