Cedric had been willing to let the Murtlap live.
Then the constant stream of curses wore the last of his patience thin.
Terror flooded the creature’s eyes a second too late.
One flick of Cedric’s wand and Transfiguration produced a short, sharp knife.
The blade punched cleanly through the Murtlap’s throat.
Bleeding and skinning followed.
A year in the woods had burned the motions into muscle memory.
The Transfigured edge was dull—closer to the “tetanus blade” he had used on rabbits than anything from a proper cutlery set—but it did not matter.
He worked along the fascia and peeled the snow-white pelt free in one unbroken sheet.
Not a drop of blood reached the floor.
The only flaw was a small tear near the left hind leg where the Biting Cabbage had clamped down.
The rest of the fur was perfect.
It would have brought decent money.
The animal’s origin was too questionable, though.
Selling it risked attention he did not want.
He dropped the pelt into the basin with the blood and set both aside for later disposal.
He wiped the knife.
The blade slowly reverted to its original form while he made quiet excuses in his head for the limits of his Transfiguration.
Then his gaze settled on the pile of meat on the cutting board.
How to cook it so it actually tasted like food.
Across the building, Quirrell waited in his room for the Murtlap to return from its “recess.” He checked his pocket watch and frowned.
The creature had been gone far longer than usual.
…
Cedric settled on roasting the meat over fruitwood.
A Murtlap counted as a magical creature, but once the magic was stripped away the flesh was ordinary mink—heavy, gamey, and stubborn.
There were better ways to kill the odor.
Most of them cost money and time he did not feel like spending.
Fruitwood smoke was the simplest solution that still used Ron’s kitchen.
He bundled the waste, picked up the bag of meat, and headed downstairs with Noir on his shoulder.
At the top of the stairs he nearly walked into Quirrell, who was coming down looking for the missing animal.
Quirrell barely registered the boy.
His eyes scanned the corridor, frown deepening.
“Mister, lose something?” Cedric asked, cheerful.
Free ingredients always improved his mood.
He was even willing to be polite to a future Defense professor with a parasite on his neck.
“N-nothing.” Quirrell’s cheek twitched.
He forced a thin smile.
A banned creature and a half-formed plan against Gringotts made honesty impossible.
“Just shout if you need a hand.” Cedric kept walking.
Noir tilted its head and gave a single, satisfied caw.
Quirrell exhaled and prepared to resume the search.
An icy voice slid out of his collar instead.
“That boy carries the scent of blood,” the snake head said, black tongue tasting the air.
“And the scent of Murtlap.”
Voldemort had ordered the creature’s smell memorized for exactly this reason.
The Murtlap was part of the plan.
“What?
What did that damned thing do?” Rage climbed Quirrell’s throat.
The bright, easy smile the boy had given him suddenly felt like open mockery.
“He killed it.
Obvious.” Voldemort’s eyes held no heat, only calculation.
“Crows are on a Murtlap’s preferred menu.
A loose mouth met someone who does not tolerate loose mouths.”
Quirrell’s skull felt ready to split.
A third of his savings, gone.
He had to settle this.
“And do what, exactly?” Cold scales tightened around his neck.
“Pick a fight with a Hogwarts student in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron?
Do you want every eye in the building on you?”
“N-no, Master!”
“The plan pauses.
Without the Murtlap we take another road.” Voldemort’s voice stayed flat.
“Keep your temper.
He is a Hogwarts student.
You will have time later.”
“Yes, Master.” Quirrell stared at Cedric’s retreating back and filled the stare with every vicious intention he could not act on yet.
Halfway down the stairs Cedric shivered.
Goosebumps rose along his arms for no clear reason.
The feeling passed as quickly as it came.
The evening noise of the Leaky Cauldron wrapped around him—wizards packed into booths, tankards slamming, voices overlapping until a handful of people sounded like a full house.
He skipped the bar, waved once at Ron from a distance, and pushed straight into the kitchen.
Ron abandoned the drinkers without a second thought and followed.
“Grey,” he said, rubbing his hands, eyes bright.
“Planning something new?”