“Right.
Picked up some new ingredients.
Figured I’d practice.”
Cedric set the bag down and glanced at Ron.
“You sure it’s fine leaving the front?
Place is packed.”
Ron waved the concern away with a grin.
“They want drinks, food, and noise.
Not these old bones.
As long as the barware keeps working, I’m free.”
Cedric kept the rest of the thought to himself.
Magic handled the cooking, magic handled the drinks, and the landlord collected the coin.
Not a bad arrangement if you could live with it.
Ron had cleared a small corner of the kitchen in minutes—stove, counter, seasonings already laid out.
Tight space, but everything necessary was there.
Cedric worked the Murtlap meat with rough-looking motions that were anything but.
Hand of the Artisan measured every grain of salt and spice to four decimal places without effort.
British kitchens, even magical ones, rarely stocked proper cooking wine, so he made do with a splash of red wine and half an onion.
The onion brought the Biting Cabbage to mind for a second.
Cooking two strange ingredients together might produce something interesting.
The idea was solid.
The problem was cost.
This Murtlap had been free.
He could not afford to waste the next one on experiments.
He set the cleaned meat aside to marinate, then asked Ron for a knob of butter.
Murtlap ran lean.
Dry heat would turn it stringy.
Butter would keep it moist.
When the meat was ready he requested apple wood.
The fire took quickly.
He threaded the pieces onto skewers and hung them in the oven.
Flame licked the meat.
The aroma rose fast and hard.
Cedric’s stomach tightened.
Magical ingredients carried a different weight.
Ordinary food never reached this far.
More than the scent itself, something in it tugged at the magic under his skin, making the whole body feel sharper and more awake.
The smell slipped out of the kitchen and into the bar.
Conversation died in seconds.
“What is that?”
A regular shouted first.
“Ron!
What the hell did you cook?”
Chairs scraped.
In under a minute the entire crowd of regulars had packed the kitchen doorway, voices rising in a wave.
Quirrell came down from upstairs, drawn by the same scent.
He saw the crush of bodies and almost turned back.
Then he spotted Cedric inside and hesitated.
After a moment he joined the edge of the group.
Noir flattened against Cedric’s shoulder, eyes wide at the wall of wizards.
Ron apologized once to Cedric, then planted himself in the doorway and held the line.
“Sorry, everyone.
This isn’t my cooking.
A guest is using the kitchen.”
No one believed him.
They offered money.
They demanded portions.
The noise turned the evening atmosphere into something closer to a riot.
Cedric ignored the racket.
He pulled one skewer free and plated it.
[Smoked Murtlap]
Effect: Grants status [Full Magic E] upon consumption.
Host gains an additional 15 enhancement points.
Gains special abilities [Aura Concealment E] · [Matter Transmigration E].
The Magical Activity from the roasted Biting Cabbage had strengthened raw power.
This status accelerated recovery instead.
Cedric could already feel the magic spent on Transfiguration earlier in the day flooding back.
He ate enough to claim the points, then fed a small piece to Noir.
The volume outside climbed another notch.
Cedric picked up the plate and walked to the doorway.
“Excuse me.
Quiet for a second.”
He tapped the edge of the plate with a spoon.
The clear sound cut through the noise.
“One small piece each.”
“I’ll handle it.”
Ron leaned in at once, slipped the first bite into his own mouth, then began distributing the rest.
There was not much meat, but enough for every wizard present to taste it—including Quirrell, who had pushed forward from the back.
In the corner of the kitchen sat the bundled blood and fur.
Quirrell’s eyes locked on it.
The Murtlap that had cost him a third of his savings was now the piece of roast meat in his hand.
Tears of pure grievance gathered at the corners of his eyes.
At least a bite would recover something.
“Good God—this meat restores magic!”
One wizard shouted it first.
Others confirmed at once.
“Really!”
“Slower than a potion, but faster than sleep!”
Quirrell stared at the piece in his palm and moved to eat it.
“Wait.” Voldemort’s voice slid into his ear.
“Do not eat it.
Bring it back.
I will take it.”
Even the consolation prize vanished.
Quirrell’s shoulders slumped.
“Yes, Master.”