The moment Gaia's talons released him, Allen didn't wait to find his footing. He scrambled across the giant, moss-lined nest, his boots sinking into the soft debris as he rushed to Tina's side. The smell of copper and ozone was thick in the air.
Tina looked terrible. Her scales, usually a vibrant peacock blue, were slick with blood and a translucent, shimmering fluid. She was so small now—barely the size of a garden snake—and her tiny heart was thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Stay with me, Tina," Allen murmured. He didn't care about the stains on his expensive school robes. He knelt, cradling her miniature head in his palm while supporting her frail body on his knees.
He didn't just give her the standard healing potions. He reached into the deepest pocket of his satchel and pulled out a tiny, ornate crystal vial. Inside, a molten golden liquid swirled with an inner light, moving as if it had a mind of its own.
"This is the only bit of Felix Felicis I have left," Allen whispered, his voice barely audible over the dripping leaves. "Consider this a gift from the Harris family."
He carefully tilted the vial. A single, shimmering thread of Liquid Luck trickled into Tina's mouth. For a split second, the air in the nest seemed to hum. It was as if the universe itself had just shifted its weight, leaning in to ensure a specific outcome. Whether it was the potions, the luck, or the mother's desperate will to survive, the results were instantaneous.
With a soft, metallic chime—the sound of silver on silver—a blood-stained but miraculously intact egg rolled out onto the moss. It was beautiful, gleaming with a soft, moonlight luster despite the grime.
Allen didn't stop. He unleashed a flurry of low-intensity healing charms, his wand tracing intricate patterns in the air to knit the creature's internal tears. He followed up with the remaining Blood-Replenishing Draught, watching as the vibrant color returned to her scales.
Gaia landed softly on the edge of the nest, her massive weight making the thick branch groan. She was surprisingly delicate for a creature of her size, nuzzling Tina's flank with a soft, mournful lowing sound. Her golden eyes then turned to the silver egg, filled with a maternal warmth that transcended species.
Allen reached out to move the egg closer to the mother, but the moment his fingers brushed the silver shell, it pulsed. The egg suddenly expanded, doubling in size right in his hands.
"Whoa!" Allen gripped it tight, his muscles straining. "Naughty little thing, aren't you?"
The egg was "choranaptyxic" even before hatching, reacting to the space and the contact. The shell felt like the softest, most expensive velvet, yet it was clearly made of pure, malleable silver. It was a masterpiece of nature.
He tucked the egg against Tina's belly. The moment the contact was made, the mother's instinct took over. Despite her exhaustion, Tina's body rippled, growing rapidly from the size of an arm back to her majestic fifteen-meter length, her coils forming a protective, shimmering fortress around her offspring.
Allen stood up, wiping his hands on a clean cloth. "She's over the hump, Gaia. But she's going to be weak for a while."
He pulled out twenty-four vials of a deep purple liquid—his own high-potency Blood-Renewing formula. He lined them up in a hollow of the tree bark. "One of these every hour. It'll keep her strength up and help her produce enough milk-equivalent for the hatchling."
"You've done more than enough, Allen," Gaia said, her voice rich with gratitude. "The forest remembers its friends."
The storm had passed. The heavy, oppressive weight of the clouds had lifted, leaving behind a crisp, clean night where the only sound was the rhythmic "plip-plop" of water falling from the canopy to the forest floor.
Firenze was waiting at the base of the tree. The return trip was quieter, the centaur moving with a rhythmic grace that allowed Allen to actually process the night's events. By the time they reached the castle gates, the first hint of a pale, grey dawn was touching the horizon.
Back in the Ravenclaw tower, Allen collapsed onto his bed without even taking off his boots. He was exhausted, but his mind was buzzing.
[System Notification: Rescue Mission Complete.][Reward: Random Prize Draw Available. Would you like to spin now?]
"Do it," Allen thought, too tired to say it aloud.
The familiar, spectral wheel spun in his mind's eye. He watched the colors blur, feeling strangely detached. After the intensity of the night, even a system reward felt secondary. The needle flickered past several powerful-looking icons before settling on an orange segment.
[Prize Awarded: The Lost Tongue Spell (Passive).][Effect: Grants the user the ability to speak and understand any human language. Restricted to sounds produced by human vocal organs. Note: This provides verbal fluency only; it does not grant the ability to read or write foreign scripts.]
Allen grinned into his pillow. Well, at least I won't need a translator the next time I'm in Paris or Cairo, even if I'll still be technically illiterate in twenty languages. It was a solid utility prize.
The next morning came far too quickly.
Despite the lack of sleep, the "Harris Work Ethic" was ingrained in his soul. He was on the Quidditch pitch by 7:00 AM, practicing his dives and turns under the watchful, somewhat manic eye of Roger Davies. He was halfway through a difficult Wronski Feint when a small, robed figure appeared on the sidelines, waving a hand frantically.
It was Professor Flitwick.
"Mr. Harris! A moment, if you please!" the tiny professor squeaked, his voice carrying clearly across the grass.
Allen touched down, excused himself from a grumbling Roger, and followed Flitwick toward the castle. They headed to the seventh floor, entering the Professor's office. It was a cozy, circular room with thirteen large windows that provided a stunning view of the West Tower. Allen could even see his owl, Benny, circling the heights in the distance.
The office was designed for someone of Flitwick's stature—low bookshelves, small chairs, and a desk that looked like a child's play-table to anyone else. But the magic in the room was palpable.
"Sit, sit, Allen! Try a tea-cake," Flitwick said, beaming. He tapped a tin box on his desk. The lid flew open, and three small, sugar-dusted cakes hopped out. They didn't just sit there; they began a frantic, synchronized cowboy dance across the mahogany surface.
Allen watched a cake tap-dance through a small pile of dust. He had a bit of a germ phobia when it came to food, especially anything that had been "dancing" on a desk, but he didn't want to be rude. He carefully picked up a cake by its top half, avoiding the "feet," and took a polite bite. It was delicious—lemon and ginger.
A crystal teapot drifted through the air, pouring a stream of pale yellow honeyed-grapefruit tea into a delicate cup. The aroma was refreshing, instantly clearing the cobwebs from Allen's tired brain.
"Professor, your office is easily the most comfortable place in this castle," Allen said, leaning back.
Flitwick chuckled, his eyes twinkling behind his glasses. "I like to think so. But I didn't bring you here just for tea and dancing pastries, Allen. Tell me, what are your plans for the Christmas holidays?"
Allen blinked. "Christmas? Professor, that's nearly two months away. I suppose I'll be heading home to the family. My father usually has a rather extensive list of 'supplementary reading' for the break."
Flitwick took a long sip of his tea, his expression turning uncharacteristically bashful. "Yes, yes, quite. But... I find myself in a bit of a professional pickle. You see, when I was a younger man, I was the International Wizarding Duelling Champion."
Allen nodded. Every Ravenclaw knew that. It was a point of immense pride.
"An old rival of mine from the States, a man named Leonard Knox, took the silver that year. He's never quite let it go," Flitwick explained, rubbing his hands together. "He's coming to England this December. And he's bringing his 'protégé'—a twelve-year-old boy he claims is the most gifted duelist the American colonies have produced in a century."
Flitwick looked up, a spark of competitive fire in his eyes. "He's been sending me owls, Allen. Mocking owls. Suggesting that Hogwarts has grown 'soft' and that I haven't found a student with a tenth of this boy's talent. It's quite... vexing."
Allen hid a smile. The tiny professor was clearly itching for a proxy battle. "So, you want me to show him what a Ravenclaw can do?"
Flitwick stood up on his chair so he could look Allen in the eye. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you were the best we had, Allen. You have the mind, the reflexes, and—if the rumors about your extracurricular activities are true—the nerve. Would you be willing to represent the school—and your Head of House—in a friendly exhibition match?"
Allen set his tea down. The prospect of testing his skills against a top-tier American student was far more exciting than any holiday dinner party his father could organize.
"Professor, it would be an honor to defend the reputation of Ravenclaw. Consider me at your service."