He was going to Hogwarts only if he could find the train on time.

Harry pushed his baggage cart in front of him, panicking more and more as time went on and he couldn't find his train. He had examined his ticket about a hundred times, but he still couldn't navigate the station well. This was his first time at King's Cross; it was very overwhelming.

His heavy cooking equipment wasn't helping either. Harry considered asking someone for directions to his platform, but most of the people seemed busy or irritated. Many were talking on their cellphones or had earbuds in. Harry continued to try to maneuver through the station even as he began to feel his heart pounding in his throat. His palms started to sweat.

Harry glanced at the clock. It was getting dangerously close to eleven. What if he didn't make the train in time? Could he get Uncle Vernon to drive him to Wales? And why was finding his platform so hard? Was his train hidden inside a secret passageway or something?

Troubled by these increasingly flustered thoughts, Harry didn't notice the brick column between two of the platforms until he had smacked into it, sending many carefully wrapped pieces of cooking equipment crashing to the ground. Blushing under the stares of the many people who paused to look at him, Harry hurriedly began to pick up his packages. He was surprised to see two pairs of hands helping him.

"Hogwarts, too?" a voice said, and Harry quickly looked up, only to find that he probably had hit the barrier harder than he thought, since he was seeing double. Two freckled red-haired boys were grinning down at him, and Harry was quick to correct his previous thought: they were probably twins. He then remembered the question.

"Yes," Harry voiced out. "But, erm, I don't know, well—how to get to the platform?" he finished nervously.

"Oh," the first boy grinned. "It is a bit tricky. But not to worry," he dumped the rest of Harry's luggage back onto his cart, "We'll take you there. C'mon, Fred."

The twins began to walk off into the crowd, and Harry quickly followed, not wanting to get lost when he had finally found someone who would help him. He weaved through the throng of people and went behind a rather large wall he had assumed was the end of the station, only to find a huge scarlet steam engine and a platform packed with families and children, all carrying oddly shaped packages like his own.

"Well, here it is. The Hogwarts Express. Best be getting on soon, though. All the good compartments will be gone soon," said the second boy.

"Thanks," said Harry, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"What's that?" one of the twins pointed at Harry's lightning scar.

The other twin gasped. "Blimey—are you—?"

"He has to be," said the first twin excitedly, "Aren't you?" He turned on Harry.

"Er, what?" Harry asked.

"Harry Potter," chimed the twins.

"Oh, him," said Harry, "I mean." He flushed slightly. "Yes, I am."

The twins gawked at him, and Harry felt more and more mortified as time went on and no one spoke. Then one of them asked if he wouldn't mind being in their selfie.

"By the way," the twin said as he pulled out a battered flip phone, "I'm Fred Weasley."

"And I'm George Weasley," added the other. They both leaned in closer to Harry, who tried his best not to look like a deer caught in headlights as they snapped the photo.

"Lee will be so jealous," Fred muttered under his breath. The twins helped Harry put his trunk and equipment into an empty compartment before being called away by a plump red-haired woman, who Harry assumed was their mum.

Harry shrank back into his seat, suddenly feeling drained. If this was what fame was like, he was pretty sure he didn't like it.

~~~0~~~

As the train started to move, Harry began to feel a bit giddy again. He still couldn't believe that he was going to study cooking at Hogwarts! It was a dream come true. However, he still couldn't help but feel a little bit of apprehension eating at him. He felt drastically unprepared for this entry into what was most likely a world of complicated dishes and sophisticated techniques.

Suddenly, the door of the compartment slid open, and another red-headed boy stepped in. Harry couldn't help but wonder if the culinary world was just filled with an overwhelming amount of freckly ginger giants.

"Anyone sitting here?" the boy asked. "Everywhere else is full."

Harry shook his head, and the boy sat down with an audible sigh of relief. He had been carrying what looked like to be a heavy iron pot that had already seen its best days.

"Hey, Ron."

The twins had come back.

"We'll be down near the middle of the train if you need us. Lee Jordan's saying he's got a candy made out of a giant tarantula down there."

"'Kay," Ron mumbled.

"Harry," said the other twin, "this is our brother Ron. He may seem shy—"

"Or rude—"commented the first twin.

"Or a little bit prickish over all—"

"Maybe not just a little bit…"

"Shut up!"

"—but he's a good kid. Play nice, you two."

"Just get out already!" Ron slammed the compartment door shut and sat back down. Harry noted that his ears were rather red.

Ron fidgeted. "Sorry 'bout them. But," he blurted out, "are you really Harry Potter?"

It seems that Fred and George had mentioned their encounter at the station to their family. Harry nodded slowly.

"And—do you have the…?" Ron gestured vaguely at his own forehead.

Harry pulled back his bangs to show Ron the lightning scar. He gaped, but seemed to realize it was rude and quickly shut his mouth.

"So that's where You-Know-Who—?"

"Yes," said Harry.

Ron looked like he wanted to ask more questions on this topic, but visibly restrained himself, which Harry was grateful for.

About as fascinated with Ron as Ron was with him, Harry asked, "Are all your family chefs?"

"Er, yes, I think so," answered Ron, "We might have a few cousins who became art majors or accountants, but they don't really come around a lot."

"So you must know loads of cooking already."

The Weasleys were obviously one of those traditional cooking families the pale boy from Diagon Alley had talked about.

"Well," Ron looked rather embarrassed, "I wasn't really interested in cooking when I was young. Liked eating a good deal better. But it grew on me."

Harry nodded understandingly. Many good chefs were good eaters first.

The boys continued to chat, and before Harry knew it, it was half past twelve and a food cart had arrived.

Having not had breakfast, Harry endeavored to try to buy the lot of the cart, but he didn't recognize most of the snacks. He just bought a bit of everything and dumped it on the seat next to him.

Ron's eyes widened. "Hungry, are you?"

"Starving," Harry replied.

Ron pulled out a slightly squashed, but still delicious looking sandwich. He examined it critically before sighing. Harry looked at him in question.

"Corned beef," Ron explained, "I must have taken Percy's sandwich by accident." He seemed quite disappointed.

"Swap you for one of these," Harry waved a package of jelly beans, one of the only things he had recognized.

"You don't want this," Ron frowned, "Percy always makes things too dry."

"Go on," Harry encouraged. "I bought more than I can finish."

Sharing his pasties, cakes, and candies with Ron was a new experience. Harry never had friends to eat with before this, and it gave him a very nice feeling, kind of like haddock chowder is his stomach.

"So," Harry said in between bites, "You have a lot of brothers, then?"

Ron swallowed before answering, "Five." For some reason, he was looking a little gloomy. "And a little sister," he added.

"That must be fun," Harry said desperately to try and lift the mood, though it just seemed to make Ron feel even more down.

"It's really not, you know," Ron stared out window at the houses and fields flashing by. "You never get any chance to cook something original because everything's been done already. And everybody's expecting big things, big dishes out of me 'cause I'm the sixth in our family to go to Hogwarts. But I hardly got any time in the kitchen. There's really no room," he said sadly, "with all of us packed in there."

After a few moments of silence as Harry considered this and Ron continued to look away from him, Harry tried, "Er, what are these?" He held out a box of what seemed to be colorful little cookies sandwiched together.

"Oh, those?" Ron brightened, "Those are Margie Mott's Every Flavor Macarons! I haven't had them in ages!"

Harry looked at the pastries skeptically. "They aren't really every flavor, are they?"

"They are. So you want to be careful with those," Ron warned. "See, there are ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and hazelnut, but there are also spinach and liver and tripe macarons. George swears he got a booger-flavored one once."

Ron carefully picked up a green macaron and bit into a corner.

"Urgh," he made a face, "See? Sprouts."

They were having a good time eating through the macarons and guessing at which flavors they were getting when there was a knock on the door of their compartment.

"Have you seen a toad at all?" said a teary round-faced boy.

Harry and Ron shook their heads.

The boy began to wail. "I've lost him! Someone's probably made him into cuisses de grenouille by now!" He ran off.

"Poor guy," said Ron, "though I'd probably go for frog legs myself right now…"

At this time, the compartment door slid open again. The toadless boy was back again, but there was also a girl with him. She was already wearing her Hogwarts apron and chef's hat, which seemed to be having a hard time containing her bushy brown hair.

"Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost one," she said bossily.

"We already said we hadn't seen it," said Ron, but the girl was examining his iron pot instead.

"You know that's not good for the food," she said.

"Huh?"

"All your equipment has coating on it that can be scraped off by a utensil! See those parts where the silver shows through?" She pointed. "That means that the coating got in your dishes. It's really not that healthy and quite unsanitary. Anyway, you should get that replaced. I've been using stainless steel pots, and it's all worked well for me. Nobody in my family's a chef at all, so I was ever so pleased when I was accepted into Hogwarts. It's the best culinary school there is, I've heard. I've learned all the course books by heart, of course; I just hope it will be enough to make up for my lack of an immersive cooking environment—by the way, I'm Hermione Granger. Who are you?"

She said this all insanely quickly.

"I'm Ron Weasley," Ron muttered, seeming quite offended.

"Harry Potter," said Harry.

"Are you really?" said Hermione. "I know all about you—read all the papers, of course—but you're also in Modern Culinary History and The Rise and Fall of the Traditional Cuisine and Great Culinary Events of the Twentieth Century. I got those books just for a bit of light reading, but they provided an ever so insightful view on the culinary world of today."

"Right," said Harry. He was feeling quite dazed by now.

"Do either of you know what house you'll be in? I hope I'm in Griffindor; it sounds like the best by far. I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw would be okay as well...We probably should go and look for Neville's toad. You two should put on your aprons soon. I expect we'll be there soon." And she left, taking the other boy with her.

Harry felt a little like he'd been hit by a tornado.

"Um," he turned to Ron, who also looked stunned, "what are the houses?"

~~~0~~~

After Ron's brief explanation of Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin, and about a quarter of the way through his instructions on how to dice an onion with the least chance of chopping off your own fingertips, the compartment door slid open yet again, this time letting in three boys, one of them being the pale boy Harry met at Madam Malkin's. He was looking at Harry the same way a cat looks at a particularly juicy mouse.

"They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?" he said.

"Yes," Harry replied hesitantly.

"I didn't introduce myself in the alley," the boy sniffed imperiously, "My name is Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Ron began to snicker but tried to hide it by clearing his throat as Malfoy turned to glare at him.

"Think my name's funny, do you?" he looked Ron up and down before sneering. "No need to ask who you are. Red hair, hand-me-down clothes, that garbage pot: you're obviously a Weasley."

He looked back at Harry. "You'll find that some chef families are much better than others, Potter. Don't go making friends with the wrong sort." Malfoy then tripped into one of the boys standing by his side as the train jerked abruptly and began to slow.

Ron didn't hide his chuckle this time. Malfoy pinked.

"C-Come on, Crabbe, Goyle. We'll find much more superior company elsewhere." Malfoy glared at the compartment in general before marching down the train.

Harry closed the door and glanced at Ron, who was now looking at him awkwardly.

"Erm—you, you don't believe Malfoy, right?" said Ron, picking at his threadbare apron.

"Not at all," Harry said firmly, "I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself."

Ron smiled thankfully.

~~~0~~~

Hogwarts was even more fantastic than Harry could have imagined. For one thing, the school was a castle. It also smelled like the most amazing food in the world, as some of the other children had also noticed. Many were drooling.

The first years were led into the entrance hall by Professor McGonagall, a tall chef with her black hair tightly pinned up under a hair net. Harry gawked at the antiquated, yet elegant, furnishings (The castle was huge!) as the professor began to speak.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but first you must all be sorted into your houses. Your house will be like your family here at Hogwarts, so the Sorting will put you in the house of which your cooking has most in common. This is important because you will take classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house's dormitory, eat and prepare meals with your house, and spend free time in your house common room."

"The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history, and each has produced outstanding chefs in all styles. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will win you house pints, while rule breaking will cause you to lose house pints. At the end of the year, the house with the greatest volume of pints is awarded the house cup, which is a great honor. I hope each of you becomes a credit to whichever house becomes yours."

"The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a couple minutes. While you are waiting, I suggest that you all smarten yourselves up a bit." Professor McGonagall's eyes lingered on some of the soiled aprons and lopsided hats.

"I will return for you when we are ready," she said. "Please wait quietly." The Professor entered the Great Hall.

Harry swallowed nervously and tried to brush his unruly hair under his chef's hat. He turned to Ron, whose freckles stood out even more against his pale face.

"How do they sort us into houses anyway?" he questioned.

"Some sort of cooking exam, I think. Fred said you had to burn the Hogwart's insignia into a filet mignon, but I think he was joking."

Harry's heart started pounding in his chest, so loud he expected Ron could probably hear it. The dread he felt when Hagrid came with his Hogwarts letter was slowly returning. What if his cooking wasn't good enough? He hardly knew anything about proper cooking, after all. Would he be sent back to the Dursley's?

Thankfully, Harry did not have a long time to remain in this line of thought. Professor McGonagall had returned and began ushering the students, walking neatly in a row, into the Great Hall.

The Great Hall was an amazing-looking room. It was lit by thin chandeliers that had been strung on wires stretching all across the ceiling. There were four long tables where the students were sitting, and another long table at the head of the hall for the teachers. Looking up, Harry could see that the ceiling was made of glass, so the night sky shone through. It was quite enchanting, and if he didn't know better, he would have said the Great Hall had been made using magic.

The first years were led to the front of the teacher's table where they waited in silence as Professor McGonagall guided a wizened old man to the front of the students. His clothes were dirty and frayed, his hair raggedy. Aunt Petunia wouldn't have let him inside the house.

Maybe they had to feed him, Harry considered, but the man didn't look like a connoisseur of cooking at all. Everyone was staring at the old man, perhaps because he seemed so out of place in the grandeur of the Great Hall, so Harry stared, too. For a few seconds, the man did nothing. Then, he opened his mouth and started to sing:

"Oh, you may not think I'm pretty,

But don't judge on what you see,

I'll eat myself if you can find

A better analyst than me.

You can keep your suits pressed,

Your diplomas kept and framed,

For I'm a master psychologist,

And my talent can't be chained.

There's nothing hidden in your head

The Sorting cannot see,

So try it out and I will tell you

Where you ought to be.

The man took a deep, wheezy breath and continued singing.

You might belong in Gryffindor,

Where dwell the brave at heart,

Their daring innovation

Set Gryffindors apart;

You might belong in Hufflepuff

To homestyle they are loyal

They do not need fancy tools

They're unafraid of toil;

Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,

They always use their minds

If it's balanced meals you seek,

You will find your kind;

Or perhaps in Slytherin

Where surprise is your friend,

Those cunning cooks use anything

to trick the palate in the end.

So come along! Don't be afraid!

And don't get in a tizzy

These ingredients you know (bar two or three)

before the wine makes you dizzy!"

At this, the whole hall burst into applause and laughter. The old man bent over to catch his breath, as Professor McGonagall looked on disapprovingly. She was now holding a long roll of parchment.

"When I call your name, you will go with this man into the Sorting room," she nodded towards a door Harry had missed when he had looked over the Great Hall, "and go through the Sorting Ceremony." She cleared her throat, "Abbott, Hannah!"

A girl with blonde pigtails walked apprehensively out of line and followed the man into the room. After a couple minutes, they both exited.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" shouted the man.

Harry still had no idea what the Sorting was, but he couldn't help but feel sick regardless. As Professor McGonagall went down the alphabet, Harry felt worse and more anxious as she got closer to his name. The brim of his hat seemed to be restricting blood flow to his brain. He felt very lightheaded with worry.

Finally, the professor called out, "Potter, Harry!"

Whispers immediately started springing forth. As Harry trudged over to the Sorting room, trying his best not to trip on anything and make a fool out of himself, he glanced over his shoulder at the other students. Most, if not all of them, were craning their necks to look at him. Harry quickly whipped his head back around. If he had been feeling sick before, he felt positively ill now.

The Sorting room was dimly lit and contained only a table and four chairs, all of which were filled with other delicate-looking old people. The singing man stood in front the table and lifted a basket on top. He beckoned Harry closer.

"Sort these ingredients," he said with a smile.

Harry was flabbergasted. "That's it?" he said incredulously.

The man nodded.

Harry used shaking hands to open the basket. Inside was an amazing variety of fruits, vegetables, meats, wines, and spices. He carefully dumped them onto the table.

Examining the cooking materials closely, Harry couldn't help but realize that the man hadn't specified which way to sort the ingredients. He looked up to ask, but met the gaze of one of the men sitting in the chair. His face was bloodless and stern. Harry went back to the ingredients.

Eventually, he decided to sort the ingredients into groups that were based on dishes he would make using them. Harry did recognize most of the ingredients after all, and many of the meals he had made at the Dursley's used the same stuff. He moved hesitantly at first, but gradually became quick and confident in gathering the ingredients into five different piles. For the ingredients he didn't know, like some of the spices and wines, he sniffed them and put them in the groups where he thought they would fit the best with the dish.

Harry did this until he ran out of ingredients to sort. The singing man clapped his hands gleefully as Harry stepped back. He felt like he had come out of a trance, and suddenly the gravity of the situation hit him at full force again. As the singing man and the four people stood up to examine his piles, Harry could feel his stomach doing flips. He tried to discreetly wipe his sweaty palms on his apron.

The Sorting people were mumbling. "Difficult. Very difficult…plenty of courage...not a bad mind either...Oh! See this, this here. There's talent, oh yes...A nice thirst to prove himself, hmmm…"

Harry was very puzzled on how they were getting this from groups of ingredients.

"He could be great in Slytherin," the bloodless man said stiffly. "Slytherin would help him on his way to greatness; you can see it here."

"Yes," said the another man, who was sporting a peculiar ruffled collar, "but is that where he would prefer to go?"

The last man chortled and rubbed his chubby hands. "I believe he could go to Slytherin or Gryffindor house; he would do well in both."

The cloaked woman said nothing. The singing man smiled again.

The bloodless man glared at the collared man. "It does not matter where the boy wants to go. The Sorting is purposed to put the students where they will become the best they can be."

"Yes," admitted the other, "but can he become the best he can be in such an environment that Slytherin contains right now?"

"He didn't come here to make friends." snapped the bloodless man.

"He is standing right here," said Harry, still feeling anxious but also very hungry and irritated at the lack of progress in the decision-making process. He blushed slightly when all five of the Sorting people turned to stare at him.

"Well, Harry Potter," said the singing man slowly, "which will it be?"

~~~0~~~

Harry and the man entered the Great Hall to absolute silence. All the students turned towards them expectantly. Even the professors seemed to be unduly interested in the results of his Sorting. The old man glanced up at him and whispered.

"Well, if you're sure. Better be..."

He took a deep breath.

"GRYFFINDOR!"

The Great Hall exploded in cheers.

~~~0~~~

Still, later, when Harry was lying in bed listening to Ron's snoring, the bloodless man's words echoed in his mind.

Slytherin. Slytherin could help him on his way to greatness.

To greatness, Harry repeated over and over in his head. When he slept, he dreamed of broken glass and sobbing.