The professor's decision wasn't made to target Allen. On the contrary, it was entirely for his benefit.¹
Not to mention, that precious material—one that would make ninety-nine percent of wizards envious—required significant effort from the professor to review Allen's feedback. It was essentially hands-on guidance.
Cradling the priceless documents, Allen left the professor's tent with tears in his eyes—he had only come to ask for leave, yet somehow his workload had increased.
But of course, he couldn't refuse. Only a fool would reject such valuable material and the professor's goodwill. This was practically traditional wizarding mentorship² combined with the authority of a professor even Snape respected. In martial arts terms, it was like having the legendary Purple Mist Divine Technique suddenly appear before you—if you didn't appreciate it, you'd be a total fool.
Carrying the stack of materials, Allen showed no worry at all. He didn't fear anyone trying to snatch it—he almost wished someone would.
Unfortunately, such people didn't exist. Even after returning to his tent and locking the door, no one came to provoke him. Frustrated by his thwarted plans, Allen had no choice but to devote himself entirely to study.
Unlike ordinary books, these materials initially appeared extremely dry. The first twenty or so pages covered the severe consequences of improperly induced plant growth, accompanied by historical examples of wizards' misadventures, annotated with the professor's insights on why such outcomes occurred. Undoubtedly, this was a collection designed to discourage the faint-hearted.
Not surprising—wizard experiments have always been inherently dangerous, limiting their population growth. Those who could study this material were considered top-tier botanical masters in the entire British wizarding world—no exaggeration.
Human talent was precious; these warnings ensured wizards didn't accidentally destroy themselves, which would be a major loss to the magical community.
After briefly admiring how predecessors had "played themselves to death," Allen ignored the early warnings—safety notices, like long red-letter FBI warnings, were tedious. The real focus was the content.
Even the first section impressed Allen. It detailed techniques for rapid plant cultivation and camouflage, which, if applied correctly, could make a plant appear decades old in mere moments. Unfortunately, even the rarest plants required high resource input for these results.
Allen speculated that the devilish vines guarding the Philosopher's Stone were cultivated this way. As he studied comparative plant traits and methods for magical induction, he marveled inwardly. Could he create a fire-resistant Devil's Snare? Cough—probably useless.
After imagining countless plant modifications, Allen realized that while such techniques were excellent for potion research, using them offensively or defensively was slower than handling things himself—faster and more stylish.
Just then, his system alerted him:
"Alchemist—Hero Fragment acquired, 6/3, legacy unlocked!"
"Thorn Spitter—Hero Fragment acquired, 4/3, legacy unlocked, conditions not yet met."
"Teemo—Hero Fragment acquired, 1/3, not met."
"Twisted Treant—Hero Fragment acquired, 4/3, legacy unlocked, conditions not yet met."
The long list of notifications startled Allen. Seriously? He had almost finished that book from the "useless werewolf," and now it told him he could unlock the legacy? Wait—he suddenly realized something.
Although Herbology and Potions were separate classes at Hogwarts, they didn't conflict. For a master potion-maker capable of innovation, understanding plants was essential. Without knowledge of their properties, one could hardly invent new potions.
So it made sense that he couldn't unlock the Alchemist legacy yet—he hadn't laid the foundation. As for the plant modification techniques aiding other hero fragments, that wasn't surprising either. Induced plant manipulation naturally helped unlock legacies involving plant control and attack.
Seeing that he had barely read a fifth of the materials, Allen felt elated. His usual laziness vanished. I love learning—learning makes me happy!
Unfortunately, by evening, his roommate dragged him out—Friday marked the end of the second week of the exchange. As usual, the three headmasters were holding a summary meeting, especially after last weekend's serious incident.
These meetings required full attendance, so even Allen, lost in his studies, had to participate.
Once everyone was seated, the three headmasters stepped to the central table.
The Mahoutokoro headmaster, acting as host, stood solemnly. "We are glad to have completed another week together—a reason for celebration. While there were minor setbacks, the issues were well managed."
"We regret the incidents that occurred. After discussion, we have decided to assign a month's labor to the students responsible. Each weekend, they will replant herbs without using wands."
Murmurs rippled through the audience—the punishment seemed light. Eight days in total for their offenses didn't seem sufficient.
Yet the headmaster's expression remained unchanged: "To enrich your extracurricular activities and give you energetic students something to do, a Quidditch competition will be held next weekend. Not by house or school, but by personal teams. The winning team will receive five hundred Galleons and each member will get a brand-new Nimbus 2001. Most importantly, the trophy will be jointly awarded by all three schools—a glory you certainly won't want to miss! Teams may practice during free time, and flying privileges on campus will be granted, with restrictions on restricted areas and camps. The competition is on the weekend."
The announcement drew cheers, and the students were satisfied with the previous handling—the punished students were clearly ineligible.