Cedric knew exactly what would happen if he ate Noir.
Two special abilities, straight into the system.
Solidified Tracking Charm and Hatred.
Both useful.
Both permanent.
The thought lasted less than a second.
He was still human.
Some lines stayed drawn even when the reward looked clean.
“You’re fine,” he said.
“Window sill.
Don’t shit in the room.”
He set the crow on the ledge.
Noir froze like a stuffed specimen through the first half of the sentence.
The moment the word “food” left Cedric’s mouth the bird came alive—eyes rolling, one sharp caw that translated without effort: You’d better mean it.
Cedric scratched the small black head.
Noir leaned into the touch, eyes half-closed.
With the crow settled he turned back to the stove.
Greasy pans, the half-dismembered Biting Cabbage still on the board, the smell of oil and bitterness hanging in the air.
His stomach gave a quiet roll of protest.
He sat at the desk, pulled out a blank parchment notebook, and wrote.
Biting Cabbage.
Hunting Level: 5.
Origin: China.
Properties: Astringent bitterness.
Texture identical to soaked, rotten cardboard.
Cooking method:
The pen stopped.
His eyes drifted to the remaining half on the cutting board.
High-heat stir-fry was finished.
Boiling would turn it into wall plaster.
The only path left was drying it down hard, drowning the bitterness in sugar, and calling the result a snack.
He prepped the half-cabbage cleanly—thin slices, a ring of olive oil, a heavy hand of salt and sugar.
Sweet-salty crisp was the goal.
The tiny potion flame under the cauldron would never reach the heat he needed.
The Leaky Cauldron’s kitchen would have to do.
Plate in hand, he stepped into the hallway.
Noir finished its business on the sill, gave two lazy wingbeats, and landed on his shoulder with another greedy caw.
“Picky bastard,” Cedric muttered.
He didn’t shove it off.
Afternoon had settled into the quietest stretch of the day.
The main room downstairs was almost empty.
One man stood at the counter, wrapped in an absurdly puffy robe, cloth wound round and round his head until he looked like he’d walked straight out of a desert caravan.
Cedric’s Eye of Insight flicked once.
Hunting Level: 59.
Solid.
Well above the street average.
The face under the wrappings tugged at something familiar, but Cedric filed it away and waited his turn.
“Room’s on the third floor.
Keep the key,” the landlord said, sliding it across.
“Mr.
Quirrell, right?
Anything you need, just call.”
Quirrell.
The name landed like a struck match.
Defense Against the Dark Arts.
First-year teacher.
The one with something far worse riding his neck.
Cedric had been so busy grinding points and hunting ingredients he’d almost let the larger shape of the year slip.
Harry Potter.
The Chamber.
The Basilisk.
The Basilisk, especially.
He wondered what a thousand-year-old serpent would taste like once the venom was cooked out.
Quirinus Quirrell took the key with polite thanks.
“I won’t need much.
No cleaning required.
I’ll call if anything comes up.”
He turned and nearly walked into Cedric.
A child holding a plate of raw vegetables earned a brief, puzzled glance, nothing more.
Quirrell moved past without another word.
The landlord—Ron, according to the name board—looked down at Cedric with the automatic warmth most adults showed that face.
“Young man.
Something you need?”
Cedric smiled, wide and easy.
“Borrow the oven for a few minutes.
Vegetables.”
“Kitchen’s free.
Follow me.”
Ron led the way.
Quirrell reached the farthest room at the end of the long corridor, pushed the door open, and set his suitcase down.
The instant the latch clicked, his body locked.
Cold scaled skin slid against the back of his neck.
A narrow head forced its way out through the gap in his collar, tongue tasting the stale air.
“This dump is still as half-dead as ever,” the voice hissed, soft and precise.
“Just like the rest of your life, Mr.
Quirrell.”
Quirrell’s face went dark.
He hated the cramped, filthy room.
He hated the thing coiled around his throat even more.
But the path had been his choice.
Years ago he had hunted scraps of parchment for any trace of the Dark Lord who had torn through Europe half a century earlier.
The plan had been simple: find the broken remnants, step on them, take whatever power remained.
A centipede dies hard.
Instead of crushing the remnant, he had been pinned flat.
Now there was only one road left.
Serve cleanly.
Finish every task without failure.
Otherwise the rest of his life would be darker than this collapsing pub, exactly as the voice had promised.