The experiment in the Room of Requirement had been a success, but magic always came with a price. In this case, the price was a missed dinner and the sound of four stomachs growling in unison like a chorus of hungry hippogriffs.
By the time they reached the Great Hall, the golden platters were mostly empty, save for a few stray peas and some dried-out crusts of bread. The candles were flickering low, and the warmth of the feast had already evaporated into the drafty corners of the hall.
"Don't look so miserable, Fred," Albert said, patting his friend on the shoulder as they turned back toward the basement. "The Hall is for the masses. The kitchen? That's for the connoisseurs."
The three others didn't need much convincing. They made a beeline for the portrait of the fruit bowl. Albert reached out, tickled the pear until it let out a high-pitched giggle and transformed into a green door handle, and they slipped inside.
The heat hit them first—a glorious, humid wave of roasting meat and baking bread. Then came the house-elves. Dozens of them scurried about, finishing the evening cleanup, but they stopped dead at the sight of visitors.
"What are you drifting off for?" Fred asked, his voice muffled by a handful of fried potato pieces he'd managed to snag the moment they crossed the threshold. He looked at Albert, who was standing frozen with a knife and fork in mid-air, staring at a stack of plain potatoes. "You look like you've been hit with a Petrificus Totalus."
Albert snapped out of it, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Just had a culinary epiphany, Fred. I was thinking... maybe the world needs a bit more soul in its breakfast. Specifically, I'm wondering if I can convince the elves that pancakes and potatoes are a match made in heaven."
"A potato pancake?" A house-elf named Kara squeaked, trotting over with an eager, wide-eyed expression. "What is this strange dish, Mr. Anderson? Is it a wizarding delicacy?"
"It's a delicacy for those who appreciate comfort, Kara," Albert replied smoothly. He knelt down slightly to be closer to her level, his tone encouraging. "It's simple, really. You take the potatoes, boil them until they're soft enough to forget their own names, then mash them into a cloud. Add eggs for structure, a bit of flour, and the right spices to give it some personality. Then, you fry the batter in a pan with just enough oil to make it sizzle until it's golden and crispy on the outside, but soft on the inside."
Kara's ears flapped with excitement. "If Mr. Anderson desires it, Kara will make it! Kara will make the best potato clouds ever seen!"
"I have no doubt," Albert encouraged. "I've never met an elf with a better touch for seasoning than you."
Lee Jordan, who had been contenting himself with a slice of leftover pumpkin pie, suddenly sat up straighter. "Wait, is this like that onion omelet thing you had them make last month? Because that was life-changing. I'm in. I'll take a double portion of whatever Albert is selling."
The kitchen transformed into a blur of activity. Kara and two other elves fell into a rhythmic dance—peeling, mashing, and whisking. The scent of sizzling oil and savory batter soon filled the air, far superior to the cold leftovers in the Great Hall.
When the plate finally arrived, it was a work of art. The pancakes were perfectly circular, steaming hot, and smelled of butter and home.
"The secret," Albert whispered, sliding a bowl of blueberry jam and a jar of savory gravy toward the center of the table, "is the topping. You can go sweet or savory. It depends on what kind of mood you're in."
He took a bite, the familiar flavor of a well-made latke or potato crepe hitting his tongue. It was a taste of a different life, one he rarely allowed himself to miss. "Delicious," he breathed.
The house-elves were beaming so brightly they practically lit up the kitchen. Albert looked at his plate, then at Kara. He carefully cut his portion in half and nudged the extra plate toward her.
"Here. You should taste the fruit of your labor. You can't improve a recipe if you don't know how it lands on the tongue."
"And mine!" Lee added, cutting a massive chunk off his own and sliding it over. "I'm already full from the pie anyway, I was just being greedy!"
"You're always greedy, Lee," George muttered through a mouthful of pancake, but he too nodded in approval.
Kara's hands trembled as she took the plate. Tears welled up in her massive tennis-ball eyes. "Mr. Anderson and the... the generous gentleman are too kind! Elves do not eat with wizards, it is not the way!"
"Then call it a quality control meeting," Albert said with a wink.
As they finally finished and were escorted out with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty, Albert fell into a pensive silence as they climbed the stairs back toward the Gryffindor tower.
"Do you think it'd be too weird if I gave Kara some high-quality yarn for Christmas?" Albert asked suddenly.
Fred tripped over a step. "Yarn? Albert, you're a genius, but you're a weird one. Why yarn?"
"Because house-elves are masters of the household," Albert explained, his mind already spinning several moves ahead. "I know the rules. A master giving an elf clothes means freedom—a disgrace to most of them. But yarn isn't clothes. It's a raw material. If they knit something for themselves out of yarn given as a gift, it's a loophole. It's a way to give them something of their own without the 'insult' of freedom."
"You're playing with fire," George warned, though he looked intrigued. "If you start making the Hogwarts elves too comfortable, they might get ideas. If they stop cooking, the school will revolt, and we'll be the first ones they come for."
"You've got a real thing for the elves lately, haven't you?" Lee asked, squinting at Albert. "Is this more of your 'long-term planning'?"
"Call it an investment," Albert admitted. "Once I graduate, I'm not exactly thrilled at the prospect of doing my own laundry or cooking my own meals when I could be researching magic. I'm thinking of 'recruiting' an elf from the Hogwarts staff. With Dumbledore's blessing and the elf's consent, I think a few Galleons could secure some very loyal help."
"You want to kidnap a house-elf?" Fred laughed, though his eyes were wide. "That's... actually brilliant and terrifying. Most wizarding families would kill for a loyal helper, but they're too expensive to buy and too rare to find."
"Most people treat them like furniture," Albert said. "I'd rather treat them like partners. It's more efficient."
He shook his head, clearing the topic. "But that's years away. Let's focus on the immediate future. Tomorrow is Halloween, and next week is Hogsmeade. We need to find a way to get into the Forbidden Forest for Flutterby Bushes. The library hasn't been helpful enough on how to harvest them without destroying the essence."
"Wait," George said, stopping in his tracks. "Why are we going into the woods? Why don't we just 'borrow' some from the Old Bat's private store? Snape's got enough ingredients to supply a small army."
Albert looked at George as if he'd suggested juggling live Mandrakes. "Are you suicidal, George? If we use Snape's private stock to brew our potions, he'll know the second he smells the fumes in the corridor. He knows his inventory down to the last gram. If we sell a potion made from his stolen ginger root, he'll have us in detention until we're thirty."
"Besides," Albert added, his voice dropping an octave, "I've been practicing Occlumency—Mind Locking. Snape is a Legilimens. He can read a student's guilt like a book. I can hide my thoughts from him, but you three? You'd spill the beans the moment he stared at you with those cold, greasy eyes."
The twins and Lee shared an uneasy look. They knew Albert was right. Snape had a way of looking through people that made your deepest secrets feel like they were written on your forehead.
"So, you're going into the stores alone?" Fred asked.
"No," Albert said, a smirk playing on his lips. "I'm going to gather the ingredients legally—mostly. We'll go to the woods. We'll find a black market dealer at the Hog's Head during the Hogsmeade trip. And if I do decide to visit Snape's cupboard, I'll be the only one who knows. That way, when he questions you, you won't be lying. You'll genuinely have no idea what I've done."
"The 'Plausible Deniability' defense," Lee muttered. "I like it. It's much less likely to result in us scrubbing cauldrons for a month."
"Exactly," Albert said, looking up at the Fat Lady's portrait. "Now, let's get some sleep. Tomorrow is Halloween, and in this castle, that usually means something is about to go sideways."