The Boy Who Dueled

"Is that him?"

"Who?"

"The kid next to the tall one with the ketchup down his front."

"With the cheese on his glasses?"

"Did you see his face?"

"Did you see his scar?"

Harry took off his glasses and picked the mozzarella from the rim. He had been too distracted by the disaster of his first time working in a busy kitchen to notice it before. It might have been because he hadn't been, and still wasn't, used to working on a line with so many people moving about carrying hot plates, but his inattention was probably more due to the fact that he couldn't walk anywhere without people whispering about him. It made it much harder to navigate the Hogwarts castle.

However, finding the way to his classrooms wasn't even the most taxing part of school; there was also the classes themselves. Just as Harry had feared, there was a lot more to cooking than just taking ingredients and throwing them on a plate.

They had to study different types of fruits, vegetables, and meats every Wednesday evening and learn their properties as well as how to identify them. Three times a week, they went out to the greenhouses behind the castle to study Farming with the head of Hufflepuff, Professor Sprout. There they learned how to tend to different plants to make them bear the best, freshest produce.

The most boring class by far was History of Cooking, which was taught by an exceedingly elderly man. Professor Binns had been a semi-successful line cook in his early days, but he had lost all that passion for food many years ago. His lectures were so dull, he put himself to sleep on more than one occasion.

Professor Flitwick, the Charms teacher and head of Ravenclaw house, was a rather short man who needed a stool to see over his kitchen counter. During their first class when he took roll call, he squeaked excitedly when he reached Harry's name and ended up toppling into a bag of sugar.

Sharp and clever, McGonagall was about as no-nonsense as her tightly pinned hair. She gave them a talking to the moment they started her first class.

"Baking and nutrition are some of the most important and dangerous cooking topics you will learn here at Hogwarts," she aimed a level stare at the whole room. "Anyone caught fooling around in this class will leave and not come back. You have been warned."

She then proceeded to pull out a freshly-baked pizza from under her desk and handed out samples to all the students. They were all very impressed and couldn't wait to get started, but soon realized they weren't going to be baking complex goods anytime soon. After taking in depth notes, they were each handed a sack of ingredients and told to bake a loaf of banana bread. Only Hermione Granger had made something that resembled a healthy, delicious loaf; McGonagall showed the class how the bread's crust resisted prodding and gave Hermione a rare smile.

Most everyone had been looking forward to Cooking Techniques the most, but Professor Quirrell's lessons seemed to be kind of a joke. His classroom smelled heavily of garlic, unappetizing to even the most ardent garlic fan, and he wore an odd turban in lieu of a chef's hat. He talked a lot about the award-winning dishes he had composed in an African prince's domain, but when Seamus Finnigan asked eagerly what kind of dishes they were, Quirrell pinked and redirected the conversation to the weather. He seemed to be afraid of even his own flambés.

Despite his worries, Harry found that he wasn't too far behind everyone else. Loads of people came from non-cooking oriented households like he did, and there was so much to learn that people like Ron didn't really have too much of a head start.

On Friday, Harry and Ron were finally able to get to the Great Hall early enough to eat breakfast while it was still hot. They did this by not getting lost for once. It was a great achievement.

~~~0~~~

Harry liked soups. They were easy to throw together and didn't need much froufrou presentation. Too bad the Soups and Sanitation lesson turned out to be the worst thing so far he had experienced at Hogwarts.

Soups and Sanitation took place down in one of the underground kitchens, which meant it was dark and cold and smelled sharply of lemon cleaner. It would have seemed nasty enough without all the pickled vegetables lining the walls.

What unsettled Harry the most was the fact that the professor, Snape, seemed to really hate him. When Snape looked at him, his eyes were frigid and flat; they made Harry think of empty steamers. The feeling that Draco Malfoy was trying to drill a hole in his head with the power of his stare didn't help either. Harry hadn't talked to him since the train.

"You are here to learn the stringent standards of proper sanitation and exact art of soup-making," Professor Snape began. He seemed to be attempting to channel Batman and Gordon Ramsey in equal amounts. The class was silent. "As there is little foolish pan-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is cooking. I don't expect you to truly understand the beauty of the softly simmering stock pot with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of a shiny counter, killing bacteria, preventing food-sickness...I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stop death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."

More silence followed this speech. Harry was reluctantly impressed by the amount of alliteration while Ron raised his eyebrows skeptically. Goyle and some of the other Slytherins seemed to be resisting the urge to applaud. Hermione Granger was on the edge of her seat, looking desperate to prove that she wasn't a dunderhead.

Snape suddenly whipped his head around to stare at Harry, who was very unnerved by this. "Potter!" he spat. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

"Something terrible," answered Harry instinctively. "Sir," he added.

Snape's face darkened.

All in all, Harry lost 15 pints for Gryffindor in one lesson. However, he did brew a delicious chicken noodle soup, even with the distraction of Neville Longbottom somehow managing to burn water.

~~~0~~~

Harry had never tried to avoid a person with more single-mindedness than he did Draco Malfoy. Malfoy seemed to have an incessant urge to corner Harry and make him his friend. Ron had suggested many times to just punch Malfoy in the gut and tell him that no one wanted to be friends with a stuck up git, but Harry didn't really wish to make more enemies, especially in a school where butcher knives were always in reach.

Thankfully, the first-year Gryffindors and Slytherins only shared the Soups and Sanitations class, so Harry was able to duck out of talking with Malfoy much of the time. This was until they were told that Physical Education would begin on Thursday—and Gryffindor and Slytherin would be learning together.

Harry, and most of the rest of the first years, had been dreading this lesson wholeheartedly. After years of staying inside to compose recipes and sampling their own cooking, not many of Hogwarts students could be called physically fit in any way. Harry had just never liked gym classes. Dudley would always find a way to make him left out.

Nevertheless, at three-thirty that afternoon, Harry, Ron, and the other Gryffindors tromped sourly onto the grounds for their first Physical Education lesson. It was a clear, breezy day, which meant that it was at least pleasant to be outside in their ill fitting gym uniforms, though some of the girls appeared horrified to be wearing such a fashion faux pas out in public.

The Slytherins were already there, looking more or less as disgruntled as the Gryffindors. Their teacher, Madam Hooch, had arrived as well. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes the same shade as a beaten egg.

"Well, what are you all waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone line up in front of the track. Come on, hurry up."

The first years scrambled into a shaky row.

"Today I will be testing your 100 meter dash. Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off the starting block and run as hard as you can. Get ready, boy," she said to Neville, who had been unfortunately shoved into the first slot in line.

"On my whistle—three—two—"

But Neville, being very nervous about running in front of such a large group, pushed off the starting block early and was unable to regain his footing. He landed flat on his face, skidding a few inches across the track.

Madam Hooch bent over Neville, looking very concerned. The class hissed as they saw how Neville had skinned his knees, elbows, and nose. He looked quite terrible.

Madam Hooch sighed. "Come on, boy. It's all right, up you get."

She turned to the other students.

"None of you move a single step while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave the equipment where it is or you'll be out of Hogwarts before you can say jambalaya!"

She carefully marched Neville, teary eyed and hobbling, back to the castle.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Malfoy burst into laughter.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?"

The other Slytherins joined in, though some seemed to be more laughing out of relief that they no longer had to run the timed dash.

"Shut up, Malfoy," snapped Parvati Patil, but Malfoy had already been distracted.

"Look!" he said, picking a ball out of the equipment bins. "It's one of those kickballs." He scowled at it. "I wonder if we can skip class if we just puncture them all."

"No, stop it, Malfoy!" shrieked Hermione. "You can't damage school property! We'll all get in trouble!" Everyone stopped talking to watch.

Malfoy smiled nastily.

"I'll just put them where no one can reach them. How about the lake?" He hurled it as far as he could.

Though Malfoy did have a good arm on him, as the ball went sailing into the air, his aim was as bad as hollandaise sauce on fish. The kickball wasn't speeding towards the lake; it was heading to one of Hagrid's vineyards. His grapes were going to be crushed.

Harry took off running. Blood was pounding in his ears. The scenery went flying past him, and in a rush of pure joy, Harry found that he could do something that wasn't related to cooking. This was wonderful. Luckily Malfoy had thrown the kickball very high, or else Harry would never had made it in time. He stretched out his arms, leaped into the air, and plucked the ball from the sky, tumbling a safe distance away from Hagrid's gardens.

He stood up hurriedly and fistpumped. He could hear cheering back where the rest of the class was waiting, but also—

"HARRY POTTER!"

His heart sank. Professor McGonagall was running towards him. However, she seemed more...excited, rather than angry. She took him by the arm and pulled him away into the castle, much to the unhappiness of his fellow Gryffindors.

They marched along the corridors, Harry feeling extremely confused and worried, until they reached a classroom. Professor McGonagall poked her head inside the door.

"Excuse me, Professor Flitwick, could I borrow Wood for a moment?"

Wood? Harry was bewildered. Was Wood a cane she was going to use on him?

Much to his relief, Wood turned out to be a burly fifth-year boy, who looked about as puzzled as Harry coming out of the classroom. McGonagall ushered them into an empty classroom before pulling Wood to the side.

Harry watched them whisper to each other, Wood brightening more and more as time went on. Whatever they were conferring about, it seemed that it wasn't going to get him into trouble. Harry relaxed a little, though it was hard to do when both Wood and Professor McGonagall kept pointing at him mid-sentence. Finally, looking absolutely ecstatic, Wood raced towards Harry, who stilled in shock. Wood knelt to look Harry in the face and grasped one of Harry's hands in both his own.

"Potter," Wood gazed into Harry's eyes with a look of utmost severity. "Have you ever heard of American football?"

~~~0~~~

Malfoy lifted his arm in a grand sweeping motion and pointed at Ron dramatically. "I challenge you to a cooking duel. Pans only—no dessert."

Harry's pie dropped off his fork, which had been halfway to his mouth, and into his lap. He glanced at Ron, who looked surprisingly serious.

Malfoy stared at Harry. "What's the matter? Never heard of a cooking duel before?"

"Of course he has," said Ron scathingly. "He'll be my sous. Who's yours?"

Malfoy eyed Harry skeptically before turning to Crabbe and Goyle, sizing them up.

"Crabbe," he decided. "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the second practice kitchen. That one's always unlocked." He then stalked off back to the Slytherin table, leaving Harry gaping.

He faced Ron. "What is a cooking duel?" said Harry. "And what do you mean, I'm your sous?"

"Well, the sous chef is there to help the dueller prepare ingredients for their dish," said Ron nonchalantly. Catching the way Harry's expression froze, he quickly added, "But it isn't really so complicated, you know, just chopping vegetables and stuff. The most me and Malfoy will cook is probably a salmon, anyway. Neither of us knows enough to do anything too taxing."

"But," said Harry anxiously, "why did he challenge you to a cooking duel in the first place?" Harry had made sure that Ron was avoiding Malfoy as religiously as he was.

"Well," Ron took a bite of his steak, "during gym class after you left, Malfoy challenged me for your hand in friendship."

Harry sputtered incomprehensibly. "My what?"

Ron looked unperturbed. "Your friendship."

"But—but how are you going to determine who deserves that through cooking?"

"If his dish proves that he's sincere enough, it'll be fine," Ron shrugged. "You can always tell a chef's true emotions through his cooking."

"Why does Malfoy want to be my friend at all?" Harry groaned desperately, his head in his hands. It wasn't as if they had interacted besides a few unpleasant conversations.

"Dunno," said Ron through a mouthful of potatoes. "Who really understands the Slytherins anyway?" He reached for the blueberry pie.

Harry was beginning to think that he was going to spend at least half his time in the cooking world being totally and utterly flabbergasted.

~~~0~~~

"Half-past eleven," Ron whispered, "we'd better go."

They pulled on their aprons, picked up their bags of cooking equipment, and crept towards the door of the Gryffindor common room. And they had almost gotten there, too, when a voice rang out from one of the armchairs by the still dimly glowing fireplace.

"I can't believe you two are going to do this."

It was Hermione Granger, holding an iPhone she was using as a flashlight and wearing a floral snuggie. She was frowning.

"You!" hissed Ron. "Go back to bed!"

"I should have told your brother," Hermione scolded, "Percy—he'd put a stop to this."

Harry had never met someone his age that was so much of a nag.

"Don't you dare do it! You'll lose all the pints I gained from Professor McGonagall for knowing about measuring calories by burning! Do you want Slytherin to win the house cup? I swear, boys are so selfish!"

Ron was beginning to look rather like a kettle that was going to boil very soon, so Harry ushered him towards the door with a careful, "Come on."

Hermione stood up. "At least!" she cried, but then seemed to remember that most of the castle was asleep and lowered her tone. "At least take me with you. Cooking duels need witnesses anyway to be more legitimate. I read that in Chefs and Duels: the Art of Battle by the Pan." She sniffed condescendingly. "Either way, I won't get in trouble. Witnesses are obligated by circumstance to attend duels and cannot be faulted for any misdemeanors accompanied with this duty."

Harry and Ron had stopped listening to her as soon as she mentioned Chefs and Duels and were halfway down the corridor already.

The three of them tiptoed through the extensive hallway system and stepped cautiously down stairways until they reached the practice kitchens. With every small sound, Harry expected to be caught by a teacher, but they encountered no one. He wondered about this somewhat lax security, but reasoned that it was expected considering the size and complexity of the Hogwarts castle.

The second practice kitchen was empty and still. Malfoy and Crabbe had obviously not arrived yet. The stacks of white plates gleamed as the fluorescent lights hit them when Ron flicked the light switch. There were splotches of red on the wall which Harry at first assumed was blood but instead was actually marinara sauce gone wrong. Harry, Ron, and Hermione perched on some of the wooden stools surrounding the island. The minutes ticked by.

"Do you think he stood us up?" Harry muttered.

"I don't know," replied Ron. "But he's going to get a penalty if he's any more late."

Suddenly, there was a noise in the next room that made them jump. Harry had only one moment to panic, thinking it was Filch and that they were all going to be sent home on the train tomorrow, when someone started to speak.

It was Malfoy, with Crabbe carrying along his equipment. Harry sighed.

"I thought you left us to be caught by a professor!" he blurted out, completely cutting off what Malfoy was going to say.

Malfoy gave him a weird look. "Why would I do that? No proper chef ever runs away from a cooking duel, not to mention set one up just so he could frame the other participants for something," he snorted. "It's just not done."

Harry stared incredulously. He glanced around the kitchen.

Ron and Hermione also were shooting him pitying looks, as if saddened by his lack of faith and knowledge of cooking duel etiquette. Harry heaved a sigh.

"Well," Malfoy clapped his hands together and nodded at Crabbe, "let's get started."

Of course, they hadn't even turned on their stoves when Filch really did arrive.

~~~0~~~

"How did he know we were there?" Ron whispered violently.

"He probably saw the lights and figured it out," said Hermione.

"Shut up, Granger," Malfoy hissed.

Harry wheezed and tried to catch his breath.

The four of them had immediately sprinted out the kitchen door as soon as Filch opened it, seeing how he was temporarily blinded by the lights. Harry had the foresight to grab Ron's bag of equipment and had hesitated surprising little before taking Malfoy's bag as well. Crabbe had been left behind.

They had ran upstairs, galloped down one corridor, ducked behind a tapestry depicting a woman flipping pancakes, and hurtled into a chamber that was certainly far away from the practice kitchens.

"I knew this was a bad idea; I knew it!"

"Then why did you come along!"

"Because of Chapter 4: Section D of Chefs and Duels! Mallory states that, 'On the occasion that one is near a pair of dueling chefs, it is proper to—"

"Shut up, Granger"

"Hey, uh, guys…" Harry said.

"WHAT," the others bit out in unison. Harry jumped. It was kind of creepy. He pointed towards behind where they were all standing, drawing attention to the rest of the room.

It looked like a long, tall hallway. There was a laser maze directly in front of them; behind that, a gap that looked like it went down a long way. There also seemed to be machine guns attached towards the ceiling, though those seemed deactivated, thankfully. At the end of the chamber, there was a spotlight beaming down upon a glass case, in which there was one piece of paper. It all looked very spy movie.

"Uh, I think we should get out here," breathed Ron.

The rest of them nodded, and they all had crept a quarter of the way towards the door when a loud bell noise started to sound. Harry flinched and surveyed the room, but the noise seemed to be coming from their direction. His stomach sank as the realization came over him. Hermione's phone had begun to ring.

The guns perked up and turned to face them, muzzle first.

Malfoy screamed. The four of them scrambled out the door and slammed it shut.

~~~0~~~

Later, when they were all safely ensconced in their beds, Harry thought about the chamber and the piece of paper that had so many defenses in front of it. It looked like they had found out where and what the package Hagrid had taken from Gringotts was. He wasn't sure that it had been worth the terror.