A day at Hogwarts.

Chapter 612 Who's Lunch?

The vast majority of prisoners in Azkaban are very dangerous, and Harry was told not to interact with them too much when he was brought there, to which Fletcher understood.

Harry said, "You'll like this oatmeal."

"Also, remember, don't get too close to the door later."

Fletcher paused for a moment, not fully understanding what Harry meant.

He wanted to ask something more, but Harry had already turned and left.

Fletcher watched Harry's departing figure, then looked at the tasteless bowl of porridge in his hand, and felt a pang of sadness.

I went to jail specifically to help him, and this guy, who clearly had good food, only gave me a bowl of watery oatmeal porridge. That's so unfair.

Before long, the enticing aroma of food wafted from the opposite cell.

Fletcher couldn't resist peering out through the small window in the cell door.

The prisoner opposite them, sitting at a small table covered with a tablecloth and lit by candlelight, suddenly raised his hands and cheered, "Praise be to the cherry pie!"

This sight made Fletcher even more upset.

He could almost picture the steaming hot cherry pie, its golden crust adorned with glistening candied cherries, and the sweet aroma that filled the air when you cut into it.

Then he saw the prisoner opposite him pick up a golden round cake and even happily hum a self-composed hymn.

It's a potato pancake with a crust made of mashed potatoes and a filling of minced meat, peas, and spices, which is then fried. It's usually eaten with ketchup or green chili sauce and is very popular.

Fletcher reluctantly looked away, not wanting to be provoked any further.

He silently squatted in the corner furthest from the door and finished the bowl of oatmeal porridge with a bland taste.

The laughter and aroma of food coming from across the street felt like needles pricking his heart, making him increasingly angry and resentful.

About an hour later, Harry reappeared and began collecting the cutlery one by one.

Fletcher noticed that Harry seemed a little nervous at this moment, and his movements were much more hurried than before. After packing his things, he quickly pushed the cart away.

Fletcher was somewhat confused by this, but didn't think much of it.

He leaned against the cold stone wall, beginning to worry about how to complete the task Dumbledore had assigned him: "help Harry."

Time passed quietly, and the surrounding air suddenly turned cold without warning, spreading a chilling atmosphere that penetrated to the bone.

"Dementor!"

Fletcher shuddered and instantly understood what Harry meant by his earlier warning to "stay away from the door."

It's lunchtime for the Dementors.

The Dementors swarmed out in droves, silently weaving through the dark corridors before drifting into the cells one by one.

Fletcher huddled nervously in the corner, trying to recall happy memories, bracing himself for the terrible feeling of absorbing joy and hope.

Strangely, however, the Dementors seemed completely uninterested in his cell and didn't even come in.

Instead, several Dementors rushed into the cell opposite, the one that had just been filled with the aroma of food.

The Dementors conducted experiments and found that prisoners were not as happy as having a big meal every few days when they ate and drank well every day, and random snacks surprised prisoners more than regular snacks.

There are now two sets of dice in the kitchen, one for lunch or dinner and the other for the interval between meals. Harry has to roll the dice in his spare time to determine the interval between meals when the prisoners can have a big meal.

The more happily the prisoners ate, the happier the Dementors are now slurping away.

Fletcher huddled in the corner, listening to the cheerful atmosphere in the opposite cell quickly replaced by deathly silence and desperate wails, and finally understood the meaning behind Harry's bowl of oatmeal and that warning.

As the commotion on the other side gradually subsided and everything returned to silence, footsteps echoed once again in the corridor.

It wasn't the eerie chill of a Dementor, nor Harry's light and steady pace as he delivered meals; rather, it was a hurried, shrewd, and slightly smug movement.

The pull ring has arrived.

He stopped in front of Fletcher's cell door, carrying a bulging cloth bag, and peered half his face through the iron bars.

"Good afternoon," the pull ring said in a low voice, but with the eagerness of a salesman. "I can see you've had a fright today."

Fletcher remained silent, still huddled in place, watching him warily.

The appearance of free-roaming fairies in Azkaban seems highly unusual.

“I am Rapunzel, the manager of Gringotts’ Azkaban office,” he continued. “You can withdraw cash from Gringotts through me to purchase any items you want.”

"At the same time, I also run a little... side business."

As he spoke, he took out a small bottle from his bag, which contained some kind of thick, golden liquid.

“Brain Gold,” Rapunzel held it up in the dim light, “a special medicine that helps restore mental energy and resist—uh—emotional loss.”

Fletcher asked in a hoarse voice, "How much?"

He realized that Azkaban was now more dangerous and more painful than before.

“It’s free,” the pull tab grinned. “The first trial is free.” “After all, I think you’ll be using it soon.”

The smile on his face sent chills down Fletcher's spine.

Fletcher hesitated for a moment, but finally reached out and took the bottle.

"How do I use it?" he asked.

"Take it after meals," the pull tab said. "Remember, drink it immediately after a hearty dinner, and leave the empty bottle on the table to collect it together."

After saying that, he left in a hurry, his footsteps fading away as quickly as he had arrived.

Fletcher gripped the bottle of "Brain Gold" tightly, a chill inexplicably rising in his heart.

As the sun was about to sink below the horizon, Harry and the food truck arrived again.

He distributed the lunch boxes as usual, his expression more silent than before.

But when it was Fletcher's turn, he didn't put down a bowl of oatmeal, but a heavy, fragrant, deluxe lunchbox with his name on it.

Fletcher froze, his face turning deathly pale.

The lunchbox unfolded automatically, revealing an outrageously lavish spread of dishes on the table.

The appetizer was a vegetable salad, with fresh, tender vegetables accompanied by sage, raw tomatoes, and extra virgin olive oil.

The main dish was whiskey-braised chicken rice.

The desserts also include frozen blackcurrant mousse, elderflower jelly, and juice cake.

As for alcohol, it goes without saying that I never dared to dream of it before; the only thing I could steal was the brand name that I sold.

Harry didn't look at him and turned to leave.

“Wait…” Fletcher called out to him, his voice trembling, “This is…?”

Harry paused, turned his head slightly, and said in a voice so low it was almost inaudible, "That's how it is with newcomers."

After saying that, he quickly pushed the cart away without looking back even once.

Fletcher sat before the unusually lavish dinner without touching his knife and fork.

He recalled what had happened to the neighbor across the hall at noon and thought to himself that this moment was finally coming.

Fletcher took a deep breath. He had been prepared when he accepted the mission to eat his fill first.

I must say, the whiskey chicken stew rice was absolutely delicious.

It involves first placing salt- and pepper-seasoned chicken legs at the bottom of a pot, then pouring in an amber-colored sauce made with whiskey, brown sugar, soy sauce, and minced garlic. The pot is then sealed and slow-cooked for 4 hours to fully tenderize the meat. Finally, cornstarch slurry is added to thicken the sauce at the end.

The chicken has an enticing deep chestnut sheen, and the rich aroma of whiskey blends perfectly with the savory flavor of soy sauce and the caramel sweetness of brown sugar. The chicken fibers absorb the sauce to achieve a tenderness that allows the meat to fall off the bone.

After plating, sprinkle with bright green scallions and serve with rice. The thick whiskey sauce will perfectly coat the rice grains, creating a complex flavor that blends saltiness and sweetness.

Fletcher stared at the lavish dinner on the table, and couldn't help but think that maybe he should just find a job after he left this time, make some money, and then he could enjoy delicious food without any worries.

The Dementors arrived earlier at night than at noon, before the dishes had even been collected.

Fletcher had experienced the despair brought by Dementors before, but this time, the gap between pleasure and despair was greater than ever before, and the damage to his soul was deeper.

He didn't know when the Dementors left; he lay on the cold floor like a salted fish, unable to breathe.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor; it was Harry's.

He pushed the food cart over, his figure appearing lonely in the dim light.

Fletcher stood up, walked to the cell door, and handed over the lunchbox.

Harry took the lunchbox without looking at him, his knuckles turning white.

“Harry…”

Fletcher called out, his voice hoarse like sandpaper.

Harry paused for a moment, without turning around, and said in a voice barely above a mosquito's buzz, "I've arranged for you to have oatmeal porridge starting tomorrow."

Then he pushed the cart away, the light in the corridor shining on him, leaving a long, lonely shadow.

Fletcher watched his retreating figure, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He knew that in this dark place, to survive and not go mad, he needed a little light.

The oatmeal porridge tomorrow will taste terrible, but he will eat it.

Because in this dark place, there are still people secretly caring for him, helping him, and lighting a little path for him.

Even if it's weak, it's enough.

(End of this chapter)