The moment they stepped into Old Tom's shop, the warm, yeasty scent of freshly baked goods mixed with the heavy, sweet smell of aged butterbeer hit Allen like a welcome wall of nostalgia.
"Tom, old friend, business is booming, I trust!" Owen Harris boomed, slapping the counter with hearty familiarity. "Let's have a chilled, fish-flavored green ale for me, and pumpkin juice for the kids, if you please."
"Coming right up, Mr. Harris, sir." Old Tom bowed so low his chin nearly brushed the counter. Allen finally registered the man's appearance: ancient, nearly bald, toothless, and his face a roadmap of wrinkles, giving him the shriveled, unsettling appearance of a very old walnut. Yet, the old man moved with surprising speed.
A true professional, Allen thought, momentarily imitating Old Tom's stooped posture. He was genuinely impressed when he saw the proprietor snap his fingers—no wand, just a simple, efficient gesture—to light the small fireplace for their seating area. While it was a low-level charm, performing it silently and wandlessly spoke of inherent magical talent and countless years of practice.
"Owen! Owen Harris, is that you?" A warm, boisterous voice hailed them from a window booth deeper inside the shop.
"Arthur! It's absolutely wonderful to see you!" Owen, who had, just yesterday, subtly shaded the Weasleys back home, now embraced Arthur Weasley with the fierce affection of a long-lost brother. It was pure political theater, and Allen admired the performance. Owen was obviously eyeing Arthur's current project—dealing with Muggle magical items—as a lucrative, under-the-table opportunity.
"Don't be strangers, man! Why don't we seize this rare bit of free time and share a drink?" Owen suggested, his eyes glinting with professional ambition.
Arthur Weasley glanced at his wife, Molly, who was laughing easily with Morgan LeFay Harris, and shrugged good-naturedly. "Sounds splendid. Ron, you take care of young Allen here. Just make sure you two don't wander into any of the seedier back alleys."
Immediately, a gangly, red-haired boy, his nose sprinkled with a generous dusting of freckles, shuffled out from behind Arthur. Ron Weasley looked nervous, casting shy, uncertain glances at Allen.
This is it. My chance for reconnaissance, Allen realized, a spark of pure, academic curiosity igniting in his eyes. He quickly patted the five Galleons hidden inside his jacket pocket—his pocket money and his ticket to temporary freedom. He stepped forward instantly, adopting the open, non-threatening posture he used to employ with a student who was nervous about a pop quiz.
Ron turned out to be a surprisingly verbose conversationalist. He rarely encountered such a patient and genuinely attentive listener, and he quickly opened up. Allen, the seasoned high school teacher who was also a very effective social strategist, prompted him subtly, listened intently, and skillfully extracted a host of interesting and highly useful tidbits about the Wizarding World's inner workings. He quickly realized that Ron, despite his insecurities, was perhaps the most underrated, or at least the most overlooked, of the Weasley children.
As Ron launched into an enthusiastic, rambling description of his chaotic family life, Allen's mind drifted into the fascinating cultural and historical context he'd uncovered through his predecessor's memories.
Weasley is phonetically derived from 'weasel,' Allen mused. A creature with a poor reputation in many cultures, including England, yet its fur is typically a golden-red. Arthur's Patronus is also a weasel.
And then there are the names. Arthur, like King Arthur. One of King Arthur's historic enemies was the Roman politician Lucius Tiberius. Arthur Weasley's son, Percy, is a shortened version of Percival, a Knight of the Round Table. And Arthur's daughter, Ginny, is actually a nickname for Ginevra, a common variation of Guinevere, King Arthur's famously unfaithful wife. Wait, wait. Is Ron's sister literally named after his father's historical lover?
Allen ruthlessly shook his head, physically forcing the wild, distracting thoughts back into their historical box. Stay grounded, Xueba. Historical analysis is for later. Right now, absorb the present. With careful, platitude-laden prompts, Allen slowly and surely pieced together the missing fragments of his predecessor's magical world knowledge.
"Allen, look! It's absolutely packed over there!" Ron, who had been detailing the complex politics of Quidditch teams and their magical Chaldea Balls, abruptly changed the subject, pointing excitedly down the alley.
Allen followed his gaze. A large, loud crowd had gathered outside the Quality Quidditch Supplies boutique, cheering and chanting encouragement. Ron, electrified by the noise, abandoned all social anxiety, grabbing Allen's arm and tugging him immediately into the throng.
"Wow, the Malfoy kid is brilliant! Five medals already! He's definitely going to get a signed poster of Aidan Lynch!" A voice, thick with jealous envy, rang out near Allen's ear, followed by a chorus of similar, awestruck comments.
"Who exactly is Aidan Lynch?" Allen whispered to Ron, trying to keep his voice casual.
"Are you serious? He's the Irish Seeker!" Ron exclaimed, completely flabbergasted. "He practically single-handedly won Ireland the World Cup! He's a legend!" Ron's gaze was glued to the boutique's window, fixed on a promotional poster.
"Oh, man, Allen, we should jump in! We could totally beat the Malfoy boys! Imagine!" Ron was already envisioning a glorious victory, entirely neglecting the minor detail of how difficult that victory might actually be.
"The Weasleys' pathetic little charity case? You think you can surpass me? Go ahead. Try it, if you dare!"
A voice, crisp and dripping with pure, distilled disdain, cut through the crowd. Draco Malfoy stood opposite them, flanked by his two enormous, bovine shadows, Crabbe and Goyle. Draco swept his gaze over Ron and then lingered on Allen. Every angle of his stance, every line of his platinum-blond hair, screamed disgust.
Ron flinched. He instinctively recognized that all true pure-bloods possessed this unsettling, innate ability: they could communicate a crushing sense of poverty and inferiority with nothing more than a casual glance, a subtle shift in posture. Even if the Weasleys were one of the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight, they were clearly categorized as dirt poor.
Malfoy's platinum hair, perfectly styled, gleamed under the magical sunlight. However, his permanently upturned eyebrows ruined the charm of his face, making him look irritatingly arrogant and emotionally distant.
"We are definitely going to beat you!" Ron yelled, shaking his fist impulsively at Malfoy. "Allen, let's sign up for the quiz!"
Malfoy's eyes narrowed, shifting back to Allen. He took in Allen's subtly expensive robes and his similar, light-blond hair. Could this be a distant, less-obvious Harris relative? Malfoy mused, his mind already churning with aristocratic politics. The boy definitely looked more like a proper pure-blood than the ragged Weasley. If he has no connection to the blood-traitor Weasleys, he might make a far more suitable follower than these two lumps.
"My name is Draco, from the Ancient House of Malfoy," he announced, puffing his chest out. "You must be Allen, the Harris boy? That hair must be from the Harris line. Answer three of these quiz questions correctly, and I might consider allowing you to follow me as an ally."
What an unbearably arrogant little snob! Allen thought, his professional teacher's antennae quivering. After seven years of handling entitled, spoiled adolescents, Allen knew exactly how to read this boy. This was just a desperate cry for validation, a clumsy attempt to secure a high-status friend—exactly the kind of boy who'd get immediately shut down by Harry Potter for his awful attitude.
But when it came to the quiz itself, Allen suddenly felt a rush of genuine anxiety. As an outsider, he had only read the books and ancillary fan materials. He knew the macro-plot, but the micro-knowledge—the specifics of the Wizarding World's general studies—was a massive gap.
Ron, however, had already dragged him into the queue. Allen snapped out of his internal panic and focused, scrutinizing the performance of the contestants ahead of them. So far, no one had managed to successfully answer more than four questions.
Ron's eyes were wide with dread. "Allen, we're finished. We're going to be totally humiliated! I don't know any of this! Do you?"
Allen, surprisingly, felt a wave of relief wash over him.
The questions were not about magical history or ancient curses. They were brain teasers and pure logic puzzles—problems specifically designed to exploit the blind spots of magical education. This is exactly what I was trained for! As a high school math teacher, his hobbies included competitive Sudoku and high-level logic challenges.
"Relax, Ron. I've got this," Allen reassured him, giving his shoulder a firm, confident pat. Ron's panicked hands, which had been pulling frantically at his red hair, immediately stilled.
Soon enough, it was their turn.
The Quidditch steward—a cheerful, muscular man—waved his wand, and a question instantly materialized on a large, eighteen-inch square piece of parchment:
"You have five identical Silver Sickles. Arrange them so that each Sickle is touching the other four Sickles. How is this physical arrangement achieved?"
"Merlin's saggy trousers! I've never even held five Sickles at once!" Ron wailed, his panic spiking again.
"It has absolutely nothing to do with your personal finances, Ron. Quiet, now. I'll handle it." Allen's composed, dominant demeanor immediately forced Ron's hands away from his own hair.
Allen quickly pulled his five Gold Galleons (close enough to Sickles for the demonstration) from his pocket and began to arrange them on the counter as he spoke:
"Take one coin as the base. Place the second and third coins leaning together at a slight angle on top of the base coin. Finally, stand the fourth and fifth coins vertically—on their edges—resting on the base coin, with the tops of the vertical coins touching the top edges of the leaning coins."
He completed the configuration in under ten seconds. The result was a structurally stable, perfectly symmetrical, three-dimensional star shape.
A collective gasp went up from the crowd. No one, not even the sneering Draco Malfoy, could have solved that so quickly. The speed implied he either cheated or had prior knowledge, but Allen was clearly too young to have mastered such a deceptive trick. The steward, impressed, handed Allen a six-pointed silver participation medal, which Allen accepted with a polite nod amid a chorus of admiring murmurs.
"The second question is another money-based puzzle," the saleswoman announced, winking conspiratorially at Allen. She seemed to enjoy the spectacle of his speed. "Only one contestant can answer this one. Who's taking it?"
Ron looked at Allen with wide, expectant eyes. Allen felt the familiar, heavy responsibility of a front-line teacher. Duty calls.
"I'll take the next one," Allen told the clerk, stepping forward.
"Excellent! Now, please close your eyes." The clerk deftly tied a thick, soft red cloth over Allen's eyes, plunging him into darkness.
The shopkeeper then produced a large handful of Copper Knuts and placed them on the table. He waved his wand and stated the challenge: "There are twenty-three Copper Knuts on the table. Exactly ten of them are currently facing heads up. You must use your best method to divide these Knuts into two separate piles, with each pile containing the exact same number of heads-up Knuts."
The crowd exploded in mutters.
"That's impossible! Copper Knuts feel almost identical on both sides; you can't tell the difference by touch in the dark!"
"It would require Divination! You'd need the Inner Eye to see without opening your eyes!"
"Even if the Inner Eye worked, we're blindfolded! We can't see the crystal ball or the tea leaves!"
Ron was frantic. "Oh no, Allen! You told me you hadn't learned any actual magic yet!" He then realized he hadn't learned any magic either.
Ignoring the surrounding panic, Allen remained utterly calm. The math was simple.
He divided the pile into two stacks: one stack of ten Knuts, and the remaining stack of thirteen Knuts. He performed the division casually, without changing the orientation of any coin. Then, he simply reached for the ten-coin pile and, in one swift, fluid motion, flipped over every single coin in that stack.
"Absolutely correct! Unbelievable for your age!" The shopkeeper was genuinely stunned. "Were you raised in a mixed family? Even the pure-blood prodigies we've had from Ravenclaw struggled with that one, but you handled it like a Muggle-born mathematical genius. You see… Ah, well, you wouldn't know yet, but pure-bloods are usually brilliant at philosophical riddles, not these Muggle logic puzzles."
The clerk quickly untied the red cloth. "Muggle-born wizards always excel at these little games," he finished, beaming.
"I am pure-blood, actually. I just read a lot of Muggle texts," Allen replied coolly, his Xueba mask perfectly in place. He continued to answer the subsequent questions with ease, effortlessly solving what were, to the average magical child, insurmountable logical hurdles.
Finally, the clerk handed Allen the prize: the Aidan Lynch poster.
Allen, whose Muggle conditioning hadn't fully worn off, wasn't prepared for the moving image. A man with a bodybuilder's physique, seated on a high-speed broomstick, ripped his jersey down the front and bellowed a silent, triumphant "RUA!!!" of celebration.
After the initial shock, Allen merely shrugged. The images were far less complex than the videos he'd streamed on his high-speed internet back on Earth. He handed the poster carelessly to Ron.
Ron's ears turned bright red. His ingrained Weasley politeness dictated that he should refuse a prize he hadn't contributed to, but the allure of his favorite Seeker was too strong.
"I—I'll put this on my bedside table, Allen. Thank you!" Ron stammered, clutching the poster to his chest like a treasure. He mentally resolved to save every Knut of his allowance to pay Allen back.
"I wouldn't recommend that," Allen murmured, glancing at the silent, roaring figure pressed against Ron's chest. "That kind of aura will keep you awake all night, even if you can't hear the noise…"
"Would you like to continue the challenge?" The shop assistant stood close to Allen, utterly captivated by the sensation. The speed and precision of Allen's answers had left the other wizards questioning their entire educational system.
"Of course! You saw my friend perform! He's definitely up for it!" Ron, now Allen's fiercely loyal fan, shouted back immediately, forgetting his earlier anxiety.
"Alright, then." The clerk waved his wand with palpable excitement, giving Allen no opportunity to decline. He was desperate to see how far the prodigy could go.
"What is the incantation for the Levitation Charm?"
This was a major escalation—a real spell, not a logic puzzle. It was something they would only properly encounter in first-year Charms class.
"Wingardium Leviosa," Allen responded instantly, without hesitation. Having read the books and watched the films countless times, he vividly recalled the scene. He even mentally heard the voice of the perpetually annoyed Hermione correcting Ron.
However, a cold certainty settled over him: the end was near. His stored knowledge of first-year spell incantations was finite.
Just as Allen resigned himself to accepting his imminent defeat, a clear, crisp, and slightly synthesized female voice—a voice utterly foreign to the magical world—suddenly echoed inside the silent confines of his own mind.
"Ding—Academic Superstar System at your service."