The intricate patterns Allen carved into the cooling silver-white surface of the Mithril staff were far from mere aesthetic choices. In the silent, suspended chamber, as the glowing runes began to dim into a permanent, icy sheen, Allen could feel the ambient magic of the room reacting to the metal.
These runes were active conduits, designed to act as a closed-loop system for his spellcasting. In traditional wooden wands, a significant fraction of a wizard's raw magical energy is lost to the surrounding air as heat or friction during the casting process. The runes on Allen's new staff, however, channeled his internal energy with zero resistance.
Under identical spellcasting conditions, his magical consumption would be slashed by nearly half. More importantly, when channeling highly volatile, high-tier spells—like the Sunburst he had unleashed on the Duke of Night—the Mithril casing would act as a heat sink, absorbing the magical backlash and making it vastly easier to maintain absolute control over the spell's trajectory.
But the most revolutionary feature of the wand was inspired by a footnote in Jeb's ancient alchemical grimoire. At the pommel of the staff, Allen had forged a micro-link chain made of spun Mithril threads, incredibly thin yet possessing a tensile strength that could rival steel.
Established wandmakers like Ollivander would view such an addition as a heresy. Traditional wands relied on organic wood and living cores; drilling into the shaft to anchor a metal chain would compromise the structural integrity of the wood, causing the magic to splinter and choke. But Mithril was a metal that welcomed magic. It integrated with the core seamlessly, allowing the magical current to flow through the chain itself without a single drop in conductivity.
The practical advantage of this design was immense. Even if an opponent managed to catch Allen off guard with a perfectly placed Expelliarmus, the wand would not fly into the enemy's hands. With a simple tug of the wrist, he could retrieve his weapon instantly.
As for the core of the wand, Allen had chosen to keep his original one. It was a perfect match for his magical signature, and there was no need to fix what wasn't broken. Gently, using delicate alchemical tweezers, he had threaded the golden, pulsing core into the hollow center of the formed Mithril casing, sealing it with a final, whisper-soft binding charm.
There was another, far more tactical benefit to this reconstruction. The Ministry of Magic's Underage Magic Trace was not bound to a child's physical body; it was registered to the specific magical resonance of the wand purchased at Ollivander's at age eleven. By melting down the external housing and completely restructuring the wand's physical and runic geometry, Allen had effectively shattered the old registry. The Ministry's monitoring station would now read his spellcasting as wild, ambient magic, or fail to register it entirely.
He was, for all intents and purposes, completely off the grid.
The completed wand was a thing of breathtaking beauty. It was sleek, perfectly balanced, and felt like an extension of his own arm. But a weapon this magnificent needed a suitable containment system. It couldn't simply be shoved into a pocket or a standard leather holster.
Allen opened his spatial ring and pulled out a rolled-up portion of grey-blue, diamond-patterned hide. It belonged to the ancient Nile Plesiosaur he had slain in the underground ruins. The hide was incredibly tough, naturally resistant to curses, and once treated with alchemical oils, it became as supple as fine silk while retaining its near-indestructible properties.
Leaning over his workbench, Allen began to tan and cut the hide, his mind drifting back to the stealth games of his past life. He designed a form-fitting forearm bracer with a hidden, magically assisted slide track built into the underbelly of the leather. He anchored the end of the track to the thin Mithril chain of his wand.
Snick. Clack.
With a quick, sharp flex of his wrist muscles, the mechanical slide triggered, pulling the wand smoothly from up his sleeve straight into his waiting palm. It was silent, instantaneous, and entirely discreet.
To ensure the weapon didn't draw unwanted attention, Allen layered a permanent, high-tier illusion charm over both the bracer and the wand. To anyone else, the bracer would look like a simple, weathered leather wrist-strap, and the Mithril staff would appear as nothing more than his ordinary, slightly chipped eleven-inch wooden wand. The silver chain remained entirely invisible to the naked eye.
Satisfied, Allen strapped the bracer to his left forearm, feeling the cool weight of the leather settle against his skin. He flexed his wrist once, the wand dropping into his hand with a satisfying, metallic click, before sliding back up his sleeve with a second motion. It was perfect.
Though his main work was finished, the cauldrons were still warm. Allen spent the next few hours utilizing the leftover, lesser ingredients to brew a series of concentrated healing potions and physical restorative salves. He couldn't bear the thought of his family members bleeding in their own living room again; if danger came to their doorstep, he wanted them to have the resources to survive.
By the time he finally cleaned the cauldrons and cleared the workbench, the physical and mental toll of the long day caught up with him. He stepped out of the invisible chamber and onto the stone balcony of the manor.
The sky outside had taken on a heavy, bruised grey, the winter twilight settling over the snow-covered moors like a cold blanket. Allen's stomach let out a ferocious growl, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since the previous night.
He crossed the courtyard, the freezing wind stinging his cheeks, but his heart was light. He was carrying the future of his family in his pockets.
He pushed open the heavy oak doors of the manor and stepped into the living room. The warmth of the roaring fireplace hit him instantly, carrying the scent of roasting pine and rich gravy.
The family was gathered by the hearth. Mr. Harris was buried behind the evening paper, while Lenn and Albert were hunched over a game of wizard's chess, their faces illuminated by the amber glow of the fire. Daisy was sitting in an armchair, occasionally adjusting her hair while staring into her small compact mirror, though she still looked slightly flushed from the morning's encounter.
On the rug, little Emily was playing with her rag doll, meticulously bending its fabric limbs and lecturing it in a serious, high-pitched whisper. Allen couldn't help but smile; her attempts at being an authoritative "mother" were incredibly endearing.
"Well, look who decided to join the living," Daisy teased, setting her mirror down as Allen walked in. "If Dad hadn't assured us you were just hiding in the treasure wing, I would have assumed the house-elves had swept you into the furnace."
Before Allen could reply, his mother, Morgan, and Aunt Josephine emerged from the kitchen, their faces softening the moment they saw how pale and drained he looked.
"You look like a ghost yourself, Allen," Morgan said, her maternal instincts immediately kicking into overdrive as she turned back to the kitchen. "I'll get the soup warmed up."
"Wait," Allen said, his voice quiet but carrying a strange weight that made everyone in the room pause.
With a smooth, deliberate motion, Allen flicked his wrist. The illusion over his bracer didn't drop, but he reached into his spatial ring and placed six shimmering, jewel-toned glass flasks onto the low mahogany table.
The chess pieces froze. Mr. Harris lowered his newspaper, and even Emily stopped whispering to her doll, her wide blue eyes fixing on the glowing bottles.
"These are for you," Allen said.
"What are they, son?" Mr. Harris asked, stepping closer to the table.
"These are not standard potions, Father," Allen explained, his tone holding a quiet, confident pride that sounded almost like a master merchant presenting a rare artifact. "The blue flasks are optimized Mana-Well Elixirs, tailored to your specific magical attributes. They will permanently expand your magical reserves, allowing you to cast without the usual fatigue."
He pointed to the amber and violet bottles. "The others are custom attribute enhancers. This one—'Eagle's Splendor'—permanently refines the user's personal charisma, leadership capability, and physical presence. The violet one—'Owl's Wisdom'—permanently sharpens the mind, strengthening willpower, intuitive perception, and cognitive speed."
Josephine and Owen exchanged a long, heavy look. They knew the theory, but seeing the physical reality of these legendary potions sitting on a coffee table in their living room was entirely different.
"Albert, Lenn, Daisy," Mr. Harris said, his voice suddenly losing its easy, fatherly warmth and taking on the hard, protective edge of a patriarch. "Put the game away."
"Me too!" Emily chimed in, scrambling to her feet and raising her hand.
"Yes, Emily, you too," Mr. Harris added softly, gesturing for them to gather around the table. He looked at his children, his eyes serious. "What Allen has created here... it is a miracle, but it is also a death sentence if the wrong people find out. We cannot afford a single loose tongue."
"I agree," Albert said immediately, his Auror training making the danger instantly clear. "The Ministry is desperate, and the old families are greedy. If they knew the Harris family possessed a way to permanently upgrade their natural magical potential, we'd be hunted like dogs."
There were no arguments. Even little Emily, seeing the grim expressions on her brothers' faces, nodded solemnly, her usual mischievousness vanishing.
With Aunt Josephine acting as the Bonder, the family stood in a tight circle, their hands clasped over the glowing potions. One by one, they swore the Unbreakable Vow, the thin, red tongues of magical fire coiling around their wrists before sinking into their skin with a soft, final hiss. The secret was locked in their blood.
As the tension in the room finally broke, Allen flicked his wrist again, letting the illusion over his wand drop for just a fraction of a second to show them the magnificent Mithril casing.
The family erupted into a chorus of quiet, awed whispers. Even Lenn, who rarely showed excitement, leaned in to examine the runic carvings. At their eager insistence, Allen laughed and made a promise: before the Christmas holidays were over, he would forge a custom, runic Mithril wand for every single one of them.
The living room filled with enthusiastic applause and cheers, though Emily was sitting on the hearth, counting on her tiny fingers with a massive pout.
"I still have two years before I even get to go to Hogwarts," she grumbled, crossing her arms. "By the time I get my wand, you'll probably have forgotten how to make them."
The entire room burst into a hearty, roaring laughter that echoed against the old stone walls. Standing there, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the absolute loyalty of his blood, Allen felt that the cold winter outside couldn't touch them. They were no longer just a family; they were a rising power.