A furious, howling north wind had hammered against the windowpanes all night long. In the silent, unsettling darkness before dawn, Allen had been jolted awake. A vivid, bone-chilling memory, or perhaps a dream, had seized him: a looming, towering figure, cloaked in tattered black, standing sentinel over his bed. The massive shape wielded a gleaming, razor-sharp scythe, and though it stood yards away, its presence seemed to clutch the very life out of his chest.
He scrambled upright, heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against his ribs. He sat there, trembling slightly, before letting out a slow, shaky breath. Just a dream. But why the sudden, intense vision of Death?
Was it his brain subconsciously processing the trauma of his last life's violent end, or was it a dark, ominous foreshadowing of the fate awaiting him in this new world? Anxiety, cold and persistent, had kept him from finding true rest, leaving him deeply, physically exhausted by the time the morning light crept through the curtains.
Later, in the early morning quiet, Allen had finished his share of the breakfast dishes. He was currently on floor duty, playing a surprisingly aggressive game of "Exploding Snap" with his little sister, Emily, in the living room, waiting for the elder Harris siblings to finally get themselves presentable.
"Allen, darling, you and Emily just start eating. Don't worry about waiting for the others," Mrs. Harris sang out, her voice bright and cheerful. She heaped generous portions of tomato-sautéed beans and warm, flaky croissants onto his plate, then poured herself a robust cup of Ceylon tea before offering the children large mugs of whole milk.
"Thanks, Mom, I will." A genuine wave of contentment washed over Allen. This was the one thing he could consistently count on: a proper, wonderfully authentic English breakfast. Even as a former teacher obsessed with his "system," he couldn't deny the simple joy of good food.
The Harris family wasn't exactly flush—they certainly weren't in the league of the ancient, hyper-wealthy houses. But thanks to some sensible investments and the savings Mr. Harris's side of the family had accumulated before moving to England, they were comfortably middle-class, miles away from the threadbare existence of someone like the Weasleys.
Mrs. Harris, a certified healer from St. Mungo's, was keenly aware that good health started with good nutrition, and she was never tight-fisted when it came to their diet. She was dedicated to maintaining the public image and honor of a respectable pure-blood family, ensuring they were never the subject of social gossip or, worse, compared to the Weasleys.
"Good morning, Mother." Len strode into the room, impeccably dressed and radiating a serious, almost militaristic neatness that belonged in an office, not a weekend morning.
"Morning, honey. Ah, is that food I smell?" Mr. Harris followed closely behind, already loosening his collar.
Daisy, however, was clearly struggling. She lagged behind Albert, stumbling down the last few stairs while frantically rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Early mornings were clearly not her forte.
Albert, in contrast, was the picture of unhurried elegance as he leisurely tackled his breakfast. When his mother gently nudged him to hurry, Albert replied with an annoyingly smug, superior air: "I won't be joining the shopping expedition today, Mother. I have an urgent, confidential matter to report on at the Department."
Allen mentally rolled his eyes. Confidential, right. Six months ago, under his father's direct command, Albert had been tasked with a highly sensitive mission: getting close to Harry Potter. Since Allen was the same age as the famous Boy-Who-Lived, Albert had successfully arranged to transfer Allen to Harry's Muggle school.
The entire, ludicrous plan was to ensure one of their children befriended Harry before he inevitably returned to the Wizarding World. While many pure-blood families would have jumped at the chance, Dumbledore's secretive nature meant the Harrises were the only ones who had managed to successfully execute the plan.
Before his transmigration, the original Allen had been blissfully unaware of his family's grand schemes, believing the move was just a temporary nuisance. Now, the new Allen—the Xueba—had a sharp, cynical understanding of their ambitious maneuvers.
Get close to Harry? Fine. In the Muggle world, it's a smart chess move. But at Hogwarts, I need to know when to pull back, Allen thought, sipping his milk. I can't have that manipulative old goat, Dumbledore, thinking I'm Harry's personal assistant. Protection and proximity were two very different concepts to a pragmatic academic.
With remarkable speed and seamless teamwork, Mr. and Mrs. Harris efficiently gathered the family and their belongings. Allen was vibrating with anticipation. He was a time traveler, an academic, and a nascent wizard.
The possibilities for transportation were endless! Would they use a glamorous, Persian-style flying carpet? A flashy, custom-made racing broom? Perhaps a mysterious, thrilling Portkey, a disorienting Floo Network connection, or even a casual Apparition?
"Allen, come on, hurry up! No need for the fireplace today," Mrs. Harris called out from the entryway, her voice full of cheerful impatience.
The family of six—excluding the officially-excused Albert—gathered outside near an old, rusted garden lamp post. Mr. Harris pointedly directed everyone to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, forming a tight, expectant circle next to a very dirty, thoroughly unremarkable old rubber tire.
Just as his father, Owen, took out his pocket watch to confirm the precise second of departure, he gave the tire a precise, calculated tap with the toe of his boot.
The world snapped.
Allen felt a sudden, aggressive jolt in the pit of his stomach, like an invisible fishing hook had snagged him and was violently reeling him forward. His feet abruptly left the ground. He was no longer walking; he was flying, hurtling through the air in a dizzying spiral.
His ears were roaring with rushing wind, yet oddly, he could still vaguely make out the muffled sounds of his family's strained laughter and gasps. It felt less like travel and more like being shot out of a cannon while simultaneously having his insides wrung out.
The sensation lasted what felt like both an eternity of disorientation and a blink of an eye. Then, Thump! They all crashed onto a cobblestone street, stumbling a few frantic steps to regain balance.
Allen found himself standing in front of a brightly lit shop with a sign that bore a moving, animated picture of a beautiful witch with a cascade of golden, curly hair, presumably a Kowalski's bakery chain, but the sign was entirely different here.
The street corner around them was already thick with wizards and witches bustling about their early morning business.
"You kids tend to mess up the destination every time with the Floo Network, dragging soot everywhere," Len sniffed, dusting nonexistent dirt off his pristine trousers. "Portkeys are far more efficient for group travel, even if they are a hassle to register and approve with the Ministry." Len, Allen noted, visibly preferred the Portkey because it didn't mess up his painstakingly tailored clothes.
"Alright, children! First stop is Gringotts to secure our funds," Mr. Harris announced, rubbing his hands together with the satisfied air of a man about to spend money. He winked conspiratorially at Allen. "Once that's done, you all get your monthly allowance. Go crazy!" The younger children cheered in unison.
Money! Yes! Allen's inner Xueba was already calculating exchange rates and potential investments.
"A new set of truly respectable robes is definitely in order," Daisy murmured, already lost in a fantasy of fashionable fabric.
"Then you'll have to be incredibly stingy with every Sickle you spend this month, young lady!" Mrs. Harris cautioned, though her tone was warm as she affectionately smoothed Emily's soft, pale hair.
Emily, bless her pure heart, was still too young for grand expenditure; a large, sweet ice cream was enough to secure her loyalty for the entire day.
The family walked, chatting and bickering gently, until they reached a colossal, snow-white marble building: Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
The sheer scale of it was breathtaking. The first sight was a gleaming bronze door, a silent, heavy testament to the countless wizarding fortunes—and families—it had witnessed rise and fall.
Standing guard were two stoic, immaculately dressed Goblin guards in striking scarlet-and-gold uniforms. They bowed stiffly, their wrinkled, leathery hands gesturing the family through the bronze threshold and into the building.
They walked a short distance, traversing the threshold of a second, even larger silver door. Intricate verses were etched deep into the metal, a chilling warning against the folly and ultimate futility of human greed.
"Remember, boys," Owen seized the moment for a moral lesson, his voice lowered for gravitas, "The most reliable wealth is the kind you earn with your own intellect and skill. Never, ever expect something for nothing."
Hmm. Allen's inner cynic stirred. They say Gringotts has a peculiar code: if you steal wealth but don't keep it for yourself, you receive no punishment. So, if Harry Potter himself went in and snatched a cup with his bare hands, he's fine. But if I trade stolen goods with another thief—my stolen item for his stolen item—do we both get the curse? He shelved the dark thought; arcane legal loopholes were likely excellent fodder for the Scholar's System.
Passing the silver door, they entered a gigantic, opulent marble hall. A massive, inverted conical chandelier dominated the center, casting prismatic light over the enormous marble columns that supported the magnificent ceiling.
Behind a massive, curving counter sat perhaps a hundred Goblins. Some were frantically scratching entries into impossibly large ledgers; others were meticulously weighing piles of coins on ancient, brass scales; still others were squinting through magnifying glasses, inspecting glittering jewels.
"Vault Number Six-Six-Six, please." Mr. Owen Harris handed a small, silver key to a dour, suited Goblin behind the desk.
Allen couldn't help the sharp, cynical thought that flashed through his mind. Six-Six-Six? Seriously? He fought a wry smile. I truly don't know whether I should consider that number a terrifying omen or just supremely impressive marketing. A perfect clash of Muggle and magical culture.
"Follow me," the Goblin instructed, bowing curtly. His face, however, was a mask of palpable displeasure, as if Allen and his family had materialized purely to rob the bank, rather than withdraw their own hard-earned Galleons.
"Oh, dear. I think I'll wait here. This tumultuous journey is not for me." Mrs. Harris shuddered delicately.
"Mum, Emily and I will stay with you," Daisy quickly chimed in. This suited her perfectly; a terrifying, high-speed mine cart ride was guaranteed to ruin the elaborate hairstyle she'd spent half the morning perfecting.
Allen, Len, and Mr. Harris boarded a small, battered-looking tin mine cart with the Goblin guide.
The car shot off immediately, tearing through a dizzying maze of winding, dark passages. The speed was terrifying and exhilarating. During the rapid, flashing journey, Allen caught fleeting glimpses of a vast, subterranean lake, where gigantic, alien-looking stalactites and stalagmites hung suspended from the cave walls and ceiling.
With a bone-jarring screech, the carriage finally halted in front of a giant, ancient stone door marked with the ominous digits 666.
The Goblin inserted the key and the heavy stone door groaned open. Allen had expected a dark, depressing space. Instead, dozens of shimmering Gold Galleons and an even larger stack of Silver Sickles were piled neatly, emitting a seductive, welcoming glow.
More fascinating to Allen were the shelves lining the walls. Orderly rows of ancient stone and iron tools, their purpose entirely unknown, were carefully preserved.
Some kind of advanced preservation charm is at work here, Allen deduced, his Xueba instincts tingling. They look ancient, worn by history, but they've been perfectly maintained. He was always more interested in the artifacts—the knowledge—than the sheer currency.
"The amount is quite substantial, isn't it?" Len sighed contentedly, momentarily forgetting his neatness in the face of wealth.
"Frugality is a non-negotiable virtue, especially when we're touching the wealth our ancestors worked for." Owen seized the moment. He quickly scooped up a generous handful of Gold Galleons and then stuffed a large number of Silver Sickles into a stout leather bag.
"That should cover us for the essentials." Owen patted the bulging bag with satisfaction and directed the boys back to the carriage.
Once outside Gringotts, Owen handed the money bag to his wife.
"Ten Galleons and ten Silver Sickles for spending money and treats. Daisy, that should be enough to secure a respectable new robe," he announced.
"Oh, thank you, Father! I'm so happy!" Daisy squealed, immediately throwing her arms around her mother, kissing her cheek like a delighted schoolgirl to express her overwhelming gratitude.
Mrs. Harris gave Len the same allotment of Galleons, plus some extra cash specifically for the new Dragon-hide gloves he supposedly desperately needed.
"Much appreciated, Mother," Len replied, tucking the money into his backpack with the practiced caution of an audit inspector.
Allen watched, trying hard not to look too expectant.
"Alright, Len and Daisy, you two are free to go wherever you like. Just remember to rendezvous at the Moon Palace Restaurant promptly at noon. And absolutely no bumping into anyone!" Mrs. Harris commanded firmly.
"Mother, what about my allowance?" Allen decided to leverage his cute-little-brother status for maximum financial gain.
"My sweet boy, why don't you stick with us? We'll take you to Tom's Ice Cream Parlour first for a giant cone, okay? And if you want a toy, you just tell me." Mrs. Harris tried to console him, wanting to keep her youngest child close.
"Okay," Allen conceded, though his shoulders slumped a little. He really wanted autonomy—the feel of money earned, not given. The necessity of asking for funds was a profoundly uncomfortable experience for a former high school teacher.
"Morgan, dear, how about we just give Allen a few Galleons now?" Owen pleaded, seeing the profound, almost comical sadness on his youngest son's face.
"Oh, alright, alright," Morgan Lefebvre gave in, softening instantly at her husband's appeal. "But don't lose it, young man."
She placed five Gold Galleons into Allen's hand, then glanced at Emily and slipped a generous ten Silver Sickles into her little pocket for immediate gratification.
"Right then, let's go!" Owen clapped his hands together, energized, and led his family into the dizzying chaos of Diagon Alley.
It feels so good to have actual wealth in my pocket, Allen thought, his fingers stroking the coins in his jeans. He gazed at the kaleidoscope of dazzling shops and strange items, his heart pounding not just with excitement, but with genuine, scholar-fueled greed. The Wizarding World was open, and the Scholar's System was demanding to be fed.