"Of course I have some, Allen. Why wouldn't I?" Gaia asked, her voice carrying that musical, breezy tone common to the forest folk. She was incredibly generous, her trust in Allen absolute after their shared brush with death the previous year. To her, helping Allen was simply what one did for a member of the herd, even a two-legged one.
"Not much, just a single, high-quality strand for a wand core," Allen explained. He pulled out a silk-wrapped bundle from his robes. "But I didn't come empty-handed. These are some honey cakes and lemon tarts my mother sent. They're a bit different from forest fruit, but I think you'll find them… interesting."
Gaia's eyes widened as she delicately took the package. The scent of refined sugar and butter was alien and intoxicating in the wild woods. She let out a joyful whinny, gesturing for Allen to stay put. "Wait here, sky-walker. I shall return with the silver threads of the Mothers."
While she was gone, Allen didn't have to wait in silence. Before long, several adolescent unicorns, their coats still shimmering with a golden-silver hue, trotted toward him. They treated Allen like a favorite uncle, rubbing their velvet muzzles against his shoulder and "talking" in that rhythmic, wordless way they had. They shared visions of the ripening star-plums and the strange, multi-colored birds they had seen near the edge of the mountains.
Gaia returned sooner than expected, carrying a small satchel woven from moon-grass. She handed Allen a coil of pristine, shimmering unicorn hair—thick, strong, and pulsing with pure magic—along with a staggering amount of rare forest fruit. Allen spent an hour playing with the young unicorns, letting their pure aura wash away the academic stress of the week, before reluctantly bowing and heading back to the castle.
The next morning, with his pockets full of wand supplies, Allen went looking for Ron. Instead, he ran into Roger Davies, the captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team. Roger was practically glowing with competitive fervor. Following last year's victory, the entire Ravenclaw house had caught Quidditch fever.
"Good morning, Allen! Off to the library already?" Roger asked, though he didn't wait for an answer. "I've just secured the pitch for our morning drills. It took some doing, but I managed to get a signed authorization."
"How did you manage that? I thought Gryffindor had the Saturday morning slot," Allen remarked, curious about the bureaucracy of the pitch.
"Oh, it was easy," Roger grinned. "I just went to Professor Lockhart. He'll sign anything you put in front of him as long as you tell him it's for a 'worthy, high-profile cause.' I think he just likes seeing his own signature on official parchment."
Allen's mind immediately went to the Restricted Section of the library. If Lockhart was that free with his signature, obtaining a pass for advanced dark arts theory or forbidden alchemy would be trivial. He made a mental note to 'admire' the professor's penmanship later that week.
Roger led the way to the Quidditch stadium, but as they rounded the stands, the sound of shouting reached them. Two groups were squaring off in the center of the pitch: the red-and-gold of Gryffindor and the emerald-and-silver of Slytherin.
"Oh, look who decided to join the party! It's the bookworms," scoffed Marcus Flint, the Slytherin captain. He looked even more troll-like than usual in the morning light, his jaw set in a permanent sneer.
"This is our time, Flint!" roared Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor captain, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. "We got up at five in the morning for this! Now back off!"
Flint didn't budge. He loomed over the smaller Wood with a cunning, predatory look. "The pitch is big enough for everyone, Wood, but today, it's Slytherin property."
The Slytherin team stood in a disciplined line, seven players side-by-side, all wearing the same look of cold, aristocratic arrogance. There wasn't a single girl on the team—just raw, physical intimidation.
"I reserved the whole stadium!" Wood yelled, waving a crumpled piece of parchment. "I have the signatures!"
"Ah," Flint drawled, pulling his own scroll from his belt. "But I have a note signed by Professor Snape himself. 'I, Professor Severus Snape, give the Slytherin team permission to train their new Seeker on the pitch today.' It's a matter of departmental priority, you see."
Roger Davies stepped forward, not willing to let the Ravenclaw reservation be ignored. "We also have a special authorization from Professor Lockhart! And wait... what new Seeker? You've had the same lineup for three years."
Allen watched the confrontation, finding a strange irony in the captains' names. Wood and Flint. One was flammable, the other was the spark. It was no wonder they couldn't stand near each other without a fire starting.
From behind the wall of large Slytherin players, a smaller, thinner boy stepped out. He had a pale, pointed face and a smirk so smug it was practically a physical weapon. It was Draco Malfoy.
"Malfoy?" Wood spat. "You're the new Seeker?"
"That's right," Malfoy said, his voice dripping with condescension. "And that's not all that's new."
Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, nudged Roger and whispered, "Roger, look at their brooms..."
Seven brand-new, polished broomsticks rested on the Slytherins' shoulders. They were sleek, with a refined aerodynamic curve and gold lettering that caught the sun: Nimbus 2001. They were the cutting edge of racing technology, released only a month ago and costing a small fortune.
"A small gift from my father to the team," Draco said, his eyes narrowing with malicious glee as he looked at the Gryffindors' older models. "I'm sure they're significantly faster than the old 2000 series. And as for those things..." He gestured to the Cleansweeps held by Fred and George Weasley. "Maybe you can sell them to a museum. Or use them to sweep the Great Hall."
The pitch fell into a stunned, angry silence. The gap in equipment was massive. It wasn't just about skill anymore; it was about the sheer speed of gold.
"Ravenclaw, fall back," Roger Davies ordered, his voice tight. "We're heading to the tactics room. There's no point in arguing with a checkbook." He led his team away, casting one last cold glare at Malfoy.
Inside the Ravenclaw war room, the mood was somber. Quidditch was often a game of inches, and the Nimbus 2001 gave Slytherin a lead of several feet.
"We still have our Nimbus 2000s," Cho Chang said, trying to break the heavy silence. "The speed difference is there, but skill still counts for something. We just have to be smarter."
"Gryffindor and Hufflepuff are the ones who are really in trouble," Roger admitted, pacing the room. "We had the equipment advantage last year, and we didn't complain then. We can't complain now just because Malfoy bought his way in. We just have to be better than the broom."
Meanwhile, outside, the situation had devolved. Allen watched from the tunnel as Hermione Granger stepped forward to defend the Gryffindors, pointing out that no one on their team had been 'bought.'
Malfoy's smirk vanished, replaced by a hateful, venomous sneer. "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," he hissed.
The word hit the group like a physical blow. Ron Weasley, his face turning as red as his hair, didn't hesitate. He whipped out his taped-together wand and shouted, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy! Slugulus Eructo!"
There was a deafening bang. A jet of sickly green light didn't hit Malfoy; instead, it backfired out of the break in Ron's wand, hitting him squarely in the chest. Ron was blasted backward, landing hard on the grass. As the Slytherins erupted into peals of mocking laughter, Ron groaned and promptly vomited a massive, glistening garden slug onto the turf.
Gryffindor's practice was over before it began.
After dinner, Allen finally managed to isolate Harry and Ron in a corner of the common room—well, as isolated as one could be when one of them was still occasionally belching up mollusks. Both boys were dejected; they had both been handed detentions for the "disturbance." Ron was to polish trophies for Filch, and Harry was assigned to help Lockhart answer fan mail—a fate Harry clearly considered worse than death.
"You really should have known better than to use that wand, Ron," Allen said, pulling his own wand and pointing it at his friend's stomach. "Finite Incantatem."
The green hue left Ron's face, and the urge to vomit slugs finally subsided, though the social damage was done. No one wanted to sit within ten feet of them.
"I've got the willow and the unicorn hair," Allen whispered, leaning in. "But I can't do this in the dorms. The magical discharge of a bonding wood and core is too loud. Is there anywhere quiet?"
"The pumpkin patch!" Harry and Ron said at the same time.
"Hagrid's garden," Harry explained. "The pumpkins are massive this year. They'd provide perfect cover, and Hagrid won't mind if we're just... working on a project."
When they slipped out to the vegetable garden behind Hagrid's hut, Allen gasped. He had expected large pumpkins, but these were monstrous. Each one was nearly four feet tall, glowing with a strange, vibrant orange health. It looked like a scene from a fairy tale.
"An Engorgement Charm?" Allen guessed, running a hand over the thick, tough rind of a pumpkin. "Hagrid's outdone himself."
"Shhh!" Harry hissed, glancing toward the hut. "Hagrid's not supposed to use magic, remember? He was expelled in his third year. If the Ministry found out he was boosting his gourds, he'd be in serious trouble."