The Tragedy of the Fitchburg Finches

With sweet potatoes and potatoes in their stomachs, everyone sitting around the bonfire looked at the skewers being licked by tongues of flame and unconsciously sniffed, only to feel even hungrier.

Vizet snapped his fingers. The flames spread outward at high speed, wrapped around the skewers, then retreated back into the coals in an instant.

No sooner had everyone's faces been reddened by the firelight than the aroma of spices hit them, and they all swallowed at once.

After all, everyone had been busy the whole day, and with the rich smell of barbecue in the air, none of them could hold back.

"They're ready..." Vizet's words were like the crack of a starting pistol. Everyone reached for the skewers in front of them, as if a group of well-trained Aurors had launched an attack.

"Dear Ronald, you still need to work on your speed... hey!" Fred and George burst out laughing. Their hands happened to be just a little faster than Ron's, and they snatched away two skewers.

That made Ron even more frantic. Once he got hold of a skewer, he ignored the heat, blew on it a few random times with a huff, then bit off the top piece of meat, letting out a string of satisfied hums.

When they usually barbecued, they normally used a smoker, and because the equipment was different, the heat control was relatively easier.

To them, the skewers Vizet cooked felt extremely novel, both in the way they were grilled and in their spice-based seasoning.

Thanks to his precise control over the flames, the slightly crisped skin gave off an enticing spiced aroma, while the inside locked in the juices and stayed perfectly tender.

Xenophilius and the others in particular took one bite of skewer, then one sip of Butterbeer. Amid long,