Sizzzzzzle.
A pristine coil of white, fragrant smoke lifted lazily from the cast-iron grill, catching the midday sun. The air around Hagrid's hut was thick with the scent of spices, caramelized onions, and deeply savory meat. A proper barbecue was underway.
Albert, in his element, used a pair of long tongs to carefully turn four thick slices of steak. The surface of the meat, which had been resting in its beer and spice marinade for a good twenty minutes, was achieving a beautiful, rich mahogany crust.
"Onions, lemon, and… ah, yes, a few fresh eggs," Hagrid rumbled, setting out a tray of ingredients on a nearby stump that served as a makeshift table. He looked less like a fearsome half-giant and more like an extremely delighted, slightly overwhelmed sous chef. Hagrid chewed thoughtfully on a piece of toasted, slightly burnt bread, his eyes glued to the mesmerizing performance at the grill.
Hagrid had always believed he was a good cook—rustic, hearty, filling. But watching Albert, with his focused, almost surgical precision, he realized he didn't cook. He merely prepared food for consumption. This was something else entirely; this was cuisine.
Albert didn't break focus. With a flick of his wand, he executed a silent, razor-sharp Diffindo variant on a yellow onion, slicing it into paper-thin, perfect rings. He brushed the slices with a glaze he had whipped up, then placed them directly onto the cooler section of the grill to soften and sweeten.
The eggs were cracked and fried in a small, enchanted skillet until the whites were crisp and the yolks were still runny. Finally, the steaks—tender and juicy, having been grilled to a perfect medium-rare—were lifted onto a plate, accompanied by the glistening grilled onions, the fried egg, and a generous dollop of tinned baked beans.
Albert gave the presentation a final, quick, non-verbal Charm that kept the food at the ideal temperature.
"And there you have it: a proper Muggle steak dinner," Albert announced, setting down the first plate.
Hagrid didn't wait for permission. He eagerly sawed off a massive chunk of steak, his eyes already wide before the meat even reached his mouth. He chewed slowly, savoring the complex flavor of the marinade and the perfect texture. "Unbelievable, Albert. Absolutely unbelievable. It's got a… a kick to it! I suppose I really do need to start soaking the meat before I throw it straight on the fire."
"The true pleasure isn't just the eating, Hagrid, though that's important," Albert said, cutting a piece of his own steak. "It's the sense of satisfaction—the sheer accomplishment—of taking raw ingredients and elevating them into something truly enjoyable. It's systematic skill application."
He was about to lift the fork to his mouth, contemplating the unexpected relaxation derived from manual, non-magical mastery, when he heard a distant, but familiar, shout.
"Hold up!"
Albert paused, the fork hovering inches from his lips, and slowly turned his head.
Bounding across the lawn with the coordinated chaos of a stampede were Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, all three waving their arms wildly. They skidded to a halt near the clearing, their faces smeared with a mix of mud from the recently soggy grounds and sheer astonishment.
"You're… you're actually having a full-blown feast out here?" Fred sputtered, eyes darting from the glistening, perfectly plated steak to the still-sizzling grill, a look of betrayal etched onto his face.
"We came to deliver a message," George gasped, still catching his breath, "but we never anticipated finding you sequestered away, throwing a private, glorious barbecue while the rest of us subsist on bland school fare!"
"I'm dining at Hagrid's establishment, obviously," Albert said mildly, squeezing a sliver of lemon juice over the last quarter of his steak. He took a bite of the grilled onion—sweet, pungent, and savory—and then chewed slowly, savoring the twins' despair. "Too busy to join me, were you?"
"Where's the letter?" Albert asked, spearing a piece of egg with his fork.
"Right here," George said, rummaging through his own robe. "Professor Smith insisted we hand-deliver it, since the owl post seemed to be taking liberties with your location."
Albert took the envelope, noticing the elegant script and the subtle, almost archaic wax seal. "Professor Smith, you say?" He nodded, understanding why the letter hadn't come via the usual channels—the sender likely wanted to avoid public scrutiny.
George, meanwhile, had found a bowl of creamy, cheesy baked potatoes near the cooling rack. He instantly snatched one. "He said, 'Give this to Albert, and tell him the contents are highly specialized and intended for his eyes only.' Though he mostly just wanted to make sure we delivered it before lunch."
"Anyone is welcome, boys. Help yourselves, but don't scorch your tongues," Hagrid invited warmly, finding the entire scene highly amusing. He wiped his greasy chin with the back of his hand. "You know, I didn't have a clue Albert was this good at cooking. It's ten times better than anything I can manage."
Albert nodded in thanks, his attention now fixed on the letter. He recognized the elegant, old-fashioned hand: Seraharishis. The letter confirmed the alchemist's interest in further communication and, more excitingly, referenced two highly rare alchemical texts he wished Albert to study as a preliminary foundation for their correspondence.
"So, what's the big secret? What does the mysterious correspondence contain?" Lee Jordan asked, his mouth full of a mouthful of cheesy potato that he couldn't stop himself from devouring.
"It's simply someone willing to engage in a mutually beneficial, intellectually stimulating exchange," Albert explained, folding the letter neatly and slipping it into his pocket. "He's testing the waters, and perhaps my potential, for a shared interest."
"Sounds profoundly boring," Fred said, having located the plate of toasted bread and thickly spreading cheese onto it. "But does the grilling secret mean he taught you how to make this food?"
"The secrets lie in the marinade," Albert replied, finishing the last of the food on his plate with a satisfied sigh. "Confidence and the correct technique lead to abundance, in food and in magic. It's all about the preparation."
Hagrid had already finished his plate—the portion being, as Albert predicted, far too small for him—and was looking wistfully at the cooking supplies. He, too, had managed to devour slices of toast, some thick bacon, and even a surprisingly complex bowl of oatmeal that Albert had charmed to taste creamy and sweet.
"If we had known you were pulling stunts like this, we would have skipped breakfast entirely and come looking for you straight away," Fred grumbled, wiping his hands on his robes, though he couldn't deny the meal smelled fantastic even in its aftermath.
"Speaking of which, it's past time we head back, before Professor Sprout starts locking students in the greenhouses for tardiness," George said, pulling Fred and Lee Jordan to their feet.
"Goodbye, Hagrid. Thank you for the company and the fire," Albert said, giving Fang a final scratch before adjusting his robe.
As they headed back toward the castle, George, still thinking about the mysterious disappearance into the Forest, asked, "Before we get back, we saw you and Hagrid heading into the Forbidden Forest earlier this morning. What in the blazes were you two doing back there?"
"Yeah, what sort of top-secret operation takes you into the woods on a Sunday?" Lee Jordan added, curiosity blazing in his eyes.
Albert gave a nonchalant, but firm, shrug. "Well… I made a commitment to Hagrid that I wouldn't breathe a word of it to anyone. If you want the details, you'll have to get them from the giant himself." Albert knew perfectly well that none of the three would dare press Hagrid about his secrets, as the groundskeeper was far too intimidating when protecting his beasts.
"That's utterly unfair. You keep secrets from your best friends," Fred muttered, clearly displeased at being excluded from the mystery.
"It was a prerequisite for the invitation, I assure you," Albert replied with a helpless gesture. "I had to agree to his terms before I was allowed to leave."
Accepting Albert's silence, the three eventually relented. "Right, then."
"Anyway, shifting gears," Lee Jordan said, his expression immediately brightening. "Is the Magic Card Club meeting still scheduled for this afternoon? I'm rapidly becoming a devotee of tactical spell dueling."
"It is. We'll meet in the usual conference room; attendance is always small, but focused," Albert confirmed. He reached into his robe pocket and, instead of the flimsy paper cards the club normally used, he pulled out four distinct, high-quality, weighted cards. "I took the liberty of preparing the Primitive Cards for our core group."
He handed one to each of the three. Fred and George's cards showed them mid-flight, resplendent in their scarlet Quidditch uniforms, their broomsticks blurred in action.
Lee Jordan's depicted him wearing a proper wizard's robe and pointed hat, his wand raised in a dramatic dueling stance. Albert's own card was a formal portrait: the perfect student, holding a textbook in one hand and his wand in the other. All the images had the characteristic, subtle movement of wizarding photographs.
"When on earth did you take these pictures? And how did you manage to capture them in action like this?" George asked, turning his card over and over, admiring the quality and the personalized touch.
"Let's just say I have reliable, if slightly time-delayed, photographic methods," Albert said with a knowing smile.
"These are brilliant! They finally feel… official! Professional!" Fred exclaimed, thrilled by the idea of personalized playing pieces.
"What about all the other cards? The standard spells and creatures?" Lee Jordan asked, holding his card up to the light.
"I haven't created the rest of the deck yet, nor do I have unlimited time to spend on a game, Li," Albert countered, shrugging dismissively. "Besides, I don't have portraits of every witch, wizard, and beast in existence."
"I'm keeping this one," George declared, moving to pocket his Quidditch card.
"Oh, you're not," Albert corrected, gently stopping his hand. "You'll be using a copy. I have to retain the originals. These four are the Primitive Cards of the game system. I will cast a high-level Transformation Charm on them—a magical linkage. Once the original card transforms, every other card in the game bearing your image will transform instantly. It's an essential part of the game's core magic."
"You can seriously do that? Linking every copy back to a single original?" Fred's eyes were wide with a mix of fascination and professional interest—the magical mechanics of it were ingenious.
"The Daily Prophet uses a variation of this basic magic to update its photos," Albert explained, making them realize how often they had seen the content of the paper change over the day, oblivious to the underlying Transfiguration work.
"And how long will it take to master a charm complex enough to link a hundred cards to one original?" Lee Jordan asked, his voice suddenly sounding strained and deflated.
Albert considered the question, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Given the complexity of the link and the sustained power required? I'd estimate… two to three years. That's the level of mastery required."
Lee Jordan's voice was a mere whisper of disbelief. "Two or three years? You honestly think you can reach N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration like that in just three years?"
"It may sound impertinent, but achieving a perfect score on the N.E.W.T. exams at Hogwarts, while demanding, is not actually the hardest part of my current curriculum," Albert said with an air of complete confidence. He spoke as if passing the most difficult exams in the wizarding world was a mere scheduling conflict.
"Honestly, Albert, it's truly Ravenclaw's loss that you ended up in the Lions' Den," George said, shaking his head. "You have the mind of a bloody genius, a truly academic tyrant."
"It would only be a loss if I could defeat the Ravenclaw's door guardian, Katrina, in a perpetual riddle contest," Albert pointed out logically.
"You don't think you could? You know so much," Lee Jordan questioned.
"That's impossible. She dedicates her entire consciousness to solving riddles—that's not a challenge of wits; it's a challenge of sheer, dedicated time investment," Albert replied calmly. "Why would I set myself up for that?"
"Then why did you make that ridiculous bet with her in the first place?" Fred asked, puzzled.
"Because I need to learn every riddle the entrance knows, along with their answers," Albert said without hesitation, a mischievous glint in his eye. "It's simply reconnaissance. One needs to know the layout before one can plan a successful, discrete infiltration of the Ravenclaw Common Room."
"They'll probably end up expelling you for that," Fred chuckled, exchanging a weary but admiring glance with George.
"Yes, I concur," George echoed with a theatrical sigh.
The four of them were nearing the Entrance Hall, their cheerful conversation having covered the last part of the grounds. Just as they were about to step onto the clean stone floor, they heard a high-pitched, furious screech followed by the sound of rapid, shuffling footsteps.
Argus Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker, rounded the corner of a corridor like a poorly-oiled machine, his face a mask of trembling, scarlet rage.
"Filth! Filth everywhere! Enough! I say, ENOUGH!" Filch shrieked, pointing a withered, accusatory finger at the muddy footprints their boots had left on the pristine stone. His eyes were bulging, and the skin around his mouth vibrated with barely contained fury. "This is the last straw… I will have satisfaction! All four of you—you're coming with me!"
"Ahem. Deep breaths, Mr. Filch," Albert said smoothly. He pulled his wand—a quick, casual flick—and executed a perfect, non-verbal Disappearance Charm (Evanesco). The muddy footprints they had tracked across the stone floor vanished instantly, leaving the area immaculate. Simultaneously, the charm reversed its effect on their boots, vaporizing the caked-on mud in a puff of invisible light.
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan stared, momentarily stunned by the elegance of the spell. They immediately snapped out of it and frantically pointed their wands at their own muddy boots, casting the strongest Scouring Charms (Scourgify) they knew.
Unfortunately, the Scouring Charm was designed for light grime, not heavy, compacted forest mud. They succeeded only in smearing the dirt into an even more noticeable, wet stain.
"How did you do that so perfectly?" George whispered, despairing at the state of his boots.
"The Disappearance Spell," Albert answered simply. He waved his wand again, and the remaining smears on the twins' and Lee Jordan's boots vanished instantly, leaving them spotless. He then turned back to Filch, who stood motionless, his mouth working silently, utterly bewildered that his entire case had evaporated in a puff of magic.
"Now, Mr. Filch," Albert said politely, "since the hall is immaculate, and our boots are, I believe, cleaner than when we first stepped outside, I assume we are free to proceed?"
Before Filch could gather his wits enough to formulate a new, furious accusation, Albert and his companions calmly strolled past the caretaker and into the Great Hall, leaving Filch trembling uncontrollably in their wake. By the time the caretaker recovered his voice, Albert and the trio were long gone.
Filch, deprived of his intended victims, spun around in a frenzy. His eyes immediately fell on two unfortunate third-year Hufflepuff students who had just witnessed the entire scene.
Unable to articulate the precise nature of the 'side-injury' Albert had inflicted upon him, Filch vented his fury on the hapless students, screeching about the impertinence of their boots and dragging them off toward his office.
The two Hufflepuffs exchanged terrified glances. They had been trying to emulate the cleaning power of Albert's perfect wand movement, but having only managed to stain their own trousers with the half-cleaned mud, they learned a brutal lesson: a clever magical demonstration by Albert often resulted in severe disciplinary fallout for anyone less talented who tried to copy him.