"Can the soul eat?"
The question slipped from Allen's lips almost casually, though his eyes sparkled with curiosity. It was late at night in the Gryffindor common room, where the fire burned low and shadows stretched across the warm wooden panels. Ghosts often drifted through the house lounges, and tonight was no exception. Nearly Headless Nick floated by with his usual detached dignity, his silver-white form glowing faintly in the dim firelight.
Most of the students rarely paid attention to the ghosts, much less spoke with them. Ghosts were, after all, unsettling reminders of death and unfinished business. Yet Allen was not most students. To him, ghosts were a puzzle, a source of knowledge, and perhaps even tools waiting to be properly understood.
Nick, surprised by the direct question, straightened his semi-transparent shoulders. His head wobbled slightly from its precarious attachment, as it always did. He brightened almost instantly—students so rarely cared to ask him anything.
"Why do you pay attention to this sort of thing?" Nick replied with evident pleasure at being addressed. "Hardly anyone wonders what ghosts eat. Usually, the most pressing question is whether we float above the bed or sink beneath it when the living try to sleep."
Allen chuckled softly, tilting his head. "Now that you mention it, I am curious. How do you sleep? Or do you not sleep at all?"
Nick's eyes twinkled, though they were pale, misty reflections of what they once had been in life. "Oh, we don't sleep, at least not as you do. We simply mimic the motions. See?" He demonstrated by hovering over a sofa, reclining in the air as though he rested upon the cushions. "I may appear to lounge or rest, but truly, it's only a performance. We have no need for slumber."
Allen studied the motion carefully, intrigued. "Fascinating… and what about food? Can you eat at all?"
Nick's expression turned regretful. He shook his head, the half-severed portion of his neck swinging grotesquely before settling again. "No, not really. We cannot touch physical matter, so food passes right through us. Among us, only Peeves is an exception, though he is no true ghost but a poltergeist. He can meddle with the physical world. Still, even we can sense things. We cannot eat food, but we can taste its smell. Strong scents reach us—especially the stench of rot. On Halloween, when we hold our grand banquet, we beg for rotting food. The more spoiled, the richer the aroma for us. Yet… it is not something we indulge in often, as the living find it unbearable."
Allen's mind whirred. Ghosts could not eat, yet they could taste through scent. Peeves, being a special case, could interact with the physical plane. That meant there was potential. If one could create a dish strong enough, flavorful enough, perhaps even delicious enough, then Peeves might appreciate it—might even be persuaded by it.
Allen leaned back, thinking deeply. The Weasley twins, George and Fred, were notorious for their pranks, but Peeves… Peeves was a master, a force of chaos far beyond the twins' reach. If Allen could bribe Peeves with something irresistible, perhaps Peeves could become his unwitting ally, tormenting Percy Weasley in particular.
But how to bribe a ghostly trickster? Trinkets and prank props were insufficient; those would amuse Peeves but would never bind him. What Peeves needed was something unique. Something only Allen could provide.
Food.
Not ordinary food, but something crafted to suit spectral taste. Something fragrant enough to reach beyond death. Delicious enough to tempt even a being like Peeves.
The plan was risky and strange, but it might work. For that, Allen needed special ingredients—things that could exude powerful scents and flavors, ingredients not found in the school's kitchens. That meant venturing into the Forbidden Forest.
Allen's resolve hardened.
The dormitory was silent, every boy lost in deep sleep. Moonlight filtered through the curtains, casting silver bars across the floor. Allen, lying motionless in bed, opened his eyes. They gleamed in the darkness like twin stars.
With deliberate care, he slipped out from under his blanket, dressed quickly, and fastened his cloak. The soft rustling disturbed two birds in their cages. Hedwig, Harry's proud snowy owl, blinked awake and stared at Allen with suspicion. She fluffed her feathers, her beak opening in preparation to hoot loudly.
Before she could sound the alarm, a sleek black bird swooped down. Rogers, Allen's loyal companion, pecked her gently but firmly on the head, silencing her warning cry. Hedwig ruffled her feathers indignantly and cooed her disapproval but retreated into her cage, glaring. Rogers cast her a sharp glance, then flew to Allen's shoulder, rubbing his head affectionately against Allen's cheek.
"Good work," Allen whispered, stroking him once. Then he scooped up Bran, the small creature nestled beside his bed. Bran wriggled in confusion but soon clung to Allen's sleeve.
Glancing around one last time to ensure no one stirred, Allen activated his ability. His body shifted, half-immaterial, and then he began to sink silently through the floor.
The sensation was both exhilarating and eerie. His feet re-solidified briefly at intervals, catching hold of protruding stones or carved decorations to steady his descent, before dissolving again. After several controlled drops, he landed soundlessly in the great front hall of Hogwarts.
"Material Shuttle," Allen thought with satisfaction. Why waste time on winding staircases and endless corridors when one could move straight to the target?
Bran gaped in astonishment at the strange journey, his mouth opening to squeak. Allen quickly pinched it shut. "Quiet," he murmured, eyes sharp.
At that moment, a dim light flickered from the side corridor. The uneven glow of a kerosene lamp revealed Argus Filch's dour face. The caretaker shuffled forward, muttering under his breath, the lamp swaying in his hand.
Allen held perfectly still. He did not need to move. With his [Aura Masking] ability active, Filch's eyes slid right past him, as though Allen were no more than another shadow in the hall. Unless Allen deliberately drew attention—by speaking, looking directly, or making a noise—he was invisible to perception.
Filch trudged on, grumbling about muddy footprints and disrespectful students, and disappeared into the darkness.
Allen smirked. This ability was more than convenient; it was liberation. Rogers, perched quietly, was likewise hidden under the masking veil. The gifts he had inherited from the Marten's life were invaluable for a night wanderer like him.
Slipping through the wall, Allen left the castle behind and crossed the moonlit grounds toward the looming silhouette of the Forbidden Forest. The path, as always, passed by Hagrid's hut.
The hut glowed warmly from within, its windows lit even at this late hour. It was past one in the morning, yet the giant half-blood had not put out his lights. Allen could see Hagrid's massive form slumped in a chair, his snores faintly audible even through the window.
At the door sat Fang—Yaya, as Hagrid affectionately called him. The boarhound's ears twitched, his drooping eyes half-open as though keeping guard.
Allen walked boldly past the hut. The hound raised his head briefly, sniffed the air, then flopped back down, deciding there was no threat.
Allen paused, glancing back. Mischief sparked in his eyes. "Why torture yourself with sleepless nights, Hagrid? You can't catch me anyway. Better to rest properly," he murmured.
He snapped a branch from a nearby bush and held it in his palm. Channeling energy, a small bright flame burst to life, heat radiating in sharp intensity. Smoke curled upward, and when he opened his hand again, the branch had charred to brittle black charcoal.
The faint scent roused Fang, who whined softly, sniffed the air, and shifted uneasily. After a moment of silence, convinced nothing was wrong, the hound laid his head back down.
Allen grinned, slipping through the wall of the hut like a whisper. Inside, Hagrid snored thunderously, his massive frame nearly overflowing the oversized chair. His head lolled to one side, his mouth open slightly, and his beard rose and fell with each breath.
Allen crouched, studying him for a moment. Then, with impish delight, he took the charcoal and carefully drew two great circles around Hagrid's eyes. The black smudges stood out starkly against his rugged face, transforming him into a slumbering giant panda.
Satisfied, Allen stepped back. The prank was harmless, yet amusing. He set the charcoal aside and slipped back through the wall, leaving behind no trace but his artistry.
Pausing once more, he looked back at the hut, his voice low and teasing. "I mean well, Hagrid. If you don't rest properly, you'll end up with panda eyes sooner or later. Better to let me remind you."
With that, he tossed away the remaining charcoal and continued toward the darkness of the Forbidden Forest, where stranger and stronger ingredients awaited.
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