Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. Much of this work contains parts of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. Anything recognizable belongs to JK Rowling.

"Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh. Not that you'd make very good broth anyway," scoffed Hagrid. "Harry—yer a chef."

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked scandalized. Harry gaped from where he had been making no-bake cookies out of his bag of chips and banana.

"I'm a what?" he gasped.

"A chef, o' course," Hagrid replied kindly, "With a mum an' dad like yours, how could yeh not be one? It's in yer blood. An' if yeh need more proof, here." Hagrid took a thick, yellowed envelope out of one of his coat pockets.

Harry reached out for the letter reverently and carefully unsealed it. Inside it read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL

OF

EXEMPLARY CULINARY SKILLS

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Head Chef and founder of Michelin three star restaurant Socks, owner of restaurant chain Lemon Drops, six time British Culinary Federation Chef of the Year)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Exemplary Culinary Skills. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your message of acceptance by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

"Don' worry about the message of acceptance," said Hagrid, "I'll give McGonagall the word."

Harry was stunned, his cookies abandoned on the floor of the hut. He felt quite sure that there had been a horrible mistake.

It was true that he had been cooking for the Dursleys since he could hold up a pan. And he did have to work with a lot of food creatively to be able to feed himself an appetizing meal with what Aunt Petunia gave him. But he couldn't be a chef. Chefs were clean and professional and made beautiful looking dishes. He was the farthest thing from that. If he was a chef, why did Aunt Petunia always look at his food as if it had maggots in it? How could he have been accepted in one of the most prestigious culinary schools in the world if he hadn't enrolled or sent out an application?

"Hagrid," he said softly, "I think there must have been a mistake. I don't think I can be a chef."

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

"Not a chef, eh? Never made great dishes when you were inspired or under pressure?"

Harry pondered this for a moment. Now that he thought about it…hadn't the tea biscuits he made one time been copiously praised by the neighborhood ladies at one of Aunt Petunia's get togethers? And the latkes he had cooked one year in primary school had also been received enthusiastically...and Uncle Vernon and Dudley always ate so much at every meal...they were actually horribly out of weight, weren't they? Because they couldn't get enough of his cooking?

Harry smiled and looked back at Hagrid to find him beaming as well.

"See?" said Hagrid. "Harry Potter, not a chef—you wait, you'll be right famous at Hogwarts."

~~~0~~~

Later, when they were making their way off the island, Harry couldn't help but pepper Hagrid with his questions, even though he looked positively seasick despite the way he tried not to look over the sides of the small motorboat.

"My parents, they weren't famous were they?" Harry asked.

Hagrid stared wildly at Harry. "Not famous? Yer parents were some of the finest chefs in the culinary world! Their restaurant, Godric's Hollow, was successful enough that it was on its way to gettin' its second Michelin star, even though it had only been open fer two years."

An image suddenly appeared in Harry's head. It was a golden light basking down on red upholstery, the light reflecting off a row of shiny new pans. This he remembered more clearly than ever before—and he remembered something else too, for the first time: the crackling sound of something being seared.

Hagrid was looking at him sadly, but Harry didn't know why.

"But what happened? Why did they leave?" Why did they leave me with the Dursleys? Harry added silently.

Hagrid looked like he was about to explode. "Those Dursleys really told you nothin', huh?" He ran a hand through his hair, which actually looked like it had camembert sauce in it, and the anger faded from his face. He suddenly looked anxious.

"I never expected this," he sighed, "an' I'm probably not the right person to—but someone's gotta tell yeh—better me than some of the other sorts you'll find in the culinary world."

Harry nodded encouragingly.

Hagrid stared into space for a few moments before beginning. "It begins, I suppose, with, with a person called, well, I don' like sayin' the name if I don't need to. No one does."

"Why?"

"Good Gordon Ramsey, Harry, people are still scared 'cause its supposed to be really bad luck. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this chef who went...bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…"

Hagrid took a deep breath and visibly braced himself.

"Voldemort. An' don' make me say it again. Most of the culinary world calls him You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"Voldemort?" Harry snorted, "Isn't that name a bit strange?"

"Nah, yeh see, Harry, all food critics have strange pseudonyms."

"So he became a food critic?"

"Yes," Hagrid shuddered,"and he crushed many good restaurants to show off his power. About twenty years ago now, this chef started lookin' fer followers on Instagram. Wanted to take over the culinary world. Got'em, too—some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his influence, 'cause he was gettin' himself influence, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who to trust, didn't dare share recipes or techniques with strange chefs. He was takin' over. 'Course, some chefs stood up to him, but he destroyed their restaurants' reputations. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of critiquing."

"Now, yer mum an' dad were some of the best chefs I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side. Probably knew they were too close to Dumbledore to want anythin' to do with his cooking style or critiquing."

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em...maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up at Godric's Hollow on Halloween ten years ago. Yeh were just a year old. He ate there at dinner an'—an'—"

Hagrid pulled out an oven mitt and blew his nose.

"Sorry," he continued, "But it's that sad. Yeh couldn't find nicer people than Lily and James Potter."

"You-Know-Who ran a smear campaign against Godric's Hollow in all the major newspapers, accusing them of bad practices and horrible sanitation conditions as well as stealing recipes. Less an' less people began to eat there, and that's when yer mother took yeh and your father and challenged You-Know-Who to a cook off."

"Now no one knows what quite happened there 'cause the cook off was private. All anyone knows is that You-Know-Who tried to critique yer mum's final dish, but he couldn't do it. He was furious that yer mum could cook a better dish than he could. Ever wonder how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a broken teacup gets thrown at yeh. An' that's why yer famous, Harry. Yer parents sued You-Know-Who for assault and battery. But it was too late for Godric's Hollow. It went bankrupt, an' yer parents immigrated to Somalia to start up a new chain of restaurants, leaving you here to attend Hogwarts. You've been enrolled since you were born, yeh know."

Harry still had hundreds of questions to ask.

"But what happened to Vol—sorry, I mean, You-Know-Who?"

"Disappeared. Vanished. Same day he was sued for hitting yeh with his broken teacup. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see...he was gettin' more an' more powerful. Why'd he go?"

~~~0~~~

Harry whipped his head back and forth, trying to look at everything at once. It was his first time in London, and his first time in the legendary Diagon Alley, where only the best cooking supplies were available. There were shops full of stainless steel pots, ladles, spatulas, measuring spoons, cake pans, and other cooking utensils he had never seen before.

"Gringotts," said Hagrid, snapping Harry back into focus.

It was there at the bank that Harry found out that his parents had practically left him a fortune in his trust vault, more money than he knew what to do with. Hagrid also had business at Gringotts, involving a strange package that pretty much just looked like a rectangle. Harry's momentary curiosity in what the package contained was quickly washed away again by the awe he felt looking at the shops in Diagon Alley.

They were running a bit short on time, as the sun was beginning to drop below the rooftops of the buildings, so Hagrid went to help Harry buy the rest of his supplies, leaving him alone to brave Madam Malkin's Aprons for All Occasions.

Harry entered the store, feeling very nervous.

"Hogwarts, dear?" asked a woman. He assumed it was Madam Malkin. "Got the lot here," she continued, "Another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale pointed face was also being fitted for some proper cooking gear. Madam Malkin stood Harry next to him, slipped an apron over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at madeline pans," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "I don't see why students can't take specifically French cooking classes until third year. I think I'll bully father into letting me bring my own berceau anyway. I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry was strongly reminded of Aunt Petunia.

"Have you ever made a coq au vin?" the boy went on.

"No," said Harry.

"Cook French at all?"

"No," Harry said again.

The boy looked scandalized.

"You haven't?" the boy sneered, "Don't your parents have any sense at all?"

"They've been in Somalia for ten years," said Harry shortly.

"Oh, sorry," said the boy, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"They were chefs, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sorts in, do you? They're just not the same. They've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have to actually apply to Hogwarts, imagine. I think they should keep it in the traditional cooking families. What's your surname, anyway?"

Thankfully, before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, happy for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, quickly paid for his new clothing and began to leave.

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the drawling boy.

Harry was quite unsettled by this new side of the culinary world he had just seen.

~~~0~~~

"Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh very good. Well, well, well...how curious...how very curious…"

Mr. Ollivander put Harry's pan back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious...curious…"

"Sorry," said Harry, slightly worried that he picked a broken pan or something, "but what's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

"I remember every pan I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single pan. It so happens that the metal which your pan is made of was enough to make one other pan—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should choose this pan when its brother—why, its brother was chosen by the one who gave you that scar."

Harry gulped.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches in diameter. Yew handle. Curious indeed how these things happen. The chef chooses the pan that fits them best, remember...I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter...After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

Harry didn't think he liked Mr. Ollivander so much.

~~~0~~~

Hagrid helped Harry, laden down with heavy equipment, onto the train that would take him back to the Dursleys, then handed him an envelope.

"Yer ticket fer Hogwarts," he said. "All the info's on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, text me. Here's my number. See yeh soon, Harry."

Harry didn't mention his lack of a cell phone.

As the train pulled out of the station, Harry sat back into his seat, exhausted, and let the day's events sink in. He couldn't help but let a well of happiness and excitement pool up in his chest.

He was going to Hogwarts!