The long, miserable stretch of rain that had blanketed the castle finally ceded its hold at the month's end. A glorious, pale sunlight sliced through the remnants of the clouds, washing the Hogwarts grounds in a bright, clean light. The atmosphere inside the castle, previously thick with the stale air of confinement and damp stone, lifted immediately.
Students poured out, desperate for fresh air and exercise. The perpetually energetic Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were already tearing across the lawns, enjoying the relief of not having to practice Quidditch in a muddy downpour.
Near the Hunting Lodge, Hagrid was busy, having dragged various moldy animal hides, furs, and strange, wooden artifacts out into the clearing to dry. Hearing the crunch of boots on the gravel, he turned, his bushy face brightening slightly.
"Albert! You look like you've been sucking lemons for a week. Not your usual cheerful self, are ya?" Hagrid greeted him, leaning on a sturdy oak club he used to beat the rugs.
Albert bent down, affectionately stroking Fang's large, slobbery head. He slipped the pre-prepared pouch of high-quality, enchanted dog biscuits—which Fang had quickly become addicted to—out of his robe pocket. "I think I've been locked up in the castle for too long, Hagrid. And perhaps I've bitten off a bit more than I can chew, academically speaking."
Hagrid froze mid-swing, his mouth dropping open. "Hold on there, now! Did I just hear the Albert Anderson, the Head Boy-in-waiting, the walking encyclopedia of Hogwarts, say he feels academic pressure?" Hagrid shook his head, utterly bewildered. He knew Albert was a genius of renown, but the thought of him struggling with schoolwork was simply preposterous.
"Mmm," Albert hummed in agreement, not offering any further denial. He pulled a custom-made, charmed wooden boomerang from his pocket, gave it a deliberate, winding toss in front of Fang, and then threw it with a powerful, outward arc.
Fang, delighted by the sudden game, bounded after the flying wood. Albert had come down specifically to play this unique game with the massive hound; nothing relaxed the mind better than watching a dog chase a magically enchanted object.
"It ain't like you to be stressed, Albert. You set your own pace," Hagrid said, retrieving a huge, rock-hard cookie from a plate and taking a noisy, teeth-jarring bite. "You got too much expectation for yourself, maybe."
"Perhaps," Albert conceded, pulling a small, excellent quality chocolate from his inner robe pocket and letting it melt slowly in his mouth.
He knew Hagrid was right. The pressure wasn't coming from the school curriculum; it was internal.
Professor Brod had recently written back, gently advising him to choose one primary focus—either the advanced runic inscriptions or the development of the protection charm—and to slow down on the others. Brod recognized the classic flaw of a high-potential polymath: trying to master everything simultaneously leads to a grinding halt.
Albert's ambition, his [Greed] for skill points and system progression, had led him to overcommit. With Charms, Transfiguration, Muggle Studies, Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and now the complex, energy-draining pursuit of alchemy all demanding peak performance, his mental resources were simply depleted. He had created his own academic crisis through excessive self-imposed workload.
"Did you cast a charm on that thing, then?" Hagrid asked, watching the wooden toy, which, having reached its apex, suddenly curved with unnatural speed and began zooming back towards the hut.
"Just a simple tracking spell with a return component," Albert confirmed. "I developed it after Fred and George got themselves lost in the Forest the other day. It's supposed to be a low-power, self-returning tracking arrow for quick retrieval. The weakness is its short range, though. It loses all magical pull beyond the perimeter."
"Powerful magic, that!" Hagrid exclaimed, even though his own magical abilities were limited to the crudest of charms. The idea of an object intelligently returning to its owner was breathtaking to him.
Fang, utterly failing to comprehend the laws of trajectory and magic, simply chased the boomerang again and again. Albert gave the bounding dog another treat, then threw the boomerang one more time.
"Hagrid, I'm actually looking for a bit of proper relaxation. Do you happen to have a spare fishing rod?" Albert asked suddenly.
Hagrid looked surprised. "A fishing rod? You gonna go fishing, Albert? Why not just hop on your broomstick and clear your head by flying? I heard you refused to join the Quidditch team again this year."
"Too much pressure, as I said," Albert replied with a straight face. "If I can't dedicate myself fully to the grueling training schedule Charlie requires, I shouldn't take a spot from someone who can. Besides, the real reason for the fishing request is simple: I'm craving fresh grilled fish."
Hagrid stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. "You mean you'd catch one yourself and… cook it?"
"Indeed. My culinary skills are, surprisingly, one of my better non-magical talents."
"Well, put the fish on hold," Hagrid interrupted, a sudden, conspiratorial glint in his eyes. "I just butchered some fresh venison. How about a proper steak for lunch, instead?"
"Lunch?" Albert raised a wary eyebrow, looking at Hagrid with a mix of surprise and caution. "If I accept, what will you eat? That bucket of cookies?"
"Ah, piffle! You're just a slip of a lad, how much can you possibly eat? Besides, I got plenty, plenty!" Hagrid insisted, getting up and motioning for Albert to follow him behind the hut. There, in a large, slightly rusty metal bucket, was a considerable quantity of raw venison. It was clearly fresh but looked coarsely butchered and entirely unappetizing.
"Are you planning on eating all of that yourself, Hagrid?" Albert asked, scrutinizing the quantity.
"Some of it is for me, aye," Hagrid muttered, hastily covering the bucket. "But the rest of it… I need to take it out into the Forbidden Forest to feed… them." Hagrid stopped abruptly, realizing his slip-up.
"Feed whom?" Albert prompted, his voice shifting from casual to keenly interested.
"Uh… the local dogs," Hagrid corrected himself with an almost painful lack of conviction.
Albert was about to press him when a loud thwack sounded against the wooden door of the hut, quickly followed by a happy, triumphant whine.
They turned. Fang, having finally managed to catch the magically self-returning boomerang—which had struck the momentarily closed door and fallen into the gravel—was now lying by the entrance, happily gnawing on the wooden toy, utterly convinced he had outsmarted it.
"As cunning as a toothpick, our Fang," Albert remarked, reaching out to give the hound a handful of extra treats. He then turned back to Hagrid. "Hagrid, you already have Fang. He's a good, if slightly shy, boy. What 'dogs' are you keeping in the Forbidden Forest?"
Hagrid grew visibly shifty. "They're just… being looked after. In the Forest."
"Why are your dogs being kept in the Forbidden Forest?" Albert asked instinctively, but the pieces of the puzzle suddenly clicked into place. The quantity of meat, the furtiveness, the location… "Wait. Hagrid, tell me the truth. Are the 'dogs' you're keeping in the Forbidden Forest… dangerous?"
Hagrid stammered quickly. "Nah! Lu Wei ain't dangerous at all! He's just a bit… misunderstood."
"Lu Wei?" Albert repeated the name. It felt vaguely, ominously familiar. His mind quickly cross-referenced the names and rumors he'd heard. Lu Wei… it sounds like an attempted translation or a nickname. He suddenly had a very, very bad feeling about this "dog."
Albert looked Hagrid straight in the eye, his expression serious. "Hagrid, I've warned you this before: what you deem 'not dangerous' often requires four Ministry-certified Aurors and a blast-ended skrewt for backup. What exactly is Lu Wei?"
"He's a big fella! Just needs plenty of space," Hagrid insisted, defensive but clearly rattled. "Don't worry, Albert, I keep him deep in the Forest. No Hogwarts student will ever see him. I learned my lesson, alright? I considered your warning carefully."
"Alright, then," Albert said, raising an eyebrow in a gesture of reluctant acceptance. "If you've taken such precautions, you wouldn't mind showing me your new dog, would you? I promise, my reputation for keeping my mouth shut is impeccable. You know I never gossip about sensitive matters."
Hagrid hesitated for a long, agonizing moment. The last person he wanted to show his new pet to was the smartest student in the school, but Albert's calm confidence and promise of silence were persuasive. "Alright, alright! But you gotta promise to keep a lid on it, Albert."
"Deal. But before we go," Albert said, turning back to the iron bucket of venison. "How about that grilled steak? It's a good time to get it marinating, or it'll taste like shoe leather."
"Please do, Albert, please do." Hagrid stepped back respectfully.
Albert pulled his wand, but only used it for precision cutting. He used a non-verbal Sectum to slice off two choice, thick cuts of beef from the lump, then halved them. He placed the four steaks in a large, heavy ceramic bowl, produced a small pouch of exotic spices and a bottle of a light, amber ale from his magically extended robe pockets, and began to work.
He poured the beer over the meat, added the seasoning blend (salt, pepper, garlic powder, and a dash of cayenne—a Muggle touch), and then expertly massaged the cuts, working the beer and spices deep into the muscle fibers to tenderize and flavor. He then quickly covered the bowl with a clean cloth.
"Is that all there is to it?" Hagrid asked, impressed by the speed and professionalism of the process.
"For non-magical preparation, yes," Albert said without hesitation, wiping his hands on a clean rag. "I've always maintained that when it comes to the simple pleasures of life, non-wizards often excel. Don't deny it: wizards are brilliant, but we're generally terrible at cooking and enjoying basic comforts. Except, of course, the English, who historically have been rather mediocre at both."
Albert stepped outside to fetch water to properly clean his hands. While he was gone, Hagrid, with a deep sigh, divided the remaining meat into four equal portions. One large portion was set aside—clearly for his own dinner. The other three portions were neatly stacked and placed back in the metal bucket.
Three portions. Albert's eyebrows lifted slightly as he returned, the implication of the three separate portions solidifying the identity of "Lu Wei."
A few minutes later, Albert was following Hagrid, who hoisted the bucket of meat with surprising ease. Fang, having chewed the boomerang to temporary satisfaction, happily trotted after them both, utterly unaware of the sheer size, the sheer danger, and the sheer amount of slobber that awaited them deep within the Forbidden Forest.
The path led away from the castle, into the dense, silent trees, towards a heavily guarded, heavily padded wooden enclosure Albert had never noticed before. The air grew still, and the only sound was the rustle of leaves and the clank of the iron bucket.