There is a specific kind of gravity that comes with the birth of a magical creature. Watching the tiny Occamy shake off the last remnants of its silver shell, Allen felt a wave of genuine warmth that had nothing to do with the humid air of the Forbidden Forest. It was a rare moment of pure, untainted discovery in a world currently choked by secrets and ancient monsters.
"Can I...?" Allen looked toward Tina, the mother Occamy. He kept his posture low and his eyes respectful. "I'd like to hold him, if that's alright with you."
Tina didn't hiss. Instead, she let out a soft, trilling sound and used her beak to gently nudge the squirming blue hatchling toward Allen's knees. It was a gesture of immense trust, one that wasn't lost on him.
He reached out, his hands steady as he scooped up the little creature. Up close, the Occamy was a masterpiece of biological art. Its scales were a deep, iridescent indigo that shimmered into violet whenever it moved, and its feathers felt like the finest silk. It looked less like a predator and more like a living jewel.
But as Allen moved to stroke its head, the little thing snapped. Its tiny, needle-sharp beak clicked just inches from his thumb, and its body coiled with surprising strength. Allen jerked back, startled by the sheer speed of the reflex.
"Go easy on him," Tina's voice drifted over, sounding like the chime of silver bells. It was the first time Allen had heard her speak such a complex thought in the human tongue. "They're born with their guard up. It's in the blood. When your very cradle is made of silver, you learn early that the world is full of hands looking to take."
Allen nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy. Occamy eggshells were one of the most sought-after commodities in the black market. An Occamy didn't see a "naturalist" when it looked at a human; it saw a thief. He gently placed the hatchling back into the warmth of the nest, watching it curl up against Tina's flank.
"He needs more than just protection," Allen murmured, his mind already shifting into alchemical gear. "He needs to grow fast."
Gaia, the centaur watching from the shadows, tilted her head. "The forest provides, Allen. The mother will find what he needs."
"The forest provides the basics," Allen countered, already descending from the high branches with the agility of a practiced climber. "I want to provide the edge."
He hit the forest floor and immediately began a frantic, methodical search. He wasn't looking for berries or leaves; he was looking for high-protein catalysts. He gathered cockroaches from under rotting logs, plump mealworms, and the specific, iron-rich earthworms that lived near the roots of the Whomping Willow's cousins.
Back at his makeshift camp, he pulled out a small cauldron—one of the many "disposable" ones he kept in his expanded storage. To most students, a cauldron was a seven-year investment, but for Allen's experiments, they were practically Tupperware.
"Mealworms for protein, crushed coriander seeds for digestion, and a dash of fine-sand ivy to help with the scale-hardening," Allen muttered to himself, grinding the ingredients into a fine, nutrient-dense paste. He rolled the mixture into thin, soft strips that looked like small worms, then tapped them with his wand.
" Conserva," he whispered, casting a freshness charm. It wouldn't spoil for weeks.
He climbed back up to the nest, feeling like a high-end nutritionist for magical beasts. "Here, Tina. This is... well, let's call it a growth supplement. It's fortified with witchcraft techniques to settle his stomach and strengthen his bone structure. Plus, it tastes like what he'd naturally crave, only better."
Tina sniffed the offering, then looked Allen in the eye. "You're a strange hatchling, Allen. But you are the first of your kind I've ever cared to call a friend."
Allen felt a flush of pride, but he didn't linger. The night was growing thin, and he had another, far more dangerous errand to run. He declined Firenze's offer for an escort, moving through the woods with a speed that bordered on the supernatural, his feet barely touching the forest floor as he aimed for the lights of Hagrid's hut.
He needed a rooster. Specifically, he needed to get to them before the "Heir" did.
The lore was clear: the crow of a rooster was the Basilisk's Achilles' heel. Allen didn't fully grasp the magical physics—perhaps it was because a Basilisk was essentially a perversion of a rooster's egg, hatched by a toad under a specific star. Whatever the reason, that sound was lethal. It was the biological "delete" button for the King of Serpents.
"If I can get a few into a portable space," Allen thought, "I have a panic button."
As he approached the coop, he cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, blending into the shadows of the hut. But as he drew closer, he realized he was already too late. The silence was wrong. Usually, Hagrid's chickens were a noisy, flapping mess. Now, there was only the sound of heavy breathing.
A small, shadowed figure stood in front of the wire fence. Her hair, even in the moonlight, was a vivid, unmistakable red. Ginny Weasley. Or rather, the thing wearing Ginny Weasley's skin.
Two roosters lay at her feet, their necks snapped with a clinical, cold efficiency. She was moving toward the third when Allen acted.
" Stupefy! "
The red beam of light sliced through the dark, but Ginny—or Tom—didn't even look back. With a movement that was too fluid, too fast for a first-year student, she pivoted. She didn't just dodge; she flowed around the spell, her body twisting like a ribbon. Before Allen could follow up with a second hex, she vaulted over the six-foot fence with a single, powerful leap and vanished into the darkness of the pumpkin patch.
"What the hell was that?" Allen hissed, his heart racing. That wasn't just a possessed girl; that was a master of combat using a small body to its absolute limit. He'd missed his window.
He turned his attention back to the coop. He couldn't leave the rest to be slaughtered. He quickly rounded up the surviving roosters—there were only two left—and moved them into his system's pet space. It felt a bit like cheating, but he didn't care. He needed them alive.
As he walked back toward the castle, a strange thought hit him. "Why only roosters? Hagrid usually keeps a mixed flock. Did someone—Dumbledore, maybe—clear out the hens to make the roosters more alert? Or is it just another layer of the game?"
Wednesday morning arrived with a heavy sense of dread. In Ravenclaw, the day was known as "Black Wednesday." It was the day they had Defense Against the Dark Arts with Gilderoy Lockhart.
Since the Pixie Disaster earlier in the term, Lockhart had retreated into what he did best: talking about himself. He no longer brought in magical creatures. Now, he just read chapters from his own books, occasionally acting out the "exciting" parts with a captive student.
"We came here to learn how to survive, not how to audition for a West End play," Edward whispered to Allen as they sat in the back of the classroom. Edward was clutching a copy of Twenty-Four Sonnets for Wizards, looking like he wanted to use it as a shield. "At least the homework is just 'Describe Gilderoy's best feature in twelve adjectives.' Better than a three-foot essay, I suppose."
Allen didn't laugh. He watched Lockhart up at the front of the room, flashing a smile that was white enough to be a hazard.
"You know," Allen said quietly, his voice dangerously low, "people think he's just a buffoon. A harmless fraud. But think about it. He tracked down the most powerful, heroic wizards in the world. He got them to trust him. And then he wiped their minds so completely they didn't even remember their own names."
He looked at Lockhart's perfect hair and his sparkling robes.
"That's not just weakness. That's a specific kind of predatory talent. He steals lives, Edward. And I don't think I'll ever forgive him for that."
As Lockhart began a dramatic reading of his encounter with a Wagga Wagga Werewolf, Allen went back to his own notes. He had two roosters, a pile of silver eggshells, and a growing suspicion that the monster in the walls wasn't the only predator he had to worry about.