Hagrid sprawled unceremoniously on an enormous tree-stump stool.
Clutching a large wooden mug in one hand and patting his round belly with the other, he let out a resounding belch.
"Buuurp!"
The tremendous noise startled several owls preparing to return to their nests in the woods, sending them flapping away.
"Oh, Merlin's beard..."
Hagrid sighed contentedly, his eyes slightly unfocused and his face flushed red with alcohol and excitement.
"Douglas, I have to say... even though they're my little darlings, and they could breathe fire and scare people when they were little... well..."
Hagrid glanced conflictedly at the iron skewers on the ground, licked perfectly clean, and finally admitted the truth.
"...But they really are delicious."
"That texture... firm as lobster meat, sweet as scallops, and wonderfully springy."
Hagrid slurped back some saliva, seemingly still savoring the taste.
"I reckon Olympe would love them. Seriously, these are a hundred times better than what she eats in France."
Douglas sat opposite him on a small folding stool, swirling his half-full cup of mead, his posture thoroughly relaxed.
Watching Hagrid, he curled his lips into a smile.
"Exactly, Hagrid."
Douglas took a sip of his drink and spoke gently.
"Loving something doesn't necessarily mean keeping it in a box. Letting them realize their greatest value, letting more people appreciate their... inner beauty, is a kind of love too."
"Even if this form of appreciation is a little more... physical."
Hagrid scratched his tangled hair and gave a couple of goofy chuckles.
"Physical... heh, yes, very physical. You certainly have a way with words. But Douglas, there's a problem with these things."
As though something had occurred to him, Hagrid frowned.
"There aren't enough."
He pointed at the empty bucket beside him.
"It took me an entire term to breed this batch of