This was the first time Alan had ever stepped into the Forbidden Forest.
The so-called forbidden place truly lived up to its name. Compared to an ordinary forest, the atmosphere here felt several times darker, heavier, and more oppressive. The trees grew so tall and twisted that their canopies meshed into an almost solid roof, leaving only the thinnest gaps for the moonlight to filter through. The vegetation was so lush that even the small path—worn only by Hagrid's enormous boots—was half swallowed by calf-deep weeds. The rest of the ground was a tangle of wild grass, roots, and thorny bushes, as if nature itself was determined to hide all traces of mankind.
Alan stood at the entrance, his wand raised. He whispered softly, "Lumos."
The tip of the wand flared with dazzling white light, stabbing into the shadows. A small circle of clarity opened around him, but beyond it the darkness seemed endless, swallowing everything whole.
"Which way should I even go first…?" he muttered, half to himself.
The so-called illumination spell was useful but far from perfect. The light revealed twisted trunks, moving weeds, and glistening spiderwebs, but the forest beyond remained pitch-black, the kind of darkness that felt alive. Alan couldn't help but grumble, "Honestly, wouldn't it be easier if someone just brought along a flashlight? I've heard Hogwarts has some kind of ward that messes with most electronics, but really—does that include flashlights too?"
With every step he took through the tall grass—sometimes sinking ankle-deep, sometimes up to his shins—he found himself glancing about warily. The forest was unnervingly silent, broken only by the occasional snap of twigs beneath his boots. Alan wasn't foolish. He knew that letting his guard down here would be nothing short of suicidal.
"It'd be amazing if I had night vision…" he muttered again. "I wonder what kind of magical beast I'd have to eat to get that ability?"
That thought made him chuckle, but the laugh died quickly. His body froze mid-step.
Up ahead, through the patchwork of moonlight and shadow, Alan noticed something unusual—a faint outline of a building nestled among the trees.
"Wait, am I off track already?" He squinted at it, trying to make out the details. "That looks like… a hut?"
Recognition clicked. "Oh. That must be the home of the old Care of Magical Creatures professor… Sylvanus Kettleburn."
The man was something of a legend at Hogwarts. Known for being fearless around dangerous beasts—and for losing more than a few body parts because of it—Kettleburn had lived deep inside the forest for years. Only after his retirement had Hagrid taken up the post, and by then the hut was already something of a landmark.
Alan shook his head. "Better not bother the old man. He's probably asleep. People his age don't rest easy if you knock in the middle of the night."
He sighed. "Tnnd, even with a map, finding the right path in here is like solving a riddle. At night, it's impossible to tell direction."
Perched on his shoulder, Tommy, his glossy-feathered companion, had been busy preening himself. At Alan's complaint, the bird cocked his head, blinking curiously with bright, intelligent eyes.
"Tommy," Alan said, "help me out here. Figure out which way leads back toward Hogwarts."
The bird let out a sharp "Ga!" in agreement. Spreading his wings, Tommy took off, rising smoothly into the night sky.
Most birds would be blind at this hour, but Tommy wasn't ordinary. Magical creatures didn't play by the same rules. His silhouette circled against the moon, then swooped back down. Landing gracefully on a low branch, he raised one wing and pointed unmistakably toward a direction.
"That way, huh?" Alan muttered, nodding. He mentally compared their current spot to what he remembered from the map. The location of Kettleburn's hut gave him a rough anchor. He recalled that somewhere further east there should be a stream that eventually fed into the Black Lake. Alongside that stream was a rocky shore, and if the book was to be believed, that was where one could often find the infamous soft-clawed land shrimp.
A smile tugged at his lips.
The soft-clawed land shrimp—an odd little magical creature—was well-documented in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Wizards had tested them countless times, and the conclusion was always the same: inedible.
The book listed the consequences of eating one. High fever that lingered for days. An unsightly rash spreading green across the body. Most gave up after a single attempt.
But Alan? Alan thought differently.
"Honestly, if they didn't taste good, why would so many wizards keep trying to eat them?" He smirked. "Curiosity doesn't explain that much persistence."
He recalled another detail. Aside from being terrible food, the creatures had a nasty little quirk. If they managed to bite someone, the victim would suffer a week of bad luck—not minor misfortune either, but the kind where everything went wrong.
Alan's eyes brightened. "Aha. So that's their real ability—bad luck curses."
A plan formed instantly. "If I can consume one and gain that power, then I could… share it with Percy Weasley." His grin turned sharp. "Let's see him try to confess to anyone while plagued by disasters."
Whistling softly, Alan turned east, guided by Tommy's wing.
The rocky beach wasn't far. Within minutes, Alan found himself standing on uneven stones, slick with moisture from the nearby stream. The silver moonlight shone directly onto the rocks, and sure enough, he spotted them: dozens of soft-clawed land shrimp basking on the stones. Their shells gleamed faintly, and their legs twitched restlessly.
Alan raised his wand. The beam of light startled the shrimp. With a collective rustle, they scuttled in all directions, claws snapping furiously.
"Not so fast." Alan flicked his wrist. Several Levitation Charms shot out, slamming into the creatures. They flailed wildly, claws slashing at the air, but the magic held firm.
Striding forward, Alan plucked them up one by one. Each was nearly half a meter long, their bodies heavy and muscular. They snapped their pincers at him, but he pinched them firmly by the shell, keeping the dangerous mouthparts far away.
Four shrimp, caught without much trouble. "That should be enough," he muttered, satisfied. "Even with my appetite, four is plenty."
The real question now was: how to cook them?
He frowned. Carrying such cursed ingredients back to Hogwarts was unwise. The kitchens were shared, and contaminating the pots and pans with unlucky magic might spark a mass poisoning—or worse, a week of chaos for the entire school. The thought made him shiver.
"No. Better to handle it here."
Before anything else, he activated his special skill—the Eye of Discrimination. The magical appraisal shimmered over the shrimp, and glowing text appeared before his eyes:
[Soft-Clawed Land Shrimp]
Hunting Level: 21
Special Ability: Cursed Body (Rank C)
Characteristics: fresh and sweet, conflict
[Cursed Body C]: The curse effect lies solely in the mouthparts. When they come into contact with another creature, they impart a misfortune curse lasting one full week.
Alan whistled softly. "So that's it. They're not actually poisonous. The fever and rash people get must be from some sort of… magical conflict."
He tapped his chin. "So all those poor wizards weren't poisoned at all. Their own magic just clashed with the shrimp's energy. Hah. No wonder it looked like an illness."
Where others saw danger, Alan saw opportunity. He had candies in his inventory that soothed magical conflicts. Compared to that, this was nothing.
"Alright, let's see what happens when I cook you properly."
He considered his options. A simple fire would do the job, but Alan wasn't interested in ordinary cooking tonight. He wanted to test his control—to play a little.
"Instead of gathering firewood, why not roast them with dragon fire directly?" he mused.
Of course, he still needed to prepare them. Alan transfigured a pile of nearby rocks into makeshift tools: clamps for holding shells, a flat board for cleaning. His motions were efficient, practiced. He even hummed softly, as though he were in a kitchen instead of a dangerous forest.
With the tools ready, he muttered, "Execution time."
He dismissed the light at his wand's tip, replacing it with flames drawn straight from his palm. Threads of fire unspooled, weaving into fine, controlled strands. They twined around the shrimp, encasing them in a glowing cocoon.
The temperature was held perfectly steady—not too hot, not too weak. That kind of precision was only possible because of his earlier meal: the liver of an Australian Opaleye dragon. Its essence had granted him unmatched command over flame.
In Alan's hands, fire was no longer wild and destructive; it was an obedient instrument, bending to his will.
The shrimp hissed as moisture sizzled from their shells. The smell of the sea, sharp and briny, filled the air, soon giving way to something richer—the irresistible aroma of roasting meat.
Alan's lips curved. "Perfect."
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