This Meat Has to Go in the Pot

A moment ago, Allen had been wondering whether he should let the Niffler go.

But the creature kept cursing, one filthy word after another, until it wore away the last of his patience.

The Niffler's eyes were full of fear. Allen flicked up a hand, and a Transfiguration Spell formed a small knife in his palm. He drove the point straight into its throat without the slightest hesitation.

Once it was dead, he bled it and skinned it, working through the steps with practiced ease.

He had survived alone in the wild for a year. Dressing his prey had long since become instinct.

The magically formed blade wasn't particularly sharp. It was barely any better than the Tetanus Blade he always carried. But Allen paid the flaw no mind. He worked slowly along the membranes and removed the entire white pelt without a single cut.

The floor remained clean, without so much as a drop of blood.

Apart from the damage to the left hind leg, the pelt was nearly flawless. It would have fetched a good price.

But he couldn't reveal where the Niffler had come from. Allen had no intention of inviting trouble by selling it. He tossed the pelt into the basin of blood to dispose of later with everything else.

When he was done, he took a cloth and carefully wiped the knife clean.

As the magic faded, the knife gradually returned to its original shape. Allen said nothing, but privately made an excuse for his Transfiguration Spell before looking at the pile of meat on the cutting board.

What was the best way to make this stuff taste good?

Meanwhile, Quirrell was still waiting in his room.

The Niffler he had sent out should have returned long ago.

He took out his pocket watch to check the time, his frown deepening.

The damned creature had stayed out far too long today.

After thinking it over, Allen decided to roast the Niffler meat over fruitwood.

The Niffler might be classified as a magical creature, but only its magic was unusual. Its meat was much like that of an ordinary mink, with a strong fishy, musky smell.

There were plenty of ways to cover up the smell, of course, but they took work and cost money.

Allen couldn't be bothered. The easiest option was to borrow Ron's kitchen.

He wrapped up the scraps, picked up the bag of meat, and headed out with Xuanling perched on his shoulder.

Near the stairs, he ran straight into Quirrell, who was coming down to look for the Niffler.

Quirrell didn't even notice Allen passing him. He kept looking left and right with a frown, clearly searching for something.

"Sir, did you lose something?"

Allen was in a good mood after getting free game today. He was even willing to make small talk with someone like Quirrell, and he spoke with a smile.

"N-no. Nothing."

The muscles in Quirrell's face twitched. He hurriedly forced an unconcerned smile.

Private sales of Nifflers were forbidden, and he was plotting a move against Gringotts. Already nervous, he could hardly admit what he was looking for.

"That's good. If you need a hand, just call me."

Allen smiled as he spoke. On his shoulder, Xuanling cocked his head and gave a cry.

Only after Allen had walked some distance away did Quirrell relax a little. He was about to resume his search when a chilling voice came from inside his collar.

"The boy smells of blood."

A snake's head emerged from beneath his collar, its black tongue flicking gently in the air.

"And of the Niffler."

The Niffler was part of Voldemort's plan. To guard against mistakes, he had made the snake attached to Quirrell memorize its scent.

"What? What did that damned brat do?"

Quirrell's anger surged.

The thought of Allen standing before him just now, smiling so happily as though laughing at him on purpose, made his chest tighten. He wanted to chase after him at once.

"Isn't it obvious?"

Voldemort watched Allen leave through the snake's eyes, his voice utterly flat.

"He killed the Niffler. As for that Crow, he treated it as food too. It seems the boy has an appetite and has crossed the wrong person."

Quirrell thought his head might split open.

That Niffler had cost him a third of his savings!

He couldn't let this go.

He had to make the boy pay.

"What are you planning to do?"

At some point, the snake had climbed onto Quirrell's neck. Its cold scales pressed against his skin and slowly slid around it.

"Did you come here to play some righteous hero? Or do you intend to pick a fight with a Hogwarts student? Do you want everyone's attention on you?"

"No, no! Master, I didn't mean that!"

Fear warped Quirrell's voice.

"Set that thought aside for now. The Niffler is gone, so we'll find another way."

Voldemort gave a cold snort.

"Don't let a petty fit of anger ruin things. The boy is a Hogwarts student. There will be plenty of chances to deal with him later."

"Yes, Master. I understand."

Quirrell answered quietly, but his gaze remained fixed on Allen's back. The venom in his eyes had not faded. He was clearly already considering other ways to get revenge.

"Brr... It's so hot out. Why did I suddenly get a chill down my back?"

Allen, already downstairs, shuddered violently. Goosebumps rose across his skin.

But the unpleasant feeling soon passed.

The noise of the Leaky Cauldron washed over him and captured all his attention.

Night had fallen, and the pub was at its busiest. A few wizards had gathered in little groups to drink. There were so few customers he could count them on his fingers, yet they made enough noise to fill the whole room.

Allen didn't go to the bar. He just waved to Ron across the crowd, then carried his things into the kitchen.

To everyone's surprise, the moment he went in, Ron abandoned the drinkers outside and followed him into the kitchen.

"Hey, Grey, what new dish are you making this time?"

Ron rubbed his hands together, his eyes shining.