The dining hall at the Hungarian Dragon Reserve was packed with people bundled in fur coats, steam and heat clinging to every corner. Hats and gloves were discarded, coats thrown open, as everyone huddled in small groups around circular tables.
At the far end of the room was the kitchen, where a dizzying array of implements worked under magical command. Flour sacks and kettles hovered mid-air. Mixers churned unknown substances in bowls. Dough swelled at incredible speed. Loaves of bread flew out of the ovens in orderly squadrons.
Two wizards in short, thin robes wove through the crowd, wands moving like conductors in a symphony. Plates of every color zipped over people's heads, thumping down onto various tables.
Hagrid's entrance drew everyone's attention, especially when his head thunked dangerously against the ceiling. He muttered an apology, struggling to wrestle off his own moleskin coat.
Gábor led them through the curious stares to a small table in the corner. Katalin got sidetracked halfway, invited to sit with friends. Gábor mentioned they were debating whether to teach the Junior Reserves the Conjunctivitis Curse. Charlie exchanged nods and hellos with a few people, asking after the regularity of dragon bowel movements in Romania versus Hungary.
"Two plates of sausages!" Gábor bellowed as they sat.
Hagrid hunched over, trying to fit his bulk onto a chair that looked comically small. Anthony and Charlie drew their wands almost simultaneously, widening the chair.
"What?" shouted one of the short-robed wizards. "Louder!"
"Two plates of sausages!" Gábor roared. "Four loaves! And some cheese!"
Anthony barely saw the man move. Two platters of sausages, still whole and uncut, slammed onto their table. Four loaves of plain, hard-crusted brown bread followed, dusted with flour. With a loud clatter, a large bowl of pristine white cheese landed next, wobbling precariously on its rim before settling.
"And knives to cut the sausages!" Gábor yelled.
"What?"
"Knives!"
"What!" The man snapped impatiently, directing another squadron of plates that whooshed across the room, narrowly missing the hat of a burly researcher who had just sat down.
The unfortunate man jumped, slammed the table, and stood up swearing. Two or three plates of some sort of salad skimmed past his shoulder, leaving a streak of dressing on his cheek. He glared at the knives and forks also sailing through the air, sat back down in a huff, yanked off his hat, and fanned his face furiously with it, accepting a loaf from his companion.
The short-robed wizard glanced in that direction, then back at Gábor. "What did you say?"
Hagrid boomed, "He said knives!"
The entire hall fell silent for a second. Even the man fanning himself with his hat stopped, turning in astonishment. In the sudden quiet, Anthony finally heard the frantic clang-clang-clang from the kitchen.
Hagrid leaned down to Gábor. "Knives, right?"
"Er… yes," Gábor said.
"Then you should speak up," the food-traffic controller grumbled.
Two knives shot down from above, embedding themselves point-first in the table next to the sausage platters. The buzz of conversation resumed. Gábor wrestled the knives free and helped slice the sausages into manageable pieces.
Breakfast might have proceeded without further incident, if not for Anthony's Wraith Chicken deciding to manifest right by their table. Gábor was explaining the parallel existence of dragon eggs and dragon milk cheese, while Anthony pondered the similarities between Norbert and a platypus.
"What's that?" Charlie asked, pointing at the chicken now strutting gracefully among the plates, tilting its head to inspect the oats on a loaf.
"Oh, that's Henry's pet," Hagrid said offhandedly, pushing a crust toward the translucent bird. "He's got a cat and a rat too."
"Three pets?" Charlie said. "Wow."
Gábor, mid-gesture about brandy-and-chicken-blood being an imitation of Norwegian Ridgeback milk, glanced over at their conversation. The semi-transparent chicken looked up from Hagrid's plate, a piece of bread crust in its beak. It turned one serious, beady eye toward Gábor.
Gábor yelped something far louder than his request for a knife. The people who had been sneaking glances at Hagrid now looked over at Gábor, their stares passing straight through the translucent chicken.
"What's wrong?" Anthony asked.
"I hate birds!" Gábor cried, staring in horror at the Wraith Chicken. "I hate anything with a sharp beak and feathers!"
"Merlin, I'm so sorry." Anthony quickly gestured for the chicken to leave. "I'll find you later, chick."
The Wraith Chicken gave Gábor a look of supreme disdain, shook its wings and tail (Gábor flinched), then flapped into the air. Amid gasps, it weaved past several bowls of flying dragon milk cheese and shot out the door with the offended dignity of a guest storming out after an insult.
"You British wizards…" Gábor breathed shakily, trying to recover. "I thought owls were enough. A transparent chicken… Merlin…"
Charlie looked amused. "It's a chicken, Gábor. You can handle dragons—"
"I'd rather wrestle three Hungarian Horntails, thank you," Gábor said firmly. "Another reason I love the Reserve. No bloody owls flying around."
Charlie and Anthony exchanged a look. From Charlie's expression, Anthony guessed he was also thinking of that brave, pecking-happy Hogwarts owl.
Charlie asked, "Just out of curiosity… have you met a Hippogriff, Gábor?"
Gábor made a disgusted face. "Yes." He shoved two more mouthfuls of bread in, chewed, and swallowed. "Thanks for that. My appetite is officially gone. Thank Merlin they definitely don't fly around dragon reserves either."
Anthony said apologetically, "Sorry, I didn't think—"
"No, no, chickens aren't that bad," Gábor said. "Just keep it away from me. It's the Hippogriffs." He glared at Charlie. "I swear I'll try to convince Monica to move to the Romanian Reserve."
Charlie looked pleased. "Then you could visit our dormitory area. I'll take you to our dining hall. We just made a fresh batch of dragon milk sour cream. It's excellent."
…
After Gábor declared he couldn't eat another bite, Anthony and Hagrid finished quickly too. Only Charlie kept layering more sausage slices between bread.
"How are you heading out later?" Gábor asked. "Floo or broom? I heard you requested—"
"Brooms," Charlie said, his mouth full. "Almost Christmas. Floo's shut for cleaning yesterday and today."
"Ours is done," Gábor grumbled. "I hate the ash you can't Scourgify. My nose itches for days."
Charlie took a swig of water to clear his mouth. "I know. But no one wants a massive pile of kindling next to their house that a dragon could light up in a second, right?"
"No one wants to choke on soot before Christmas either," Gábor muttered, drinking some water himself. "So, an hour's flight?"
"Half an hour, I think," Charlie said. "While the dragons are hunting, Route Seven's a lot safer. You know distance isn't the issue, it's the detours."
Anthony said with some concern, "I'm not great on a broom, Charlie."
Hagrid added, "Don't think I'm much suited for one either." He looked down at his considerable bulk and tugged at his coat belt.
"Aren't you borrowing old brooms from storage? Katalin agreed, right?" Gábor asked.
"Yeah, don't worry. This is a dragon reserve. We have specialized work brooms," Charlie said. "Henry, you can use a Stretcher-Broom if you want. Hagrid, you can take a Load-Bearing model. You and your luggage can't be heavier than two adult dragons."
…
On Charlie's advice, Anthony chose the Stretcher-Broom. It was U-shaped, with a sturdy canvas sling tightly bound to the curved shaft, allowing him to recline.
He held his backpack to his chest, motioning for the ginger cat draped over him to jump in. The Wraith Rat poked its head from a side pocket, curiously inspecting the white canvas beneath Anthony. The Wraith Chicken was sulking invisibly inside the pack. It pecked the cat when it poked its head in, sending the feline charging inside with renewed battle spirit.
While Charlie and Gábor explained the Load-Bearing Broom to Hagrid, Anthony warned them quietly, "If this pack falls apart, I swear I'll never take you traveling again."
The cat stared at him with wide, innocent eyes. Anthony reached into the bag, pulled it off the chicken, and soothingly rubbed the back of his hand against the chicken's smooth, fluffy feathers.
"We're leaving the bird-hater soon," he told the Wraith Chicken.
It gave his finger a gentle nip and vanished.
…
It wasn't until they were airborne that Anthony understood what a 'work broom' meant. It was slower than a Quidditch broom. A Comet would be a literal comet by comparison, but it was steady and solid as a rock.
To his other side, Hagrid was mounted on the thickest broom Anthony had ever seen. Charlie flew between them on a 'Lead Broom,' guiding the direction of Anthony and Hagrid's brooms.
They kept climbing. Rolling hills and distant plumes of smoke passed beneath them, shrinking away. Anthony spotted a few more clusters of dark figures flying toward the smoke—likely Hungarian Reserve staff on patrol.
Ding-a-ling-ling! A bell on the front of Hagrid's broom jangled loudly. Anthony pulled his head back from peering over the edge of his stretcher and looked over at Hagrid, only to see a red light glowing on his own stretcher's front.
"Oi!" Hagrid boomed. "What's that mean?"
"It's warning you you're getting quite high. Yours too, Henry," Charlie explained, noticing Anthony's curious look. "Load-Bearing Broom riders are often Castelobruxo graduates. They're used to that sound—it's their Quidditch referee's warning bell."
"Why Castelobruxo students?" Anthony asked.
They flew into a bank of white mist, like a thick fog had descended. Anthony leaned over to look again. The ground below had vanished into a blur.
"Oh, because their Quidditch is played on massive trees. They're better at handling big brooms," Charlie said. "In the annual Work Broom Quidditch matches, they're hot picks for Keeper. Just turn the broom sideways, and they can block three goal hoops at once."
"Keeper, brilliant!" Hagrid said cheerfully. "What about this Lead Broom?"
"Some Beaters pick them," Charlie said. "Sometimes they can confuse the other team's brooms, make them follow. Lots of folks like playing Beater because we're pretty lax about what tactics they can use."
"And you, Charlie?" Hagrid said. "Still a Seeker, eh?"
"Yep," Charlie said with a proud grin. "Only played once."
"Caught the Snitch?" Hagrid asked.
"Of course," Charlie said. "On a Swift-Broom—the kind Katalin uses for patrols. Was miles faster than the other Seeker on a Load-Bearing Broom."
"What about the Stretcher-Broom?" Anthony asked. "Who uses it? Chasers?"
"Oh, no," Charlie said. "The rescue teams use them. They're the medical stretchers for the Quidditch matches."
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
Read up to (55+ ) advanced chapters on Patre\on
Visit us here: patreon . com/GoldenLong
Happy reading, everyone!