The brief summer vacation had evaporated far too quickly. Allen, in a frenzy of academic consumption, had spent the entirety of his downtime glued to his new spellbooks. Based on the performance metrics of the first-year wizards in the source material, Allen calculated that his sheer theoretical understanding of magical principles already outstripped virtually all of his incoming peers. The only likely exception was the perpetually prepared Miss Know-It-All, Hermione Granger.
Yet, a huge, practical hurdle remained: he still lacked his own wand.
The law was absolute: young wizards were forbidden from practicing magic unsupervised outside of school, their unauthorized spellcasting tracked by the Ministry's subtle detection charms. While this rule was conveniently overlooked for pure-blood children practicing simple spells within the confines of their ancestral homes—protected by powerful adult magic—Allen knew the restriction was a major systemic disadvantage for Muggle-born children.
Casting silent spells and wandless magic was a skill that took veteran wizards years to master. For a young student who had never even held his personalized conduit, it was nearly impossible. Allen ruthlessly assessed his own potential. Unlike individuals like Delphi Riddle, the illegitimate daughter of Voldemort and Bellatrix—a prodigy rumored to possess terrifying, innate magical power that allowed her to cast complex spells without a wand—Allen had no such bloodline advantage.
Riddle, despite never attending Hogwarts, was so potent that a direct, one-on-one duel with the experienced Auror Harry Potter, a man ten years her senior, would have been a guaranteed loss for the famous savior. The comparison was a humbling reminder that raw blood power could bypass years of study. Allen would have to rely on meticulous preparation and his Academic Superstar System.
"Allen! Hurry up and get down here for breakfast! You'll be late for the bus!"
His mother's call jolted him from his complex tactical planning. Allen quickly gathered his Muggle textbooks, swiftly exchanged his luxurious, self-cleaning Great Mage Robe (which he wore as comfortable pyjamas) for the uniform of the local public school in the Little Whinging district, performed a final mental cleansing charm on his attire, and sprinted down the stairs.
He swiftly downed a glass of milk, snagged a slice of bread as the toaster steam rose, flung his backpack over his shoulder, and headed for the door, half-expecting to encounter the eccentric blue-haired albino transfer student he remembered from the original story's periphery.
"Hold on, Allen, I'll take you this morning." Albert suddenly appeared, fully dressed.
Allen raised an eyebrow, taking another preparatory bite of bread. "Oh? Why isn't Dad driving today? Did the Ministry call him in early?"
Albert smiled, a strange, mysterious glint in his eyes. "Father had a sudden, pressing matter, so I volunteered to drop you off." The moment he gripped Allen's upper arm, Allen felt a sudden, aggressive suction. His vision dissolved into a terrifying riot of colors and lights. He was hit with a tremendous, oppressive force that seemed to squeeze him from every conceivable direction. He couldn't breathe; his chest felt as if it were being crushed by half a dozen unseen iron rings.
His eyeballs felt pushed deep into his skull, his eardrums pressed inward. Then, whoosh! It abruptly ended. Allen gasped, wrenching in the clean, crisp morning air, feeling as though his entire being had just been forcibly compressed and shot through a narrow, twisting rubber tube.
"My apologies, Allen. But it was far more convenient than the car, wouldn't you agree?" Albert shrugged, releasing his brother.
"Albert, you absolute menace! I'm still not used to Apparition!" Allen panted, battling a wave of intense nausea and dizzy disorientation. He realized Albert had teleported them instantly to a secluded, unremarkable corner behind the school building.
"If you plan on playing Quidditch competitively, you need to get accustomed to the sheer speed of flying… and transportation," Albert lectured with superficial concern. "Anyway, I have to run. You still have plenty of time before the bell. Take a minute to recover." Albert offered a dismissive pat on the shoulder, turned his back, and vanished with a quiet pop.
Allen, finally steadying himself, looked down at his hand. The perfectly toasted slice of bread he'd been clutching had been pulverized into dry, crumbling dust during the violent transport. Great. I'm going to be starving all morning, he thought bitterly.
Just then, a commotion erupted nearby. "Potter has to be hiding in the bathroom! Both of you, find him now! He needs to try out our new boxing gloves!"
A small horde of four or five large boys—smelling distinctly of adolescent sweat and aggressive intent—stormed past Allen.
One of them, Piers Polkiss, a dark-haired boy and Dudley Dursley's primary sidekick, skidded to a stop and marched back toward Allen. "Hey, what are you standing there gaping at, idiot?"
"Oh, I was just observing a group of large pigs practicing for a sudden, unscheduled race," Allen drawled nonchalantly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his impeccable school uniform.
"Pigs? Where are the pigs?" Piers and the others glanced around wildly, their faces slowly dawning with comprehension. "You cheeky little—!"
Dudley Dursley, a monumental boy wearing shiny new boxing gloves, advanced menacingly toward Allen. His face, puffy and flushed, was twisted with bad intent.
"Harris, you looking for a beat-down?" Dudley demanded, holding up his gloved fists in a hostile gesture.
"Big D, give him a taste of the new leather! Make him squeal like one of those pigs he saw!" shouted Malcolm, and the group erupted into harsh laughter.
"I sincerely doubt any of you want to begin the new term in the Headmaster's office," a sharp, distinctly female voice cut through the aggression from directly behind Dudley.
The bullies froze mid-cackle. "Ah, Miss Kelly, we were just heading in now, Miss." Students of this age possessed a potent, instinctive fear of their teachers, especially one as serious as the voice implied.
Miss Kelly emerged from the shadows. She wore a long wool dress layered beneath a meticulously tailored black wool trench coat. The crispness of the wool fabric suggested refinement and rigorous self-discipline. Gold-rimmed spectacles sat precisely on her nose, lending her an air of stern, unyielding dignity.
"Allen, why are you lingering? Are you not joining the others?" Miss Kelly's gaze fixed sternly on him.
Allen quickly caught up to the retreating, suddenly meek figures of Dudley and his gang. Despite his intellectual status as a former teacher, the primal memory of the original Allen—the student's ingrained fear of a teacher's stern authority—still resonated, causing a familiar, involuntary tensing of his muscles. The repression of the student's nature by the teacher's authority was a universal constant.
Lost in thought, Allen entered the classroom.
The room was typical of a high-achieving public school: pale green walls adorned with vibrant, if simplistic, student artwork. A purple bulletin board displayed neatly organized class lists and schedules. Books were scattered strategically, some arranged in tidy reading corners, others haphazardly placed but clearly designated for student use.
"Over here, Allen!" A thin boy with a perpetually twitchy demeanor waved frantically. It was Fogg Brown, Allen's designated deskmate at the Muggle school.
"Allen, those Dursleys have got new boxing gloves and are definitely planning to ambush poor Potter again. That Potter boy is weird, but the Dursleys are truly despicable… Oh, hey, I got a new basketball for Christmas, we should definitely play a few rounds during break…" Fogg launched into an unstoppable torrent of chatter.
Allen listened patiently, yet internally questioned his own magnetic personality. Why is it that every friend I make in this life seems to possess a talent for incessant, undirected conversation? Do I possess some inherent talent for attracting talkative people?
As Fogg's rambling continued, a small, thin boy with an ill-fitting, gray sweater entered the room.
The sight was immediately recognizable: the boy's face was thin and slightly undernourished, his jet-black hair perpetually defiant, framing bright emerald-green eyes behind clear-taped, round-framed glasses. A shock of black hair fell artlessly over his forehead, almost concealing the distinctive lightning-bolt scar.
Allen recalled the obscure detail: this perpetually messy hair was a trait of the Potter family line. The boy's grandfather, Fleamont Potter, had become wealthy by inventing a hair-straightening product, quadrupling the family fortune before selling the company. Perhaps Severus Snape's famously greasy hair was an early, aggressive rejection of the popular Potter product, Allen mused with dry internal humor.
"What a pathetic sight," Allen thought, a genuine pang of pity hitting him. Despite having been assigned by his father to befriend the Boy-Who-Lived, the contrast between his own comfortable life and Harry's current, clearly abused state was deeply unsettling.
As planned, Harry Potter's desk was positioned directly across from Allen's.
"Potter, how did you manage to avoid the Dursleys just now?" Fogg asked, his curiosity overriding his usual nervousness.
"Oh, I'm used to it now. I know their habits, how to dodge them," Harry replied, his voice low, a sign of the resilience he'd developed under years of Dudley's bullying.
"Potter, sit near us after the lesson, and the Dursleys won't bother you," Allen interjected smoothly, immediately sensing Harry's distress and recognizing the perfect strategic opening. This move fulfilled his father Owen's political goal—getting his son to ally with the savior—while also serving Allen's academic and defensive interests.
"Thank you," Harry accepted instantly, a hint of genuine relief in his emerald eyes. He had few friends, and Allen's confident, well-dressed demeanor suggested a welcome potential ally.
The class suddenly fell into an unnerving silence. The old adage held true: authority always casts a long, quieting shadow. Miss Kelly had entered.
The moment she stepped onto the podium, her sharp, experienced gaze swept across the room, and the remaining low chatter instantly ceased. It was the irresistible, commanding aura of a veteran teacher.
"The new term has begun. We start as we mean to go on. First, let us discuss your uniforms. Mr. Dudley Dursley, put your coat on, and place those large boxing gloves on your desk immediately."
Dudley, a giant of a boy, quickly zipped his jacket and slid the offending gloves onto the polished wood, shrinking visibly under her gaze.
"Miss Nam Yang, take that excessively gaudy red hair accessory off your head. Roger, tuck your shirt in properly."
Allen watched Harry futilely trying to flatten his stubborn, eternally unruly shock of black hair. He failed miserably.
Amidst the group of shrinking, chastised students, Miss Kelly's sharp, corrective gaze finally landed on Allen. Her stern expression softened, replaced by a momentary look of profound appreciation and satisfaction. Allen had, minutes earlier, subconsciously utilized the automatic cleanse function of his Great Mage Robe. The effect was flawless.
"Mr. Harris, stand up, please," Miss Kelly called out.
Allen rose instantly.
"Young gentlemen and ladies, look at Mr. Harris. He is the epitome of the required student dress code. Look at him, and then look at yourselves! Why can't the rest of you present yourselves with this level of meticulousness?" Allen detected a clear nod of approval beneath the teacher's professionally harsh tone.
Harry Potter looked at Allen with a flash of genuine envy. Allen's light, pale golden hair lay obediently against his scalp, and his pale-blue uniform looked untouched, pristine, without a single wrinkle or speck of dirt. He radiated the air of a highly successful, privileged student, which only deepened Harry's current insecurity.
After a lengthy list of expected school behaviors, Miss Kelly finally noticed the collective slump in the students' mood.
"Now," she said, her voice shifting slightly to a more engaging tone, "I have a pleasant surprise. I would like to introduce our new Science teacher."
As Allen had anticipated, the curiosity of the class was instantly rekindled.