Chapter 11: Voldemort and the Unfortunate Quirrell

Allen could gain special abilities from special creatures by consuming them. That meant if Allen ate a crow like Tommy, he could immediately obtain two unique abilities.

But Allen wasn't that crazy.

"All right, you're fine. Go to the window and stay there. Don't leave any feces in the house, okay?" Allen placed Tommy on the window sill. "If you want to fly, just take a couple of laps. There'll be delicious food later."

When Allen first spoke, Tommy remained motionless, obedient like a fake crow. But the moment Allen mentioned delicious food, the bird suddenly became energetic. His eyes lit up, and he let out a sharp caw.

Allen understood exactly what that meant—it was a crow's way of saying, a promise is a promise.

With a smile, Allen reached out and gently stroked Tommy's little head. The crow, in turn, closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, rubbing against Allen's fingers with visible enjoyment.

Having settled Tommy, Allen turned his attention to the greasy pots and pans cluttering the room. He sighed, walked over to his desk in a somewhat sour mood, and pulled out a blank parchment-bound notebook. On the first page, he scribbled a few lines.

Bite Cabbage

Danger Level: 5

Origin: Daxia

Properties: Bitter taste, extremely unpleasant—like soggy cardboard soaked in herbs.

Cooking Method: ...

As he wrote out the cooking method, Allen hesitated. He glanced at the half-prepared Bite Cabbage sitting on the table. Stir-frying wouldn't work; boiling would make it even worse. Cooking it would only intensify the bitterness.

"It's probably better to dry it. Add sugar to balance the bitterness, then eat it as a snack," Allen muttered to himself.

Excited by this idea, Allen sprang into action. But his oven was barely functional, more suited for brewing potions than actual cooking. He decided it would be smarter to borrow the kitchen at the Leaky Cauldron.

He prepared the cabbage by coating it lightly in olive oil, then sprinkled some salt and sugar over it, aiming for a sweet-and-salty flavor.

With the tray in hand, Allen stepped out of the room, intending to find the innkeeper and ask about borrowing the kitchen.

Tommy, who had been perched by the window all this time, immediately reacted. He expelled the waste from his body—thankfully onto the window ledge and not the floor—and flapped over to Allen's shoulder. He let out two eager caws, his eyes filled with anticipation.

"Tsk, you're really greedy," Allen muttered, glancing at the bird, but he didn't shoo him away.

It was already late afternoon, a time when the Leaky Cauldron usually wasn't too busy. Allen figured borrowing the kitchen wouldn't be too difficult.

Sure enough, when he arrived downstairs, the bar was nearly empty. Only one guest was at the counter, appearing to be in the middle of checking in.

The man wore a bloated robe, and his head was wrapped with a turban. He looked distinctly like an Indian wizard. Something about his appearance struck Allen as familiar. He narrowed his eyes and used his ability to scan the man's hunting level—59. That was relatively high, placing him among the stronger wizards.

Still, Allen didn't overthink it. He simply stood behind the man and waited his turn.

"Your room is on the third floor. Please keep the key safe," said Tom, the bar owner, as he handed over a room key. "Mr. Quirrell, if you need anything, feel free to call for room service."

Quirrell?

Allen's eyes widened in sudden recognition. That name—Quirrell—it triggered memories.

Wasn't this the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor from Harry Potter's first year?

Allen had almost forgotten about Harry Potter. Lately, he'd been preoccupied with improving his hunting level and acquiring more rare ingredients. Voldemort, the infamous villain, hadn't even crossed his mind.

That's a serious oversight... then again, maybe it doesn't concern me. The only potential connection might be the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets?

Allen's eyes gleamed. Now that would be a taste worth chasing—the legendary basilisk.

"I usually don't need much," Quirinus Quirrell said politely, accepting the key. "No need for daily cleaning. If I require anything, I'll let you know."

As Quirrell turned and walked upstairs, he briefly glanced at Allen—who stood there holding a tray of cabbage—and looked slightly puzzled. But he said nothing and continued on his way.

"What can I do for you, kid?" asked Tom the barkeeper, finally noticing Allen. He liked the boy's friendly demeanor and cheerful energy.

"Could I borrow your oven?" Allen asked with a bright smile. "I want to grill some vegetables."

"Of course, no problem at all," Tom said warmly. "The kitchen's free right now. I'll show you the way."

Meanwhile, Quirrell made his way down the dim hallway on the third floor, arriving at his assigned room at the end of the corridor. It was small, stuffy, and reeked of old wood and damp curtains. He opened the door and stepped inside, setting down his luggage with a soft grunt.

Just as he began to remove his turban, his entire body stiffened.

He could feel something slithering across his neck—scales, cold and slick—and then a forked tongue flicked out from under his collar.

"This shabby inn is as dead as ever," hissed a voice, low and reptilian. "Just like your future, Mr. Quirrell."

Quirrell's face turned pale.

He despised this cramped, unclean room. He hated the parasite that now shared his body even more—but he had no say in the matter. This was the price of his ambition.

Long ago, in pursuit of dark power, Quirrell had followed obscure clues and forbidden texts until he discovered hints of a dark lord who had once terrorized Europe—Voldemort.

He had thought he could control the weakened dark spirit. Exploit him. But Quirrell had underestimated how dangerous even a shattered Voldemort could be.

He was subdued easily—possessed, corrupted, and enslaved.

Now, Quirrell could only obey. If he didn't, Voldemort's threat would become reality—his future truly would be as cold and dead as this inn.