The transition from the wild, snow-swept mirror dimension to the velvet-curtained comfort of his four-poster bed was enough to give Allen a mild case of magical whiplash. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling of the Ravenclaw dorms, the weight of the three gems in his pocket still feeling surreal.
Before he could even kick off his boots, a familiar, ethereal chime echoed in the depths of his mind.
[Mission: 'Gratitude of the Invisible Man' successfully completed.] [Evaluation: S-Rank. You have liberated a thousand-year-old soul and secured the legacy of Helga Hufflepuff.] [Reward: One High-Tier Lottery Chance. Would you like to initiate the draw now?]
Allen sat up straight, his exhaustion vanishing in a heartbeat. "Initiate the draw," he whispered, his pulse quickening.
In his mind's eye, the grand golden wheel materialized, its surface etched with runes that glowed with a predatory hunger for his luck. He had seen this wheel many times, but the stakes felt higher now. He had just survived a soul-invasion; he felt he was owed a jackpot.
"Spin it!"
The wheel blurred into a streak of light. Allen watched, holding his breath as the pointer skipped over the white (Common) and green (Uncommon) sectors. It slowed down, ticking past the blue (Rare) squares. Allen's heart hammered against his ribs.
Click. Click. Click.
The pointer shuddered and came to a dead stop on a vibrant, pulsing purple square.
"Jackpot..." Allen breathed.
A magnificent silver box materialized on his duvet. It wasn't just a container; it was a work of art. Layers of hyper-realistic silver roses wound around the exterior, their thorns glistening with a polished sheen. The craftsmanship was so intricate that it looked as if the flowers had been frozen in mid-bloom by a master alchemist.
Despite being a teenage boy with little interest in jewelry boxes, Allen found himself captivated. He reached out and flipped the latch.
To his immediate disappointment, the interior didn't hold a glowing sword or a vial of liquid lightning. Nestled in black silk was a simple, unassuming silver chain, no thicker than his pinky finger. The pendant was a circular platinum medal engraved with a clean, geometric hexagram.
Underneath the necklace lay a crisp piece of parchment.
"Adaptation Necklace?" Allen muttered, picking up the manual.
[Adaptation Necklace: A masterpiece of environmental alchemy. The wearer is constantly surrounded by a field of purified, fresh air. Grants absolute immunity to toxic gases, magical miasmas, and atmospheric pollutants. Additionally, the wearer can breathe normally in a total vacuum or underwater.]
Allen stared at the description, then back at the simple chain. He felt a twinge of irritation. "That's it? Don't get me wrong, it's useful for a deep-sea diver, but this is a purple-tier reward! Where's my 'One-Hit-Voldemort-Eraser'? Where's my 'God-Tier Mana Expansion'?"
He felt cheated. He had fought a mirror ghost for this?
"System, you better have a good explanation," he grumbled into his Sea of Consciousness. "Is this a glitch? This feels like a blue-tier item at best."
The System's voice replied, sounding remarkably smug for an artificial entity. "The Host is advised to look beyond the surface. The 'Adaptation Necklace' is merely the accessory. The true prize is the vessel."
Allen froze. He looked back at the silver rose box.
He picked it up again, his fingers tracing the cold metal. He poked, prodded, and channeled a thin thread of magic into the base. Nothing. Then, his thumb brushed against the very top of the arrangement. Two specific roses—smaller than the others—shifted under his touch.
They were movable.
Allen experimented, sliding the two roses toward each other. As their silver thorns touched, a mechanical click echoed through the room. There was a sudden, magnetic pull.
"Snap!"
The roses didn't just touch; they fused. Before Allen could blink, the box began to unfold and expand like a piece of high-tech origami. The silver roses stretched and flattened, weaving together into a solid, shimmering surface.
In less than three seconds, the jewelry box had transformed into a sleek, kite-shaped shield made of pure, gleaming Mithril. Intricate rose vines remained embossed on the front, acting as structural reinforcement. It felt weightless on his arm, as if it were made of balsa wood instead of magical metal.
A second piece of parchment fluttered to the floor.
[Magic Silver Shield: A Mithril-forged masterpiece. Initial state: 'The Rose Box' (High-level detection warding). In its shield form, it provides unparalleled defense against projectile curses. Unique Effect: 'Will of the Hearth'—Grants a 50% static chance for any Unforgivable Curse (Cruciatus, Imperius, or Killing Curse) to simply dissipate or fail upon contact.]
Allen's jaw dropped.
"Fifty percent..." he whispered.
In the wizarding world, the Unforgivable Curses were the ultimate conversation-enders. You couldn't block them with a Protego. You couldn't parry them. You either dodged or you died. But this shield? This shield offered a coin-flip against death itself.
Suddenly, the purple tier made perfect sense. Combined with his Clever Wizard Robe, which already reflected standard hexes, he was becoming a walking fortress.
Satisfied, he touched the central rose mechanism. The shield collapsed back into its elegant box form with a rhythmic series of metallic clicks. He stowed both the necklace and the box into his System storage and collapsed into his pillows, falling into the first deep, dreamless sleep he'd had in weeks.
The following morning, Allen felt like a new man. He headed straight for the Room of Requirement, his mind buzzing with ideas. Using the power of the Philosopher's Stone, he began to experiment with gold-leaf transmutation.
He wanted something better than the DA's coins. He wanted something modern.
After several hours of intense focus, he produced a series of thin, rectangular gold sheets. They were the size of playing cards but as thin as a wafer. He enchanted the surfaces to respond to touch, allowing the user to scroll through text. They looked like high-end, gold-plated smartphones from his previous life.
"Perfect," he murmured, sliding a stack of the 'Magic Tablets' into his pocket.
With his new gadgets and his ego slightly inflated, Allen made his way down to the Great Hall for breakfast. However, the moment he stepped through the giant oak doors, the pleasant hum of morning chatter was replaced by a sharp, mocking laughter that set his teeth on edge.
Near the Ravenclaw table, a group of Slytherins had cornered several younger students. In the center of the circle stood Luna, looking as airy as ever, but she was flanked by Stewart Ackerley and Orla Quirke, both of whom looked terrified.
"Look at that hair!" Pansy Parkinson jeered, pointing a manicured finger at the jagged, uneven locks where Luna had cut her hair in the mirror world. "You look like a mangy kneazle that got caught in a lawnmower. What's the matter, 'Mad-Moon'? Did the voices tell you to give yourself a makeover?"
Draco Malfoy stood behind her, flanked by the ever-present Crabbe and Goyle. He had his arms crossed, a look of bored superiority on his face. "I think it suits her, Pansy. It warns people to stay at least ten feet away before the insanity rubs off."
"Maybe we should help her finish the job," Pansy sneered, reaching for her wand. "Which nickname do you prefer, Loony? 'Choppy' or just 'Freak'?"
Michael Corner was standing in front of Luna, his face red with anger. "Leave her alone, Parkinson! She hasn't done anything to you."
Malfoy stepped forward, his eyes cold. "Careful, Corner. Are you really going to stake your reputation on a girl who thinks 'Nargles' are a legitimate security threat?"
"Malfoy," a cold, calm voice cut through the laughter.
The Slytherins turned. Allen Harris was walking toward them, his hands in his pockets, but his aura was anything but casual. The air around him seemed to thicken with every step.
"I seem to recall your father losing his seat on the Board of Governors," Allen said, coming to a halt directly in front of Draco. "Without that title, you're just a blonde boy with a bad attitude and a dwindling inheritance. Why are you still acting like you own the hallway?"
Malfoy's face paled, then flushed a deep, angry red. "Harris. I warned you about sticking your nose into Slytherin business. You're lucky my father is a patient man."
"And I've warned you," Allen countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper that carried across the hall. "Do. Not. Provoke. Ravenclaw. We don't just study history, Draco. We make it. And usually, people like you end up as the cautionary footnotes."
"You arrogant blood-traitor!" Pansy shrieked. She was faster than Draco, fueled by pure spite. She whipped out her wand and pointed it right at Allen's face. "Stupefy!"
The spell was cast at point-blank range.
Allen didn't move his wand. Instead, his hand blurred toward his belt. With a metallic shing, the Rose Box expanded in a flash of silver light. The Magic Silver Shield snapped into existence, catching the red bolt of the Stunning Spell and absorbing it with a dull thud.
The Great Hall went silent. No one had ever seen a shield like that. It wasn't a translucent shimmer of magic; it was solid, gleaming Mithril adorned with silver roses.
"My turn," Allen said.
But he didn't even need to cast. The Ravenclaw students behind him, emboldened by his presence, unleashed a volley of hexes.
" Expelliarmus!" " Furnunculus!" " Tarantallegra! "
In the chaos, a stray curse—a particularly nasty hair-vanishing jinx—caught Pansy Parkinson square in the chest. She didn't fall. Instead, her black bob simply... evaporated.
Within seconds, the girl was completely bald, her scalp reflecting the enchanted ceiling's morning light like a polished bowling ball. She reached up, felt the smooth skin where her hair used to be, and let out a scream so high-pitched it probably shattered glass in the kitchens.
Allen didn't waste the opening. He stepped around his shield and flicked his wand with a practiced snap. "Expelliarmus!"
The spell hit Malfoy's chest like a physical weight, launching him backward. He hit the stone floor hard, his wand spinning across the hall as he groaned in pain.
Crabbe and Goyle, seeing their leader down, decided to use their only assets: their bulk. They roared and charged at Michael Corner, intending to steamroll him.
Allen didn't even use magic for them. He lunged forward, planted a foot on a bench, and launched himself into the air. He delivered a twin-kick that caught both giants in their chests, sending them sprawling backward.
They crashed into the Slytherin dining table with a spectacular splintering of wood. A massive tureen of hot, yellow pumpkin porridge tipped over, drenching both of them from head to toe.
"MY EYES! THE PORRIDGE IS IN MY EYES!" Goyle wailed, flailing his arms and pulling the entire tablecloth down with him. Plates, silver cutlery, and half-eaten kippers rained down on them as they struggled in the sticky, orange mess.
Allen stood over the wreckage, his shield contracting back into a small silver box in his hand. He looked at the trembling Slytherins, then at the stunned onlookers from the other tables.