Chapter 27
Inside Hagrid's hut.
The ceiling hung with hams and pheasants, their smoky, cured scent mingling with the steam rising from the copper kettle that bubbled over the fire in the brazier. Above the hearth, in a large shallow pan, rock cakes sizzled and browned.
Hagrid bustled about, flipping the cakes with practised flicks of a spatula while sprinkling in various ingredients he had foraged from the Forbidden Forest: a pinch of ground stone dust here, a scattering of shredded bark there.
In his opinion, that was all it took to make rock cakes truly irresistible.
Gabin sat on the sagging sofa, watching Hagrid work with quiet anticipation.
After the Quidditch match he had followed Hagrid straight here — for the very experiment he had been quietly planning for some time.
"Didn't expect ter see yeh at the Quidditch match," Hagrid remarked, turning another cake. "Yeh didn't come ter the last one."
"Hermione and the others asked me along," Gabin replied. Tiny motes of light drifted from the tip of his wand and hovered in front of Hagrid's face so the gamekeeper wouldn't have to turn round. "I don't really care for Quidditch. Too loud. Not my sort of thing."
It was true. Given the choice, he would far rather spend the time practising spells or reading.
The roaring energy of the stadium had been exhilarating in the moment — but that was the crowd's doing, not his own. The instant he stepped away from the stands the thrill had evaporated, leaving nothing worth remembering.
He hadn't even bothered with a cheering charm. It hadn't seemed necessary.
"Fair enough," Hagrid said with a chuckle. "Quidditch is noisy. Yer more the quiet type, I reckon."
He rapped a finished rock cake sharply with the flat of his knife. A bright, satisfying *crack* rang out. Hagrid beamed, slid the cake onto a plate, and set it down in front of Gabin with the eager expression of someone offering a rare delicacy.
"Go on then, Gabin. Try one. They're dead good."
He looked like an overgrown child desperate for approval — the same hopeful look he had worn when he'd first offered rock cakes to Harry, Ron, and Hermione, only to be met with polite refusals and excuses about being full.
Gabin raised his wand. A few more motes of light floated out.
"I think it could do with a cup of coffee to wash it down."
"Oh! Right y'are — sorry, got carried away." Hagrid smacked his forehead and turned to rummage through the cupboard for coffee and mugs.
While Hagrid's broad back was turned, Gabin permitted himself a small smile. Then he turned his attention to the rock cake in front of him.
Through his magical sight, the cake revealed itself as far more than baked dough. A complete, three-dimensional network of magical circuits ran through it — solid and unyielding as bedrock. That was precisely why the things were so hard.
In a pinch, a rock cake could double as a weapon or a shield. It could probably block two decent hexes before crumbling.
Gabin lifted his wand again. A rippling wave of magic flowed from the tip and settled over the cake like a gentle tide.
* Molliare * — the Softening Charm.
The wave burrowed into the stone-like structure, wriggling like an earthworm through rock. Gabin increased the power gradually until — at last — the spell pierced the outer shell.
The entire rigid network trembled.
Quickly he dialled the intensity back, guiding the charm with precision. The outer layer remained intact and apparently unchanged, but inside the circuits had been thoroughly honeycombed, hollowed out without collapsing.
To all outward appearances the rock cake was exactly the same — except that its overpowering scent had softened slightly.
Before Hagrid could turn round, Gabin tucked his wand away, picked up a piece, and bit down.
*Crunch.*
A sharp, satisfying sound. The cake shattered between his teeth; crumbs pattered onto the table.
Even softened, it still required real effort from his jaw muscles — but it was far more manageable than before.
The texture was… sandy. Gritty. It scratched the throat going down and refused to be swallowed easily.
"Oh! Couldn't wait, eh?" Hagrid set a steaming mug of black coffee in front of him.
Gabin lifted the mug, took a long swallow, and managed — with two audible gulps — to force the rest of the mouthful down.
"Well?" Hagrid leaned forward, eyes wide and anxious. "How's it taste?"
"Not bad," Gabin said. "A bit of sugar would help."
Stripped of the strangeness of texture, the flavour was actually quite pleasant. After chewing for a while a faint, warm note rose — something like vanilla shortbread, only denser and earthier.
"Good! Good! I'll chuck some sugar in the next batch, then." Hagrid beamed and bustled back to the pan to start another round.
Gabin ate steadily, piece after piece, treating the cakes like a proper meal.
Eventually a loud, contented belch escaped him. He lowered his hand. Every softened rock cake on the plate had vanished into his stomach.
Nothing.
He scratched his head, mildly disappointed.
He had watched Hagrid eat these things often enough to notice the way they seemed to strengthen the big man's life circuits. Hagrid had once mentioned — almost shyly — that rock cakes were the only thing left to him by his mother. To Hagrid they weren't just food; they were home, memory, heritage.
So Gabin had theorised: rock cakes were almost certainly a traditional giant dish meant for bodily reinforcement. Or — more accurately — less a food and more a rudimentary potion in edible form. The complete magical circuitry woven through every bite was a hallmark of potion-making, not baking.
Wait.
His scalp itched.
Then his face.
Gabin touched his cheek. The skin felt… different. Slightly rougher. Something was moving beneath the surface.
His feet itched too.
No — deeper. Inside. His *bones* itched.
He opened his magical sight and looked inward.
Across the green lattice of his life circuits, faint threads of ashen light were weaving in, sinking slowly into the structure. His life pathways expanded — just a fraction, like a slow, deep breath — but the change was unmistakable if he concentrated.
The odd sensations arrived in a rush and departed just as quickly. By the time Hagrid turned round with the next tray, Gabin felt normal again.
He exhaled slowly, deliberately, taking stock.
There *was* a difference. His breathing felt deeper, more effortless. A subtle new strength coiled in his limbs. His skin seemed thicker, tougher.
But the effect was faint — barely noticeable unless he searched for it.
"Second batch's ready!" Hagrid announced proudly, sliding a fresh plate in front of Gabin. "Added sugar, special for yeh."
Gabin opened his mouth to reply — and instead let out an enormous, rumbling belch.
"I'm full," he said, patting his stomach. Motes of light carried the words to Hagrid.
Hagrid's face fell for a moment. Then it brightened again.
"Well… yeh'll come back though, won't yeh? Next time? Harry an' the others don't like 'em much."
Gabin felt the quiet strengthening still settling into his body. He smiled and nodded.
"Of course. And thanks for dealing with the rest of this lot."
Hagrid's grin returned full force. He seized a hot rock cake from the new batch — heedless of the heat — and crammed it into his mouth.
"Reckon I'm a bit peckish meself," he mumbled through crumbs.
A sound like breaking stone issued from his jaws. Fragments pattered onto his beard.
Gabin watched in silence as Hagrid's massive magical circuits accepted the shattered remnants of the rock cake. Far more power flowed into the gamekeeper's life pathways than had entered Gabin's own.
*Looks like I'll be making quite a few more visits here,* he thought, stifling another small belch.
***
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