Alan, still debating whether to let the mink go, lost his patience amid its constant cursing.
In the mink's horrified eyes, Alan used a Transfiguration spell to conjure a sharp knife and swiftly stabbed it into its throat. His movements were precise and practiced. Having survived in the wild for a year, Alan had become quite skilled in such matters.
Although the knife conjured by Transfiguration wasn't very sharp, Alan—who had grown used to using a crude "Tetanus Blade" in the wild—didn't mind at all. He worked expertly, splitting the fascia and peeling off the snow-white mink skin in one smooth motion.
The process was clean—so clean that not a single drop of blood fell to the ground.
Under normal circumstances, the flawless mink skin, damaged only slightly at the left hind leg, would have been worth a small fortune. But since its origin was questionable, Alan didn't want to attract any attention. He had no intention of selling it.
Instead, he threw the skin into a basin of blood and planned to deal with it later.
After finishing, Alan wiped the blood off the conjured blade and watched as the Transfiguration spell slowly lost effect, returning the knife to nothingness. As he pondered the limitations of his Transfiguration abilities, his gaze drifted to the freshly butchered meat on the chopping board.
How should I cook it? he wondered.
Meanwhile, Professor Quirrell, waiting for his magical mink to return from its usual "walk," glanced at his pocket watch with growing concern. The creature had been gone far longer than usual.
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...
In the end, Alan chose to roast the mink meat using fruitwood. There weren't many alternatives. Although the mink was a magical creature, it was nearly identical to an ordinary one, aside from the faint magical energy it held. Unfortunately, that meant it also carried the same unpleasant musky odor.
There were many ways to eliminate that smell—marinades, magical techniques, potions—but most of them were either complicated or expensive. Alan had no interest in wasting resources on it.
So, he opted for the simplest method—borrowing Tom's kitchen at the Leaky Cauldron.
Packing the scraps into a bin and placing the meat in a sealed bag, Alan slung a black satchel over his shoulder and headed out.
As he descended the stairs, he happened to run into Quirrell, who was on his way down to look for the missing mink.
Quirrell didn't pay attention to the child passing by, frowning as he looked around anxiously.
"Sir, did you lose something?" Alan asked, cheerfully. He was in a good mood after his unexpected gain. Even encountering Quirrell, someone he deeply distrusted, couldn't dampen his spirits. So he offered a polite question.
"No... nothing." Quirrell's expression shifted slightly before he forced a smile, trying to appear casual.
The truth was, he couldn't afford to answer. The mink was a magical creature prohibited from sale. On top of that, Quirrell had a hidden agenda involving Gringotts and was already feeling paranoid. There was no way he could go around asking openly about a missing magical animal.
"You're welcome. If you need help, just let me know," Alan said with a friendly smile.
Xuanse, perched on his shoulder, tilted his head and chirped softly, as if agreeing.
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Quirrell watched Alan walk away and let out a slow breath. Just as he was about to resume his search, a cold, chilling voice echoed near his ear.
"That child... he smells of blood."
A snake's head slowly emerged from Quirrell's collar, its dark forked tongue flicking the air. "And the scent of the mink is all over him."
Voldemort—still in his parasitic state—had taken precautions to ensure the mink wouldn't be lost. He had embedded the creature's scent into the snake's memory just in case something like this happened.
"What? Damn it, what did that brat do?!" Quirrell hissed furiously.
He clenched his fists, thinking about Alan's bright, innocent smile moments ago. That child had definitely been mocking him.
"He killed it. Obviously," Voldemort said coldly. His voice was emotionless, chilling.
The snake's eyes narrowed. "Even the crow he keeps would eat a mink if given the chance. This greedy little child just ran into someone tougher than expected."
Quirrell's heart ached. That mink had cost him nearly a third of his savings! But Voldemort's next words stopped him cold.
"What do you plan to do?"
The snake, now wrapped tightly around Quirrell's neck, slid its scales across his skin. Its venomous presence pressed like ice against his spine.
"Do you think you're here for revenge? To stir up unnecessary trouble with Hogwarts students? Do you want to draw attention?"
"No... No, Master!" Quirrell stammered in horror.
"Then put the plan on hold. Without the mink, we'll find another way. And control yourself," Voldemort ordered coldly. "The boy is a student. There will be chances for payback."
"Yes, Master, I understand." Quirrell gritted his teeth, his eyes following Alan's retreating figure. He didn't know how yet, but he swore he'd make the boy regret it.
"Hisss... Why do I feel so cold in the summer?" Alan muttered as he reached the bottom of the stairs, rubbing his arms.
Goosebumps ran across his skin, as if a ghost had passed through him. Fortunately, the eerie feeling vanished just as quickly as it came, and the familiar noise of the Leaky Cauldron lifted his spirits.
It was early evening, and the bar was at its busiest. Groups of witches and wizards gathered in small clusters, chatting and drinking merrily. Although the number of patrons wasn't overwhelming, the energy in the room was warm and lively.
Alan didn't want to interrupt the busy crowd gathered near the counter, so he simply waved at Tom from a distance and slipped quietly into the kitchen.
To his surprise, not long after he entered, Tom excused himself from the bar and followed him in.
"Hey, Cecil, are you making something new today?" Tom asked eagerly, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
Alan smiled. "Yeah. I caught something interesting. Going to try a new method with fruitwood."
Tom peeked into the bag and caught a glimpse of the meat. His eyes sparkled.
"Is that... mink? Magical?"
"Sort of," Alan said vaguely. "Don't worry. It's legal. At least, it's dead now, and I didn't buy it."
Tom laughed. "As long as it tastes good, I don't care where it came from."
Alan chuckled and began working. He soaked the meat in a basin filled with cooking wine and spices, trying to purge the musky smell. Then he rubbed it with a special blend of crushed garlic, fruit zest, peppercorns, and powdered thyme. The fragrant spices masked the scent surprisingly well.
Tom leaned in and sniffed. "That already smells amazing."
"Just wait till it's roasted," Alan said, lighting the fruitwood fire.
He suspended the marinated meat over the fire using a charmed metal rack and began to rotate it slowly. As the flames licked the surface, the scent of spices and roasting meat filled the kitchen.
Outside, the aroma began drifting into the bar, catching the attention of several customers.
Tom sniffed the air. "You might want to sell this."
Alan smirked. "Not this time. I need to test it first."
As the meat roasted, the skin crisped, and the fat sizzled into the fire, releasing bursts of fragrant smoke. Alan watched carefully, turning the spit with precision.
When the color was just right, he pulled it off and cut a slice.
Tom eagerly took a bite—and his eyes widened.
"This is fantastic," he said, mouth full. "You've got a gift, kid."
Alan smiled, but his mind was elsewhere. He couldn't shake the feeling from earlier—the cold, invisible pressure.
Someone had noticed him.
Someone dangerous.
But right now, he had food and warmth.
For tonight, that was enough.