Allen nodded, his movements practiced and calm, and pulled a self-retracting measuring tape from the depths of his robes. It was a peculiar little device he'd specifically requested from his mother, Morgan Le Fay, after realizing he'd need precise Muggle-style measurements to supplement the magical calculations in Jeber's handbook. Morgan hadn't quite understood why a Hogwarts education required a carpenter's tape—she'd briefly wondered if Pomona Sprout was having the children build greenhouses—but she had dutifully sent it along via the family owl, Benny.
"Right arm, Ron. Raise it up," Allen instructed, tapping Ron's shoulder. He watched as Ron complied with a mix of awe and nervousness. Allen knew Ron had never experienced the luxury of a custom fit. Coming from a family of seven children, Ron was the king of hand-me-downs; his robes were short, his books were frayed, and his wand—the most vital tool of a wizard—was a second-hand relic that had never truly recognized him.
Allen couldn't help but feel that the Weasleys, for all their warmth, had made a strategic error here. A wand isn't just a tool; it's an extension of the self. Using a mismatched wand during the formative years of magical development was like trying to learn to play the violin with a bow made of lead. The constant failure, the backfiring spells, the embarrassment in class—it wasn't just Ron being "thick"; it was the wand actively sabotaging his education.
The measuring tape took on a life of its own, buzzing around Ron like an over-caffeinated dragonfly. It zipped from shoulder to fingertip, measured the span between his knuckles, and even looped around his head to determine his cranial circumference.
"Why does it need to know how big my head is?" Ron asked, squinting as the tape tickled his nose.
"Balance, Ron," Allen replied, his eyes glazed over as he ran through the arithmetic in his head. "A wand's length must resonate with the wizard's physical reach and their center of gravity. Given your current height and the inevitable growth spurt you're due for, we're looking at exactly fourteen inches. Long enough for a strong cast, but flexible enough for the finesse you're currently lacking."
Next, Allen pulled out the willow branch he'd harvested from the forest. It had been resting in a localized Stretch Mark Eradication field to ensure the grain was perfectly straight. He carefully trimmed a fourteen-inch section from the most supple part of the wood.
"Is that it? It just looks like a stick," Ron said, his voice dropping in disappointment. He shook the branch tentatively. Nothing happened, save for a small leaf fluttering to the ground.
"Magic isn't a microwave meal, Ron. It requires a foundation," Allen said with a small smile. He handed Ron a square of coarse, brown sandpaper. "Here. You need to strip the bark and sand this down until it feels like silk. Every inch of it."
While Ron set to work with a grumbling sigh, Allen made himself comfortable. He leaned back against the cool, thick rind of a massive pumpkin, pulled out a book, and began to read. Harry and Hermione watched the process with rapt attention.
Hermione was practically vibrating with curiosity. "Can I help? I mean, I've read about the polishing stage in The Wandmaker's Manual, but seeing it done with willow is fascinating. Willow reacts differently to friction than oak or holly."
Harry, meanwhile, was looking at Allen's book. "Quidditch in Wonderland? I thought you'd be reading something like Advanced Alchemical Transmutation."
Allen laughed, turning a page. "Even I need a break, Harry. Besides, this copy is from the library, and Madam Pince practically begged me to take it. She said it was being 'brutalized' by the younger students. Apparently, people have been using it as a coaster and, in one particularly dark case, a teething toy for a pet kneazle."
Harry winced. He rarely frequented the library unless forced, but even he knew the terrifying wrath of the librarian. He noticed some ink scrawled in the margins of Allen's book. "Wait, you're writing in a library book? Hermione will have your head!"
Hermione leaned over, her eyes widening. "Allen! You can't! Madam Pince has Hex-Detection charms on every page. Ron and Harry tried to doodle a mustache on a picture in Fantastic Beasts last week and the book nearly bit Ron's ear off!"
Allen didn't look up from his reading. "A simple Disguise Charm, Hermione. It tricks the book into thinking the ink is part of the original printing. I'll wipe it clean before I return it, but I find taking notes helps the information stick. I like to engage with the author, even if the author is a century dead and currently wrong about the physics of a Bludger's trajectory."
Hermione looked at the book as if it were a forbidden artifact. She clearly wanted to scold him, but the sheer technical genius required to bypass Pince's security was enough to earn her silent respect.
"Alright, Ron, let me see," Allen said, noticing Ron's pace had slowed to a crawl. Ron's face was flushed, and he was huffing, his arm clearly aching from the repetitive motion.
Allen took the branch. It was mostly smooth, but it lacked the professional finish. He took the sandpaper and, with a few effortless, rhythmic strokes, transformed the wood. Under Allen's touch, the willow took on a dull, healthy glow.
"Why'd I have to do it if you could do it in five seconds?" Ron complained, rubbing his sore bicep.
"Because the wand needs to know your sweat, Ron," Allen explained patiently. "The friction of your hand creates a minor thermal bond. It tells the wood that you are the one shaping it. If I did everything, the wand would belong to me. By doing the hard work, you're telling the willow that you're worth its loyalty."
Hermione nodded fervently. "It's like a magical marriage. The wood has to accept the wizard's essence."
"Exactly. Now, we move to the preservation," Allen continued. He produced a small vial of high-grade olive oil. "We'll coat the wood and let it dry in the shade of these pumpkins. We'll repeat this three times. It hardens the exterior while keeping the heart of the wood flexible. Soft on the inside, tough on the outside—just like you, Ron."
Ron's ears turned bright red at the compliment.
"And now for the core," Allen said, his voice dropping an octave as he pulled out the shimmering strand of unicorn hair Gaia had given him. The hair seemed to hum in the moonlight, casting a faint silver glow on the orange skin of the pumpkins. "Unicorn hair is the most honest of cores. It doesn't backfire easily, it resists the Dark Arts, and it is fiercely loyal. Most people think it lacks 'kick' or raw power, but they're wrong. They just don't know how to pair it."
"I chose willow because it's a wood of healing and intuition," Allen added, looking at Harry and Hermione. "Ollivander usually gives willow wands to those who have a hidden strength, often those who have suffered but remain kind. It's a symbol of resilience. The willow bends, but it never breaks."
Allen didn't mention the darker side of willow lore—the association with unrequited love and the lingering sense of insecurity that often plagued its owners. He looked at Ron, who was staring at the silver hair with a look of pure, unadulterated hope. Ron needed a win. He needed to feel like he belonged in this world of magic, not just as a sidekick, but as a wizard in his own right.
"This wand won't just cast spells, Ron," Allen whispered, as he prepared to begin the delicate process of boring the center of the wood to house the core. "It's going to be your partner. Treat it well, and it'll never let you down like that old ash branch did."
The three of them sat in the quiet of Hagrid's garden, the only sound the distant hoot of an owl and the soft scratching of Allen's tools as he began the most dangerous part of the craft. Between the giant, enchanted pumpkins, a new kind of magic was taking root.