The brief respite of sunshine had done nothing to dry the perpetual moisture of the Forbidden Forest floor. The trail Hagrid insisted on taking was little more than a muddy, twisting cattle track, making every step a treacherous negotiation between stability and an ignominious tumble.
Albert, following the huge half-giant, slipped and staggered several tis, his perfectly clean robes threatening to beco speckled with earth.
"Hagrid, hold up a minute," Albert finally called out, annoyance sharpening his voice. Just as he spoke, his foot slid on a slick root, sending him listing precariously toward the mud. He caught himself, frowning.
He scanned the undergrowth, selecting a sturdy, naturally ergonomic fallen branch. To Hagrid's confused, wide-eyed stare, Albert pulled out his wand and perford a subtle but complex Transfiguration charm.
The branch didn't rely beco a stick; the wood condensed, becoming denser and lighter, and the tip was hardened and magically textured to grip the slick ground like a miniature claw.
"What in the na of rlin's beard are you doing with that, Albert?" Hagrid asked, completely baffled.
Albert gave him a wry, slightly superior smile, tapping the newly ford cane onto a particularly treacherous patch of muck. The stick held firm. "Now I understand why every capable protagonist in Muggle adventure novels carries a walking stick. It provides leverage, stability, and, with a few Charms, excellent defense against gravity."
Hagrid couldn't help but let out a booming laugh. "You look like a fussy little old professor, Albert! Where's your beard and monocle?"
"No, no, that's where the adventure begins," Albert retorted, unperturbed. He adjusted his grip and fell into step behind Hagrid, the new stick proving incredibly useful. Fang, anwhile, bounded through the mud with the joyous disregard only a massive, shaggy dog can possess, splashing them both indiscriminately.
They walked for a significant distance, venturing farther from the warmth of the castle than Albert had planned. Yet, Albert ntally noted that they were not plunging into the ancient, silent heart of the Forest, but rather tracing a well-known, heavily covered periter trail. This ant whatever Hagrid was keeping, he intended for it to be accessible, but still hidden from casual discovery.
Finally, they halted before a massive, sprawling oak tree. High above, concealed within the canopy, Albert could make out the rough shape of a makeshift structure—not a doghouse, exactly, but a robust, camouflaged shelter.
"Louwei," Hagrid whispered, putting down the bucket of at and cupping his enormous hands around his mouth to project the sound without being overly loud.
As Hagrid called the bizarre na, Albert felt a palpable shift in the air, a specific magical signature he recognized from his studies on formidable creatures. He instinctively reached for his wand, the hairs on his arms standing on end. He was being watched.
Suddenly, from the tangled undergrowth to their right, ca a noise—a low, aggressive, yet undeniably high-pitched bark, sounding almost comically small.
"Excuse , Louie is just a little shy around strangers," Hagrid whispered, motioning for Albert to stay put. He then stepped forward and, with surprising speed, caught the dark, furry projectile that launched itself at him.
In Hagrid's enormous, fan-like arms, the "dog" was finally visible.
Albert's composure, usually ironclad, faltered.
It was a dog, yes, but only in the most generous sense of the word. It was a Cerberus. A three-headed dog. The legendary creature Dumbledore would eventually acquire to stand guard over the one object that could make the ancient text Albert had just returned, The Book of Abraham the Jew, truly relevant: the Philosopher's Stone.
But this creature was barely the size of a grumpy bulldog. All three heads were squirming, desperate to escape Hagrid's embrace, trying to pivot their six intensely curious eyes to focus on Albert, the strange, new presence. The Cerberus puppy radiated suspicion and hostility, though its size ant the threat was more symbolic than real.
Hagrid struggled to keep the little monster contained. "Now, now, easy, big fella. He's my friend Albert, nothing to worry about."
Albert's lips twitched involuntarily. He looked at the squirming, three-headed bundle of aggression in Hagrid's arms. "Hagrid, is this… is this truly the 'dog' you ntioned? And you call him… Lou Williams?"
"Louwei is just wary of new scents," Hagrid grunted, tightening his grip on the creature, preventing any of the three mouths from getting close enough to sample Albert's flesh.
"I believe you," Albert said, taking a few cautious steps back and instinctively petting Fang, who looked positively adorable and trustworthy by comparison. "Fang is infinitely more endearing right now."
"Nonsense! My little baby is the sweetest thing," Hagrid insisted, trying to shove the wriggling creature closer so all three noses could properly investigate Albert's scent.
"A little baby?" Albert's face twitched again. "How old is this… magnificent beast?"
Hagrid calculated in his head, rubbing one of the heads affectionately. "About five months, I reckon. Got him from a Greek lad down at the Hog's Head pub in Hogsade, maybe a month and a half ago."
"A Cerberus is an exceptionally rare and heavily regulated magical creature, Hagrid," Albert observed, his gaze sharp. "They are usually protected by the highest regulatory bodies."
Hagrid scoffed, his anger montarily replacing his pride. "He was a smuggler, Albert! He had this poor little fella looking sickly, like he was about to die any minute! The Greek wouldn't take him to the Ministry; they'd just 'dispose' of him. So I got him for a song, practically rescuing the poor thing!"
Albert sighed internally. The Ministry of Magic—the wizards' attempt at organized governnt—was just as unreliable and incompetent as he'd always suspected. They were so focused on punitive asures they ignored the simple act of creature rescue, creating a lucrative black market for criminals like the Greek smuggler.
Then Albert shifted the conversation to the most pressing issue: "Does Professor Dumbledore know you've decided to adopt a three-headed guard dog, which is currently classified as a Class XXXXX beast?"
At the ntion of the Headmaster's na, Hagrid's face imdiately turned a shade of sickly green, and he averted his massive eyes, suddenly looking everywhere but at Albert. The silence stretched thick and heavy.
Well, there's my answer. Albert knew Dumbledore was prone to turning a blind eye, but even the Headmaster must have limits when it ca to importing mythological beasts onto school grounds.
"Right. We'll discuss that political conundrum later," Albert said, changing the subject with a weary shake of his head. "May I feed Louie? I need to see how the logistics of multi-headed eating work."
"Ah, of course, Albert. That's why we're here." Hagrid gently set the struggling Cerberus puppy down and whispered reassuringly, "Just be calm, Lu Wei. Just slling the friend. See? Food ti."
Albert was cautious. He stepped back several more paces, his hand resting on the perfectly balanced, Transfigured walking stick. He wasn't afraid of the puppy, but he had no desire to test the legendary venom or bite force of a miniature Cerberus.
Louie, guided by Hagrid's large hand, began to circle Albert, sniffing the air. One of the rightmost heads occasionally let out a brief, teeth-baring growl, but a sharp rap on the snout from Hagrid quickly silenced it.
"Alright, sit down, all of you. Sit nicely," Hagrid commanded, sounding exactly like a giant trying to discipline a trio of unruly children.
Albert, amused, took out the three large pieces of steak he had expertly marinated in beer and spices. He tossed them toward the three distinct heads. The transformation was instant. The initial hostility vanished, replaced by the deep, focused hunger of a large dog breed.
Each of the three heads lunged for its separate portion, ripping and tearing the at with surprising ferocity. Albert watched, fascinated, as each head consud its steak entirely independently, suggesting a degree of neurological separation for simple tasks like feeding.
"Fang is much better behaved," Albert remarked dryly as the Cerberus puppies inhaled the at. "But I confess, watching the three-part consumption process is quite an education."
"They get along fine, actually," Hagrid explained, watching his puppy devour the al. "Before school started, I kept Louie down in my hut until he was fully recovered. Now, he roams freely in this section of the Forest. I put up these big ropes so he can't wander off too far." Hagrid indicated a heavy, thick vine tied around the base of the oak.
"Hagrid, I want to touch him now," Albert requested, turning his head. "I have to know what a legendary creature feels like."
"Touch him? Well… he seems calr now," Hagrid hesitated, eyeing the frenzied feeding. "Maybe after he finishes the steak? I don't want him to mistake your hand for the last piece of venison."
"I'm not risking it on a full stomach," Albert deadpanned. "I need the Cerberus to be completely indisposed. Can you play your flute and put him to sleep?"
Hagrid looked slightly embarrassed but then puffed up with pride. "Alright, fine!" He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crude, wooden flute—the kind a country shepherd might carve. He brought it to his lips and began to play a slow, mournful, and slightly off-key lody.
The effect was instantaneous and profound. Louie, who had just finished the last morsel of steak, suddenly began to sway. His three sets of eyelids drooped rapidly, and within seconds, the three heads slumped down, resting on the muddy ground, deep in magical slumber. The silence, after the violent tearing of the at, was shocking.
"How did you possibly figure that out?" Albert asked, genuinely astounded that Hagrid had stumbled upon a specific, ancient weakness of this creature.
Hagrid laughed, full of smug, confident pride. "That's my secret, Albert! Took a good half-month of trials and errors, but I figured out exactly what tune he likes to fall asleep to. An ingenious solution, if I do say so myself!"
Albert raised one eyebrow dramatically high. "Ingenious indeed. However, Hagrid, I must inform you that in Muggle Greek mythology—the very mythology that gave your pet the na Cerberus—it is explicitly stated that the legendary three-headed dog is defeated only by being lulled to sleep with music."
Hagrid's jaw went slack. The flute slid halfway out of his grip. "What? That's… that's actually in the Muggles' stories?"
"Yes," Albert confird, barely suppressing a smile. "The knowledge is apparently common public domain among non-magical historians. I suspect the Greek smuggler who sold you the puppy might have had a chuckle about it."
This realization struck Albert as profoundly illustrative of the wizarding world's insular stupidity. They guard secrets fanatically, yet ignore common sense and accessible non-magical history that holds the key to defeating their own monsters.
"Well, that's… that's hardly fair," Hagrid mumbled, utterly deflated.
"Fairness is irrelevant. What is important, Hagrid, is that you are sitting on a ti bomb. You should be careful, and I highly doubt Dumbledore will permit you to keep him once the matter becos known." Albert's voice softened slightly, moving back to practical advice.
"My genuine counsel is this: once he is fully recovered and slightly older, you must either find a way to ship him discreetly back to a sanctuary in Greece, or hide him so deep within the Forest that you yourself need a map to find him. These things grow exponentially."
"This…" Hagrid's face was a mixture of devotion and utter dread.
"Before we go," Albert interrupted again, nodding toward the sleeping beast, "since he is safely incapacitated, I insist on my initial request. Play the flute continuously. I want to touch him."
"Alright, fine," Hagrid sighed, lifting the crude flute back to his lips and resuming the simple, drowsy lody. Lu Wei, who had just begun to stir slightly, imdiately sunk back into a profound, inert sleep.
Albert stepped forward imdiately, placing his Transfigured cane securely by the tree. He knelt down, raised a hand, and hesitantly stroked the nearest of the three brown, furry heads. It was a thick, coarse coat, surprisingly warm. He moved his fingers across the skull of each head in turn.
The texture was pleasant, almost comforting. It was a sha he hadn't brought his pocket cara, though. A photo of himself petting a slumbering baby Cerberus would have been a fascinating—if utterly non-transferable—souvenir.
"The deep brown fur is quite pleasant to the touch, and surprisingly soft for such a fierce creature," Albert murmured, stroking the heads one final ti.
Hagrid watched this quiet mont, a lump forming in his throat. See? Albert loves Lu Wei too.
After Albert stood up, brushing the dirt from his trousers, Hagrid stopped playing the flute. They quietly retreated from the enclosure while the three-headed dog lay peacefully, deep in a magical, musical sleep.
Fang, the loyal, single-headed companion, spared a final, confused glance at the massive, inert puppy before happily trotting off to keep pace with the figures receding into the muddy path.
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