Once he had the ingredients, Skyl needed a full day to prepare the feast. He turned the Tower of Tomes into a magical kitchen.
Back when he was studying in London, he'd often had to fend for himself. The dorm facilities were limited and fitted with smoke alarms, so anything that produced a lot of oil and fumes was a pain. At the time, Skyl had learned to make foreign dishes from his roommate—mostly salads and various sauces. Not much real cooking was involved, because most of it was industrial pre-made food, endless tins of things, especially baked beans, that national staple… which Skyl simply couldn't get used to eating.
When he worked part-time in restaurants, he learned to make that great British classic: fish and chips, with assorted sauces and melted cheese on top.
This time, though, the meal was for the people of Riverwood. Skyrim had a long history; it was the first place where humans settled on Tamriel after migrating there. But that long history didn't seem to have left much of a mark on their cuisine. The way they ate was similar to medieval Europe: bread as the staple, with a big pot of vegetable stew on the side. Common folk used a long-handled spoon for everything, since the stew was just a mush of soft chunks and didn't need knife and fork.
The nobles' and rich folk's tables were more lavish. Besides the rich stew, they had huge joints of roast meat and roast fish, roasted leeks and other vegetables, plenty of cheese, and desserts like doughnuts, beet chips, persimmon cakes, and so on. As for the order of courses, they weren't strict about starters, mains and dessert; most of the time it was more like a buffet—a long line of dishes, and you ate whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted.
Skyl had bought several Italian and French cookbooks for this. He did not buy any British cookbooks—that stuff wasn't even fit to use as toilet paper, and even the locals weren't fond of it. Everyone knew the best restaurants in London served French food.
Inside the Tower of Tomes, Skyl had an all-seeing eye. His ability to absorb knowledge was massively enhanced; one read-through of the recipes was enough to understand them. Coupled with his existing kitchen experience, he managed to cook this feast extremely well.
"Let there be music."
With a wave of his hand, soft symphonic music flowed through the Tower of Tomes.
He pointed at a stack of flour sacks. "Take yourselves apart and get into the mixing bowl."
The seams of twenty flour bags slithered away like thin snakes. The open mouths of the sacks became little volcanoes, belching white high-gluten flour in clouds. The flour drifted like miniature clouds into a huge stainless steel bowl.
Skyl drew his cypress wand. "Aguamenti!"
Fresh water poured into the bowl, swirling and kneading the flour.
"Yeast powder, fly. Salt, fly."
Moisture and salinity were both perfect. The dough began to rise. Skyl then directed the bacon and the beef and mutton to throw themselves under the knife, slicing into cubes and strips on their own.
"Flames, roar."
Bang. Fire burst to life. A dozen big pots all heated at once; frying, stewing, baking and boiling all began together.
The food danced. The scene was both eerie and enchanting.
A golden roast chicken stuffed its own belly with apples, garlic and onions, then leapt out of the oven halfway through to grab a honey brush and baste itself from head to toe. Once it was fully glazed, it hopped back onto the rack and roasted until its skin turned perfectly crisp and brown. Tomatoes, cabbage and carrots jostled each other under the blade, then tumbled into the salad bowls once they were sliced, flopping about in vinaigrette like live fish. A whisk spun like a top under a gust of magic wind as eggs hopped onto its handle one by one and cracked themselves, the shells sitting on the rim of the bowl grinning down at the whites and yolks as they dropped into the swirling mix. Garlic and rosemary lounged in hot oil while a thick-cut steak seared a beautiful crust on one side, then slowly did a sit-up to flip itself over. The frying pan tilted, letting the oil pool along its rim; the herb-infused oil cascaded back over the meat like a reversed waterfall.
No matter how skilled a chef was, it would be impossible to keep track of this many pans at once. But with magic, it was easy. Every experienced witch running a household in the wizarding world had this kind of talent; Skyl was simply doing as the locals did—and using the process to train his spellcasting.
When the food was almost ready, Skyl hurried to send invitations to Riverwood.
The young guard went door to door with the invitations. Once he told people that drinks would be unlimited and everyone would get free eggs, all those who had been wary and anxious brightened up at once and happily agreed to come.
Nords took attending a feast seriously. Men and women alike would wash, tidy themselves up, change into their cleanest clothes and boots, trim their beards and braid their hair. Turning up shabby and unkempt simply wasn't done.
On the patch of flat ground outside his hut, Skyl used Transfiguration to create ten long tables and two hundred round stools. The tables formed a wide circle, and in the middle he conjured a stone firepit. A bonfire roared within it. He skewered two whole sheep and set them to roast over the flames, then buried more than thirty pounds of potatoes—still in their skins—in the hot ash at the firepit's edge.
Guests arrived in twos and threes. Skyl changed his outfit, transfiguring his cloak and pajamas into a fashionable cotton robe more in line with local styles. He stood at the tables and waved as everyone approached.
In the middle of the wilderness there was suddenly this lavish banquet, like something out of a fairy tale. The tables groaned under the weight of food: mountains of honey-roast chicken, huge hams, piles of fried potato wedges, clam chowder, fresh salads… There were barrels upon barrels of beer and wine, and the tables were scattered with sweets, chocolates, and vanilla ice cream. Bread, the main staple, was stacked high in woven baskets.
The people of Riverwood gasped in amazement. They looked at Skyl with fresh eyes as they sat down, a little shy and overwhelmed.
"By Ysmir, I doubt even the jarls have ever attended a feast this grand," Gerdur whispered to her husband, Hod.
"This ale tastes strange," said Alvor the blacksmith, sneaking a sip of craft beer. Foam clung to his upper lip.
"So much meat… Mother, you should eat your fill later," Sven the bard nudged his elderly mother, who was half-blind and hard of hearing—but heard that sentence clearly.
"Look, these knives and forks are silver—and the plates are fine porcelain. Hm."
Lucan, owner of the Riverwood Trader, quietly tried to slip a silver fork into his clothes, only for his sister Camilla to smack his hand.
The young guard could hardly believe his eyes either. He tugged Skyl aside.
"By the Nine, how much did this all cost you?"
"Oh, don't worry about that," Skyl said. "Is everyone here? If anyone's missing, go fetch them."
"Everyone's here except the guards on duty. Even the plough oxen are here."
"Perfect. Remember to swap the shifts later and bring the ones on duty over too."
Skyl raised his goblet and gave a short toast which, boiled down, came to one line:
"To victory—cheers!"
A roar of voices answered him, and the people of Riverwood tucked in with unrestrained gusto.
Watching these hardworking, honest farmers enjoy a feast the likes of which they had never seen in their lives, Skyl suddenly thought of Professor Dumbledore's invitation to dinner in the Leaky Cauldron a few days before.
Halfway through the meal, the young guard wandered over with a bottle of whisky, swaying slightly.
"Uh… you haven't forgotten why we're really here, have you?"
"Of course not."
Seeing how drunk the man already was, Skyl judged that the timing was just about right. He stood and announced that everyone could go inside the hut to collect their eggs.
Laughing and smiling, people followed Skyl toward the little wooden house, arms slung around each other's shoulders. Someone even tried to drag an ox through the door. The poor beast couldn't fit and just stood there staring at the doorframe.
None of them knew that the hut's door actually led into the Tower of Tomes, disguised as a storeroom. If anyone had opened the shutters and looked in through the window, they would have discovered there wasn't a soul inside.
The revelry lasted from noon until nightfall. In that time, Skyl transformed himself from a distrusted foreign mage into Riverwood's steadfast friend.
Gerdur warmly invited him to move into the village and live there, but Skyl refused. He said that, as a mage, it was better for him to live apart. If anyone ran into trouble in the future, they could come and find him.
After sending off the staggering villagers, Skyl returned to clean up the mess left behind by the feast. Most of the lingering taint Mora had left behind was gone; only a little remained, clinging to the livestock. He would deal with it when he had the chance.
These two busy days had left him thoroughly content. Yes, he was tired—but work could be a joy, especially when it came with new friends. These Nord "barbarians" were all straightforward, genuine souls. Now that they had accepted him as a friend, they really would stake their lives to protect him.
As he gathered up trash and odds and ends, another thought occurred to him. He was sure to run into more and more miscellaneous chores in future. Having more helpers could only be a good thing.
He wasn't afraid of dealing with people, but when it came to choosing those closest to him, he wanted loyalty above all. In the Harry Potter world, there was a race that fit that requirement perfectly. They wielded powerful magic, were absolutely loyal to their masters, and would work themselves to the bone without complaint. Best of all, they didn't need wages—food and shelter were enough to meet all their needs, and the occasional little gift could keep them blissfully happy for days.
They were called house-elves. Like goblins, they were small magical creatures with pointy ears, looking rather like stunted, malformed humans.
Ugly, yes—but Skyl was pretty sure he'd grow to like them.
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