"Harry, your wand is a fascinating piece of work," Allen said, his voice dropping into that scholarly cadence that usually commanded silence. He looked at the boy with the lightning bolt scar, whose holly wand looked deceptively simple.
"Holly represents purity, protection, and a certain kind of spiritual vengeance. It's a rare wood, chosen for those who need to master their inner turmoil and anger. But the pairing with a phoenix feather? That's where it gets volatile. Holly and Phoenix feathers are traditionally seen as opposites—the wood is defensive and grounded, while the feather is reborn from fire. When they unite, it creates a conduit for magic that is almost impossible to stop."
Allen leaned back, a playful glint in his eye. "There's an old saying among wandmakers: 'If the owner of an oak wand meets the owner of a holly wand, their union will be foolish.' It's a bit of ancient superstition, really. Merlin himself was said to wield an oak wand. So, unless you're planning on resurrecting the Great Enchanter for a date, I think you're safe from the curse, Harry."
Harry chuckled, though he gripped his wand a bit tighter. Allen, however, was lost in a private thought. He didn't mention the twin core—the yew wand held by a certain Dark Lord. Elm and Yew, symbols of war and immortality. He thought about how Harry's holly symbolized rebirth through sacrifice, while Voldemort's yew represented a desperate, hollow immortality. The symmetry was chilling, a narrative thread woven into the very wood they carried.
A small, insistent hand waved in front of his face, breaking his trance.
"Allen! You can't just stop there!" Hermione cried, looking genuinely miffed at being left out. "What about mine? You've analyzed the boys, but you're skipping the most important part!"
Allen smirked. He knew the "Know-It-All" of Gryffindor couldn't stand being a secondary character in a lesson. "Patience, Hermione. I was just savoring the best for last."
"Wait! Let me get my parchment!" Hermione scrambled for her bag, her bushy hair swinging like a pendulum. She sat poised with a quill, her front teeth biting her lower lip in concentration.
"Your wand is vine," Allen began, watching her quill fly across the page. "To the ancient Druids, any plant with a woody stem was a tree, but vine is special. It represents high-mindedness, joy, and the pursuit of a noble goal. It's a rare choice for a wand, usually reserved for those with extraordinary foresight. People think they know you, Hermione, but your wand knows you have depths that would shock them. It's sensitive—vine wands are known to spark the moment their true master enters a room. It chose you because you were already a witch of great destiny before you even sat on that stool at Ollivander's."
Hermione's face turned a brilliant shade of pink. She tried to hide her smile behind her notebook, but her eyes were sparkling.
"But," Allen added, his voice turning teasing, "it's also powered by dragon heartstring. That's why your fire spells are so potent. Dragon wands learn faster than any other, but they're capricious. They don't have the unwavering, 'ride-or-die' loyalty of Ron's unicorn hair. If someone bests you in a duel, your wand might just decide it likes the winner better. It's a bit of a diva, much like its owner when she doesn't get an 'O' on an essay."
"Allen!" Hermione protested, though she was laughing.
After the lighthearted teasing, Allen turned serious, handing the willow branch back to Ron. He explained the grueling process of curing the wood—wetting it with oils and air-drying it seven times. He assigned Harry and Ron the task of the first few cycles, knowing they had a long night of detention ahead.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges, the group walked back toward the Great Hall. The energy from the pumpkin patch evaporated. Harry and Ron looked like they were walking toward their execution.
"Remember, Harry," Allen whispered as they reached the corridors. "If you see a letter from a Daisy Harris in Lockhart's fan mail, grab it. It's vital."
Harry nodded solemnly. "I've got you, Allen. Writing 'I am wonderful' for three hours will be worth it if I find your lead."
Once the others had trudged off to their respective punishments, Allen returned to the Ravenclaw tower. But as he lay in bed, he felt a strange tug in his mind. He'd ignored his Niffler for far too long. He opened his system's pet interface, expecting to see the creature sulking in a small cage.
Instead, his eyes widened. The pet area had evolved.
The "Sea Snake Incident" prize must have kicked in. What was once a simple storage slot had expanded into a vast, subterranean pocket dimension filled with rich, dark soil. He saw his Niffler twenty meters underground, frantically digging but looking utterly dejected. The poor thing was a treasure hunter with nothing to find.
Allen pulled a handful of gold Galleons—the ones he'd transmuted using the Philosopher's Stone—and tossed them into the portal.
The change was instantaneous. The Niffler's snout twitched. It scrambled to the surface, its little paws working overtime as it scooped up the gold and stuffed it into its magically expanding belly pouch. It looked up at the "sky" of its realm and let out a satisfied chirp.
"It's a living ecosystem," Allen realized, his heart racing. "Like Newt Scamander's briefcase, but integrated into my soul."
He couldn't stay in bed after that. He needed more. He needed to test the limits of this new realm.
He dressed in dark clothes, threw on a Disillusionment Charm, and slipped out of the castle. The Forbidden Forest loomed to the west, a wall of ancient, whispering shadows. To most students, it was a place of death. To Hagrid, it was a nursery. To Allen, it was a resource.
The air inside the forest was thick and cold, smelling of damp moss and old magic. Allen moved like a ghost, his eyes scanning the canopy. He wasn't here for centaurs or spiders tonight. He was looking for the guardians of the trees.
He reached a cluster of ancient willows near the edge of a clearing. Almost immediately, he heard the sharp, chittering screeches of Bowtruckles. The little bark-colored creatures dropped from the branches, their long, needle-like fingers extended to gouge his eyes.
Allen didn't flinch. He reached into his pouch and scattered a handful of ground beetles. The Bowtruckles froze mid-leap. Their anger vanished as they scrambled for the treats, their tiny mouths clicking in delight.
As he touched the tree and activated the system's capture, the pet realm shifted again. A grove of willows sprouted instantly within his internal space, perfectly mimicking the environment of the Forbidden Forest. The Bowtruckles moved in, claiming the new trees as their own.
"Incredible," Allen muttered, leaning against a tree. "I can carry a whole forest in my pocket."
He began his trek back to the castle, feeling a sense of immense satisfaction. But as he stepped into the cold stone corridors of the ground floor, the atmosphere changed. The temperature dropped.
A voice, thin and cold as a razor blade, drifted through the stone walls. It wasn't a human voice; it was a hiss that felt like ice water in his ears.
"Come... come to me... let me rip you... let me tear you... kill... kill... kill..."
Allen froze, his hand instinctively flying to his wand. He wasn't a hero searching for a mystery, but the sheer malice in that voice sent a shiver down his spine that no amount of scholarly knowledge could protect him from.