"Master, look! Is the meat done yet? Should we keep it on the grill?" Hog panted excitedly, his breath fogging in the crisp air as he stared intently at the stone barbecue pit.
"Don't rush it. These cuts are thick; they won't cook through that quickly. You can see the rendering fat still has a tinge of red in it, which means the center is still raw." Alan glanced helplessly at the wolf before returning his meticulous attention to the roast.
After several months of recovery, Hog's physical and mental state had improved remarkably.
Alan had discovered that while Hog possessed an intelligence equal to any human's, his temperament was still fundamentally that of a canine—specifically, he had the boundless, erratic energy of a Husky. He spent most of his day in a state of high-alert excitement. While he didn't aimlessly destroy the furniture, nearly every wooden surface in and around Hagrid's cabin now bore his teeth marks, a habit that provided Alan and Hagrid with a constant stream of minor repairs.
However, Hog possessed a singular talent: he could communicate fluently with almost any animal or magical creature. This made him an invaluable asset to Hagrid and Professor Kettleburn. With Hog acting as an interpreter, treating the more temperamental beasts became infinitely safer and more efficient.
Under their collective care, the rescued creatures had slowly regained their health. At this very moment, a Kneazle, two Diricawls, and three Porlocks were huddled around the pit, their eyes tracking Alan's every move as closely as Hog's.
The larger creatures had either been released back into the wild or moved to Kettleburn's specialized breeding grounds on the forest's edge. Hagrid was overjoyed, visiting the fourth enclosure nearly every day to dote on his "little darlings"—the Graphorn and the Blast-Ended Skrewts.
The smaller, less dangerous rescues had remained under the care of Alan and Kiki. Between the regular feedings and Hog's mediation, a bond had formed; even after their cages were opened, many of the creatures refused to leave the warmth of the cabin.
The recovery process had been grueling. The werewolves had left the animals in a wretched state, suffering from both chronic malnutrition and opportunistic infections. To ensure their survival, Alan had foregone his usual Christmas trip to Diagon Alley, opting to spend the entire holiday season at Hogwarts.
Charles, Vivian, and the rest of the group frequently stopped by to visit the "menagerie." Their training sessions had actually become more disciplined and punctual, largely because Alan used "animal time" as a reward for completing their drills.
Hog had naturally ascended to the role of pack leader for the resident Kneazle and the Porlocks, leading them on frantic scrambles through the underbrush while Kiki followed behind like a harried mother hen, tidying up the chaos they left in their wake.
Today, after an old Re'em had been found fatally injured by the winter cold, its remains were divided among the staff. Alan was now presiding over a massive outdoor roast. Whenever he took over the cooking, Hog and his motley crew of followers gathered as if it were a state banquet.
"By the way, Hog, how is your magic practice coming along? Still no luck with the spells?" Alan asked, turning the sizzling spit.
"Nothing, Master. I can't even manage a simple Lumos or a Levitation Charm. I've tried holding the wand in my mouth, pinning it with my paws—nothing works. I think I just lack the talent for it," Hog said indifferently, his tongue lolling out as he watched the meat.
Hog didn't seem particularly bothered by his inability to cast. His parents had tried to teach him since he was a cub to no avail; simply mastering human speech had required the bulk of his developmental focus.
Alan, however, found the situation fascinating. He knew for a fact that Hog was magical. His measurements showed Hog possessed roughly 200 units of magic—less than a wizard his age, perhaps, but significantly more than Vivian. It was a point Alan took quiet amusement in: Vivian was, statistically, less magically capable than a dog.
The paradox of having magic but being unable to channel it into spells was a research topic Alan couldn't let go. He had magic sensitivity, willpower, and the ability to chant clearly, yet the results were zero.
Professor Kettleburn had offered a perspective: "Different biological structures process magic differently, Alan. Incantations and wand movements are a human invention, tailored to human physiology. To expect a wolf to cast like a wizard is a bit like asking a bird to swim like a fish."
Despite the logic, Alan wasn't ready to give up. "It's fine, Hog. I'm looking into alternative methods. Even if you can't cast traditional spells, it doesn't mean your magic is useless."
"Whatever you say, Master... but please, hurry with the cumin. It's starting to char," Hog whimpered, his eyes fixed on the browning crust.
"Later this evening, I want you and Kiki to meet me in the forest. I've finished a set of equipment for each of you. It's a gift, but it's also going to help me test a few theories."
"Master? A gift for Kiki too?" Kiki looked up from the fire she was tending, her large eyes reflecting the flames.
Kiki's transformation was perhaps the most striking of all. She still wore the tailored military uniform Alan had given her, though it fit her much better now; regular meals and a stable environment had filled out her frail frame.
More importantly, her spirit had changed. She had shed the paralyzing, groveling humility of her past. Alan's mandatory physical training—while not as brutal as what he put the students through—had tempered her will and given her a newfound sense of self-possession. Standing straight and speaking clearly was no longer a struggle, but a habit.