Allen gently lowered the antique-looking tome, "A Chronicle of Magic in the Last Hundred Years," its leather cover soft and cool against his fingers. A cold, sharp shiver of realization traced its way down his spine.
Should he lament his utterly bizarre arrival in a world teetering precariously on the brink of another war—a world he knew, intimately, was headed straight for chaos? Or should he cheer wildly at the dizzying, impossible opportunity to finally learn real magic?
It was all so messed up, so absurdly unfair, and yet... so exhilarating.
The current Allen Harris was decidedly not a young English wizarding child, but a weary, time-travelling soul from a different reality. The man who woke up here had been Allen Ding (or Ding Ailun, if you were being formal), a high school math teacher from a fourth-tier city on Earth.
His past life had been solid, if unspectacular. Born in 1987 into a respectable middle-class family, he'd always been sharp, a natural genius with numbers. Unfortunately, his high school years were spent prioritizing video games and late-night snacks over quadratic equations. It wasn't until his senior year that he finally buckled down, unleashing the full force of his formidable intellect. That single, grueling year of focused study had been enough to propel him right into the prestigious Mathematics Department of a top national university.
After graduation, he'd settled into the comfortable, secure grind of teaching. Seven years he'd spent in that classroom. Seven years of mentoring, troubleshooting, and perfecting the "Allen Method"—a brutal, highly efficient system he'd devised. Thanks to his razor-sharp mind and accumulated pedagogical experience, his top-tier pupils routinely achieved university entrance scores that made the regular mainstream classes look like kindergartens, often brushing shoulders with the elite honors students.
Allen's bright, predictable life had ended abruptly, not in some glorious, cinematic tragedy, but while humming along to terrible pop music on his way to buy an apartment.
He remembered the sterile scent of the new car his family had chipped in for after his first year of teaching. He remembered the feeling of accomplishment, the dizzying, visceral rush of imminent home ownership. Nothing, not even the blizzard that raged outside, could dampen that feverish excitement.
Then came the flash. The roar.
One massive, unfeeling dump truck, materializing out of the snowy gloom on his left. A gut-wrenching, bone-shattering collision. The excruciating, mind-numbing pain that ripped him away from everything. And then, blessedly, nothing at all.
When the darkness finally receded, Allen was no longer Allen Ding. He was simply Allen Harris, staring up at a four-poster bed instead of a hospital ceiling.
He had to be grateful, he supposed. Grateful that the sensible part of his brain had made him buy personal accident insurance, naming his parents as beneficiaries. Grateful that his mother and father, despite the soul-crushing loss, wouldn't face destitution in their old age, especially since his younger sibling was still around to support them.
But above all, he was grateful for the simple, shocking fact that he was alive.
Let the dead past bury its dead, he thought, firmly slamming the door on his memory of Earth. The only lesson that matters now is survival.
The body he had taken over also belonged to an Allen, now named Allen Harris. The original Allen had been a proper little menace—a mischievous spirit who'd secretly snatched his older brother's broomstick. That particular joyride had ended in a high-altitude fall and a snapped neck. A sudden, tragic death that had conveniently allowed the displaced soul of Allen Ding to merge with the remaining spiritual essence of the young wizard.
The new Allen Harris was a complicated mess. He had all the original Allen's memories—the smells, the sights, the childish emotions, the profound love for his large, bustling family. The integration was messy, leaving his own formidable adult mind constantly battling against the hormonal rush and simple, flighty thinking of a young boy. Fortunately, the adult Allen's memories of the entire Harry Potter series, which he'd devoured as a comfort read, remained blessedly intact.
For weeks, he'd wandered the house in a daze, processing the immense shift. The Harris family, thankfully, just assumed the poor boy was shell-shocked and embarrassed over his near-fatal head injury, leaving him alone to his "recovery" and paying little attention to his suddenly studious behavior.
There's too much to learn. Too much to prepare for. Too many people I need to protect now, he thought, looking around the small, comfortable bedroom.
"Allen, dinner is ready, dear!" came a melodious, soft female voice echoing up the stairs.
Allen sighed, a slow, deliberate breath. He closed the history book, placing it precisely on the bedside table. Time to put on his teacher's mask.
I've taught hundreds of hormonal teenagers; I can pretend to be a mildly traumatized one, he decided, forcing a cheerful mask onto his face. Plus, having his memories makes it easy. I know exactly how little Allen acts around his mother.
The stairs below groaned in protest—a familiar, comforting sound—as the voice came again, closer this time: "Allen, hustle up and wash your hands. Your father should be home any minute now."
Allen's new father, Owen Harris, worked at the Ministry of Magic in the delightful-sounding Department of Magical Accidents and Disasters. This department was hilariously bureaucratic, split into the Accident Retrieval Team, the Memory Wipe Command, and the Muggle Matters Mediation Committee. Owen had always dreamed of joining the Memory Wipe Command, convinced his inherent aptitude for the Forgetfulness Charm was a natural calling.
The cruel irony of life, however, found him stuck on the Muggle Matters Mediation Committee. Owen considered himself a failure at verbal persuasion, believing his eloquence was utterly insufficient to convince Muggles that things like a runaway Bludger or, say, Sirius Black blowing up an entire street eight years ago, were just simple gas explosions or weather phenomena.
He had gotten quite adept at the Obliviate charm, but every successful use meant mountains of paperwork and reports for the Memory Wipe Command—a true bureaucratic hell.
"I'm home! Ugh, the weather is ghastly out there. We had to break up a full-blown duel between two grown men in an open park, in the middle of a blizzard! Some idiot wizard was trying to slip a Muggle girl a Love Potion, but her dad swiped the cup and drank it instead. The wizard lost his wand in the wrestling match, and honestly, the Muggle father was putting up a better fight than any old wizard…"
Owen Harris strode through the door, shaking snow off his heavy cloak. He accepted the large, stiff brush offered by his eldest daughter, Daisy, and began sweeping the snowflakes from his shoulders with a weary sigh.
"I swear, I need to have a serious talk with Fudge. My reports are piling up. Even though I'm not the most elegant Obliviator, I am utterly sick of using the charm and then having to write a novel-length report on it every single time."
"Owen, dear, come sit. Have some hot tea."
Mrs. Morgan Lefebvre Harris flicked her wand with practiced precision. A steaming cup of strong black tea floated across the room and settled onto the dining table with a reassuring thump.
Mrs. Harris was a fascinating mix. A staff member at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries, she only worked in the waiting room—but she hailed from the ancient and notorious Rosier family. Though the family was essentially defunct now, their heritage meant she possessed an excellent, old-school upbringing and surprisingly good healing spells. She could fix minor wounds and cuts without even needing a wand, a skill Allen mentally filed away as "useful."
The Rosiers were a cautionary tale of wizarding history. The rise of Grindelwald and then Voldemort had absolutely decimated the bloodline; they had followed both Dark Lords. The last male in England, Evan Rosier, had been a Death Eater killed just a year before Voldemort's first fall. The remnants of the ancient family were forced to pay massive fines, both public and secret, just to avoid total annihilation.
Morgan also had a notoriously difficult older cousin, Druella Rosier, who was married to Cygnus Black (Sirius and Regulus's uncle). Morgan had a strained relationship with her, and the word on the street, whispered quietly among St. Mungo's therapists, was that Druella didn't have much time left. Another mental note for Allen: Family connections are complex and potentially dangerous.
"Mum, you really don't have to call Allen down for dinner so often! He's fine, he just likes sulking in his room."
Len Harris, the second son, expressed his annoyance by slamming a piece of parchment onto the table. Len had joined the Ministry of Magic's Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures a year ago after pulling off an impressive twelve NEWTs. He was currently undergoing mandatory on-the-job training, which left him with more free time than his competitive nature allowed him to enjoy.
"Oh, darling, I'm so sorry," Mrs. Harris replied, stroking her golden hair. "It's just habit from the hospital, you know. The patients are always so… disoriented." She gave her favorite son a gentle, indulgent smile.
"Allen, I said wash your hands!" Mrs. Harris finally spotted Allen, who had been standing awkwardly by the doorway, observing the familial chaos.
Seeing no plausible avenue for argument, Allen quickly dashed to the kitchen sink and turned on the tap.
Screeeech!
A piercing, grating voice ripped through the air, making Allen jump so hard he nearly dropped his robe. "Nonsense! Utter nonsense!"
He looked up, wide-eyed, straight into the mirror hanging over the sink. It was screaming, its silvered surface practically vibrating with indignation.
Ah, right. Magic mirrors. A standard household feature, I guess. Allen hastily smoothed his clothes, acutely aware of the judgmental glare of the enchanted object.
When he returned to the dining room, all seven Harris family members were seated, a rare and slightly momentous occasion thanks to the approaching holidays.
Raising his glass of mulled cider, Mr. Harris gave a hearty toast. "To the Yuletide season! It's truly a gift that we can all be together as a family today!"
Albert, the eldest son, a picture of calm reliability and currently working at the Ministry's Auror Command, solemnly clinked his glass with his father's. He was the only younger member of the family allowed to touch the slightly spiked cider.
Len, the perpetually serious second son, took a small, careful sip of his sea buckthorn juice, holding his glass with the air of a sommelier enjoying a vintage wine.
Daisy, the eldest sister, smiled fondly at her youngest sister, Emily, whose gaze was already locked with greedy intensity on the plump, golden-brown roast chicken centerpiece.
What a loving, loud, perfectly normal-ish family, Allen thought, feeling a surprising warmth bloom in his chest. His heart, despite being a time-traveler's, was genuinely happy to be here.
He was the fourth child. While the elder children were either doting or professionally driven, and Emily was the pampered darling, Allen had always been the quietest. He was perceived as slightly ordinary, generally modest, and apart from the occasional childish prank (which had nearly killed his predecessor), he was valued primarily as the family's patient, non-judgmental listener.
"Tomorrow, we're all going to Diagon Alley to pick up supplies," Mrs. Harris announced, breaking the brief, contented silence.
Len instantly stopped chewing. "Mother, I absolutely require a new pair of Dragon-hide gloves and some additional potion ingredients. Mine are practically falling apart."
"Len, are your Dragon-hide gloves rusting again?" Mrs. Harris stared at her perfect, meticulous second son with disbelief.
Len pursed his lips and remained tight-lipped.
"Mum, he just gets… distracted when he's brewing potions for those magical creatures," Daisy chimed in quickly, seizing the opportunity to needle her brother. She made a face at Len, who promptly scowled back, deeply offended. "It's not rust, Mom, he just never cleans them properly."
"I'm done eating!" Allen yelled, swallowing the last, massive bite of roast chicken just as his mother was clearly preparing for a massive, rolling maternal roar. He quickly pushed his chair back.
"Allen, wait a minute. Don't rush off," Mr. Harris interjected quickly, sensing the escalating tension and stepping in as the family peacemaker. "It's a reunion night. Let's talk about something uplifting. Tell us your New Year's wishes, everyone."
Mrs. Harris raised an eyebrow at Allen but wisely shifted her attention to cutting up fried chicken for little Emily, who was happily oblivious to the commotion.
"I hope to pass the final segment of the Auror exam in the new year," Albert said, answering his father's call first with his usual calm competence.
"I'd like a respectable set of dress robes before I start my new internship," Daisy quickly added, not wanting to be overshadowed.
"I want a doll that can talk and sing and have tea parties with me," Emily chirped, speaking through a mouthful of chicken grease. "My old doll, Annabelle, ran away on her own, you know."
"My dear, your wishes shall certainly come true," Mr. Harris said softly. "Len, what about you?"
"Oh, clearly, he wants a set of unbreakable, self-cleaning Dragon-hide gloves," Daisy muttered under her breath.
"No," Len replied, fixing his sister with a severe look. "My wish is to complete my probationary internship as soon as possible and secure a full-time, permanent position in the Ministry."
"And you, Allen?" His father's gentle eyes settled on him.
Len couldn't resist. "His wish is probably to reach a height where his head won't brush the ground when he rides the broom in flying class!"
"Enough, Len! Allen, your mother just wants you to be safe, darling," Mrs. Harris quickly assured him, shooting Len a warning look.
Allen felt the genuine concern and love in her voice, a feeling he hadn't realized he'd desperately missed. He gave a sincere smile, the new, adult soul shining through the boy's eyes.
"I know, Mom. I just wish that everyone is safe and that things go well for all of us."
Hours later, tucked into his soft, warm bed, Allen lay awake. The chaos of his new life and the looming threat of the Dark Lord—whoever he was now—weighed heavily on him.
A savior is coming, he mused, remembering the story. But the future Demon King will still rise. I can't rely on a plot I only vaguely remember.
He squeezed his eyes shut, a new resolve hardening his spine. He was the Xueba, the Academic Overlord. He was a survivor.
I have to dramatically increase my strength. I have to master this world's rules of power, right now, so I can stand up and defend this family when the future storm finally hits.
With his thoughts consumed by the intoxicating anticipation of a world full of arcane knowledge, forbidden spells, and the System that was patiently waiting to be fed, Allen Harris, the reluctant scholar-wizard, finally drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, eagerly awaiting the wonders of Diagon Alley the next day.