Perched on the stone ledge of Allen's window was a British sea eagle. This wasn't just any bird; with a wingspan pushing nearly two and a half meters, the "Flying Door" of the avian world lived up to its nickname. It looked majestic even as it shook a spray of saltwater and rain from its dark feathers. Clutched in its powerful talons was a large, woven fruit basket, and tied to its leg was a thick roll of parchment.
Despite the gale-force winds and the horizontal rain outside, the basket was bone-dry. A shimmering, iridescent film—a high-level moisture-proof charm—coated the wicker and the contents within.
Allen approached the window and unlatched it. The eagle hopped inside, its sharp eyes scanning the room with a predatory intelligence before dropping the basket onto Allen's desk. Inside, nestled in soft moss, were rows of plump, vibrant raspberries. They were so fresh they looked like they had been plucked seconds ago in a sun-drenched glade, rather than transported through a Scottish storm.
"Gaia's handiwork," Allen murmured, recognizing the specific, oversized berries he'd seen her snacking on before.
He picked one up, popping the sweet-tart fruit into his mouth. The juice exploded across his tongue, a sudden burst of summer in the middle of a grey October. He reached for the letter, expecting Gaia's messy scrawl, but the handwriting on the parchment was a shock.
The typeface was breathtakingly beautiful. It was a classic Italian italic style—slanted perfectly, with elegant ovals and sharp, rhythmic angles. The variation in the thickness of the lines suggested a steady, powerful hand. It was the handwriting of someone who lived a long time and valued the weight of their words.
"Firenze," Allen realized. The centaur's touch was all over the letter.
He quickly scanned the contents. The news was urgent: the mother Occamy in the Forbidden Forest—Tina—was in the middle of a difficult labor. A particularly large, silver-shelled egg was stuck, and the creature was fading fast. Gaia had sent the letter via the centaurs, practically begging Allen to come and witness—or more likely, assist—with the birth.
"This is a rare chance, Allen. A unique experience for a student of magic. But if you come, bring your kit. Healing is more an art than a science in the forest," Gaia's words, transcribed by the centaur, were clear.
For a moment, Allen's mind drifted to his recent research. Between his growing fascination with magical creature habitats and his secret studies on the Basilisk, his interest in "X-XXX" rated creatures had reached a fever pitch. He understood Hagrid's obsession now; there was something intoxicating about a creature that could defy the laws of physics.
He grabbed a scrap of parchment and scribbled a single sentence: "I'm on my way. Hold the line. — Allen Harris."
He tied the reply to the sea eagle's leg, reinforced the bird's charms with a flick of his wand, and watched it vanish back into the grey void of the storm. Almost immediately, a familiar, cold chime echoed in his mind.
[System Notification: Mission Triggered — Rescue the Occamy of the Forbidden Forest.][Reward: High-Tier Lottery Ticket.]
Allen didn't need the system to tell him things were dire. If Gaia was asking for help, it meant nature's own resilience had reached its limit. He grabbed his expanded potion satchel. A year of obsessive brewing meant he had enough Blood-Replenishing Potion and Skele-Gro to start a small hospital. He threw on his cloak, ignored the "Out of Bounds" rules, and sprinted out of the castle.
The Forbidden Forest at night, during a thunderstorm, was a place of nightmares. Lightning turned the black trees into skeletal fingers reaching for the sky. The wind howled through the canopy like a dying beast.
Waiting at the edge of the treeline was a silhouette that was half-man, half-horse. Firenze looked like a statue carved from silver when the lightning flashed. His front hooves pawed at the muddy ground, his expression grim.
"You have the draughts?" Firenze's voice boomed over a crack of thunder.
"Enough to save a dragon!" Allen shouted back, squinting against the rain.
"Climb on. Speed is our only ally now," the centaur said, dropping his front legs to the mud.
Allen didn't hesitate. This wasn't the time to worry about the dignity of riding a sentient being or the etiquette of centaur relations. He hauled himself onto Firenze's broad back, gripping the thick mane.
Firenze didn't wait for him to get comfortable. He lunged into the dense undergrowth. The ride was terrifying. Branches whipped past Allen's head, and the centaur jumped over fallen logs and swollen streams with a power that felt like a runaway locomotive.
"The mother is losing too much blood!" Firenze shouted over his shoulder. "The egg is 'choranic'—too large for her current state. She's exhausted her magic trying to expand the nest, and now she hasn't the strength left to expand herself!"
"How much time?" Allen yelled.
"Minutes, perhaps. The Sea Hawk, Adora, moved faster than the wind to get to you, but Tina is cold. She's stopped fighting."
They tore through a thicket of thorns and burst into a small, hidden clearing dominated by an ancient, twisted willow. The tree was so massive its canopy formed a natural umbrella, keeping the center of the clearing relatively dry.
Gaia was there, her massive white wings tucked tight against her body. She was pacing, her talons digging deep furrows into the earth. When she saw Firenze burst through the trees, she let out a piercing cry of relief.
"Allen! Up here! Quickly!"
Firenze skidded to a halt, and Gaia swept down, her talons gently catching Allen's cloak and hoisting him upward. She deposited him onto a thick, mossy branch overlooking a massive, circular nest.
Inside lay Tina. The Occamy was spectacular—fifteen meters of iridescent blue-green scales, now dull and shimmering with a sickly sweat. Her snake-like body was coiled in a tight, pained knot. At the base of her tail, a bulge the size of a beach ball was visible. It was a silver egg, but it was wedged, trapped by the creature's own failing muscles.
Tina's eyes were half-closed, the inner membranes flickering. She looked at Allen with a glazed, distant stare.
"She's dying, Allen," Gaia hissed, her voice trembling. "She can't shift. She's stuck between sizes."
Allen's medical mind went into overdrive. "I need her to listen to me. Gaia, you have to translate if she can't understand my tone."
He knelt at the edge of the nest, pulling three vials from his belt. "I have a Blood-Replenishing Potion, a concentrated Pain-Numbing Draught, and a Salamander-Blood Booster. The problem is her size. I can't get the dosage right if she's this big, and I can't reach her mouth without her moving."
"Tina," Allen called, his voice calm despite the adrenaline. "You have to shrink. Just for a moment. If you stay this big, the egg will never pass, and you'll bleed out. Shrink, Tina. Trust me."
Gaia echoed the sentiment in a series of clicks and whistles.
For an Occamy, choranaptyxis—the ability to grow or shrink to fit any space—is as natural as breathing. But like breathing, it becomes impossible when you're suffocating. Tina let out a weak, raspy hiss. Slowly, painfully, the fifteen-meter serpent began to ripple.
The magic was stuttering, her scales grinding against each other. But with a final, agonizing heave, her body collapsed inward. She shrank until she was no longer than a man's arm, curled in a tiny, shivering pile in the center of the vast nest.
The silver egg, however, did not shrink at the same rate. It remained a massive, glowing orb, now looking absurdly large next to the tiny, weakened mother.
"Now!" Allen shouted.
He moved in, unsorking the vials. He didn't just pour them; he used a precise Diffindo to create a tiny entry point for the liquid to be absorbed through her mucous membranes, then guided the potions down her throat with a hovering charm.
The effect was almost instantaneous. The dull grey tint of her scales began to flush with a vibrant, electric blue. Her breathing slowed. The Salamander-Blood Booster kicked in, sending a jolt of heat through her tiny frame.
"One more push, Tina," Allen whispered, his hand hovering over her tiny head. "Give me the egg, and you can sleep."
The small Occamy let out a high-pitched whistle, her body coiling with renewed strength. With a wet, metallic thud, the silver egg finally slid free, rolling into the soft moss of the nest.
Tina let out a long, shuddering breath and immediately fell into a deep, healing sleep.
Allen sat back on the branch, his heart hammering against his ribs. He was soaked to the bone, covered in mud and Occamy fluids, but he looked at the glowing silver egg and then at the sleeping mother.
The system chime sounded again, but this time, it was a long, triumphant note.
"We actually did it," Allen breathed, looking up at Gaia.
The giant bird leaned down, nuzzling his shoulder with her beak. "You did it, Allen. You're more of a forest creature than you realize."
Down below, Firenze looked up, his blue eyes reflecting the first hint of the storm breaking. The rain was finally turning into a drizzle. The forest felt a little less like a nightmare and a little more like home.