Dumbledore had heard his old friends praise Allen Cecil's cooking skills on more than one occasion. The headmaster thought he was mentally prepared for the experience, but when he finally had the chance to eat Allen's food himself, he realized how wrong he had been.
Prepared? Hardly.
The very moment the first spoonful touched his tongue, Dumbledore found himself stunned, sitting frozen with his bowl in his hands as though he had suddenly succumbed to a brief episode of memory loss. For several long seconds he stared into the soup, almost dazed, as if he were an old man lost in a fog of forgetfulness.
Then, slowly, he blinked, cleared his throat, and finally spoke.
"It's… truly amazing," Dumbledore murmured, his voice thick with awe. "I have never tasted anything quite like this in my life. It is beyond extraordinary."
Allen, however, didn't look surprised in the slightest. He merely smiled faintly and shrugged, continuing to eat with steady confidence.
"Of course," Allen said matter-of-factly. "After all, I only entered the wizarding world this year. This taste… only I can make it."
His tone was calm, but the implication was clear enough: no wizarding chef alive could compete with him. Even combined, their efforts would still fall short of what he could do alone.
Dumbledore chuckled softly. "Although that sounds terribly arrogant, I must admit, it may also be the truth."
He sighed, setting down his spoon for a moment as he reflected. "Just this morning, Professor Filius Flitwick—your Charms professor—came to my office. He asked me directly whether Hogwarts was planning to replace our chefs. He noticed that breakfast, though served a little late, was astonishingly good today. I inquired with the house-elves, of course, and discovered the reason: you."
Allen lifted his head with a faint smirk, then calmly drained the last of his soup before spearing a piece of chicken. "So that's why you came to see me, Headmaster? Well then, you really ought to try this chicken too. The soup is delicious, yes, but the meat… the meat is even better."
Dumbledore raised his brows, halfway through another thought, but the way Allen chewed with obvious enjoyment caught his attention. He glanced down at the drumstick resting in his own bowl.
For a heartbeat he hesitated, as though such indulgence might seem undignified. But his hesitation lasted no more than a second. He lifted the drumstick, took a bite, and immediately his eyes widened.
The moment the tender skin and firm muscle met his tongue, it was as though something alive had struck his mouth with flavor. The richness of the broth had seeped into every fiber of the meat, infusing it with both sweetness and strength. The chicken was elastic, juicy, and so wonderfully seasoned that Dumbledore could scarcely bring himself to swallow.
Alas, there was only one drumstick. By the time he truly came to his senses, Allen had already devoured nearly all of his own serving. The last remaining piece had already been seized and pecked at by Black.
"Headmaster, you eat far too slowly," Allen remarked casually, wiping his hands with a napkin. "But perhaps that's better. They say it aids digestion."
Dumbledore laughed softly at that, setting his empty bowl aside. With an almost absentminded flick, he allowed it to transform smoothly back into plain stone. The motion was so natural, so effortless, that Allen felt a shiver of respect.
The boy could not help but marvel silently. Dumbledore's command of magic truly is terrifying. Every gesture seems woven into the very air itself.
"I feel relieved now, seeing you like this," Dumbledore said warmly, stroking his long beard. "At first, I worried you were the sort of student eager for quick success—brash, impatient, reckless. There have been many like that in the history of Hogwarts, but none who dared to challenge the headmaster so openly at the very start of the year."
Allen sighed helplessly. "I told you, that wasn't my idea. It was Mr. Ollivander who pushed me into it."
"Perhaps so," Dumbledore replied with a twinkle in his eyes. "But in the end, you still agreed to his request, didn't you?"
Before Allen could answer, Dumbledore's expression shifted. "Speaking of which… may I see your wand?"
Allen, without hesitation, handed it over. "Of course."
The headmaster examined it closely, running his fingers gently across its polished surface, studying every grain and line. Finally, he nodded.
"Twelve thousand Galleons," Dumbledore murmured. "It sounds extravagant, but in truth, that price is little more than its cost. If one were to dismantle this wand, the unicorn horn within it alone could fetch nearly twenty thousand Galleons."
Allen's eyes widened. "Twenty thousand? Then wouldn't Mr. Ollivander be losing money by giving it to me?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "Loss means nothing to Ollivander. He would never destroy a wand he crafted with his own hands. And in this case, no one else could wield it. Giving it to you was the best ending he could offer."
Allen chuckled awkwardly. "Maybe it's because I'm brave, and the wand recognized me? Honestly, I'd wanted to go to Hufflepuff, but the Sorting Hat insisted on sending me to Gryffindor."
"There is nothing wrong with that," Dumbledore said firmly. "Your qualities are well-suited to Gryffindor. You embody its spirit more than you know. Think—at the start of term, you boldly threatened to challenge the headmaster himself. That is Gryffindor courage in its purest form."
Then, leaning forward slightly, he added, "But what I find most valuable is that you are not consumed by impatience. You have lofty ideals, yes, but you still understand the importance of grounding yourself in real work. That balance is rare. And it tells me your future is limitless."
Allen smiled, clearly pleased with the compliment. "I'd like to think so. After all, I already know what I'll do after graduation. As a chef, I'm certain no one in the world can surpass me."
Dumbledore chuckled. "I believe you. In fact, have you considered remaining at Hogwarts after you graduate? I could entrust the school kitchens to you."
Allen's expression froze. "What? Me? A cook?" He shook his head furiously, waving his hands in protest. "No, no, no, that's impossible. Keeping me as a professor would be fine, but a cook? Absolutely not."
The headmaster's laughter rang out merrily. "I'm only joking, my boy." He rose from his chair, gathering his robes around him, but paused suddenly as though remembering something.
"Oh, yes. You know Rubeus Hagrid, the gamekeeper, don't you?"
"Of course," Allen said at once. "We met at the Leaky Cauldron."
"Well then," Dumbledore continued, his tone carrying just the faintest trace of amusement, "he asked me to pass along a message: do not go near the Forbidden Forest. He intends to keep an eye on you."
Allen scratched his cheek awkwardly. "So… is that a warning?"
"I suppose so," Dumbledore replied with a mischievous glint in his eye. "But between us, I doubt it will matter—so long as he doesn't catch you in the act."
Allen's brows rose. "Are you… encouraging me to sneak in?"
"I didn't say anything of the sort," Dumbledore answered smoothly, his voice all innocence. "I am merely passing on Hagrid's words. Still, I should remind you—Hagrid knows the forest better than anyone. If you go, be cautious."
Yet his meaning was unmistakable. Dumbledore did not intend to forbid him. In fact, he all but granted tacit approval.
Allen pondered this silently. So that's it. As long as I'm not caught, the headmaster will look the other way. No matter how brazen I act, he'll pretend he saw nothing.
That was Dumbledore all over—always teaching in subtle ways, always guiding without binding.
Allen exhaled, then muttered under his breath, "Well, if he's that sensible, I suppose I'll just have to remember to set aside some extra food for him in return."
With that, lunch came to its end. Allen carefully cleaned away the remains, tidying the space until nothing was left but the lingering fragrance of soup and chicken. Then, stretching his arms, he wandered back toward the Black Lake, gazing at its still, dark surface.
"Sooner or later," he whispered with determination, "I'll have to try the giant squid."
Far below, hidden in the depths of the lake, the squid stirred uneasily. Its tentacles brushed over the parts of its body still tender from the burns it had sustained earlier.
Suddenly, a chill rippled through its massive frame. It was the unmistakable sensation of being hunted, as though a predator's eyes were once again fixed firmly upon it.
The memory of that little boy standing by the lakeshore returned sharply, and dread coursed through the squid's veins. Has he not given up yet?
Curling in on itself, the creature tried to protect its body, but it found no comfort. From its wounds drifted a faint aroma—subtle yet strangely appetizing.
The squid froze.
Why… why do I smell so good?
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