The appearance of Harry Potter marked the official start of the plot, and it also signaled that Voldemort—lurking in the shadows, scheming to acquire the Philosopher's Stone—was about to make his move.
But really, what did any of this have to do with Allen? He was just a young, charming cook, far more interested in recipes than relics. He hadn't paid much attention to Professor Quirrell for a long time now. Honestly, he had no clue what the guy had been up to lately. What Allen did know, though, was that Quirrell always showed up for meals on time.
Every single time Allen opened for business, Quirrell was there. Today was no different.
Outside the kitchen, wizards lined up in neat, orderly rows, eagerly waiting for today's masterpiece. But it wasn't just wizards standing in line—many house-elves were present as well, each holding a polished silver tray, waiting to deliver the freshly made dishes to their masters.
These weren't ordinary food deliveries either. Thanks to the unique magic of house-elves, even if their masters lived in other towns or magical communities, they'd receive their Buffalo wings piping hot.
Inside the kitchen, Allen worked in his usual smooth, confident rhythm. Today's tools were a bit out of the ordinary. Instead of his usual European-style pans, Allen had chosen a deep, rounded cast-iron skillet that was definitely not native to the British wizarding world.
That's right—today, Allen was making Buffalo wings. But not just any Buffalo wings. These were going to be bold, spicy, and unforgettable.
The skillet wasn't conjured or transformed using magic. Allen had specifically asked Tom to buy one from an American shop that specialized in Southern cuisine supplies. Along with the skillet, Tom also picked up a few key ingredients—cayenne pepper, paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, Worcestershire sauce, and of course, several bottles of vinegar-based hot sauce, including the all-important Frank's RedHot.
Also in Tom's bag: a slab of butter the size of a baby Hippogriff, a bag of celery sticks, and a small jar of blue cheese so pungent it could almost talk.
Finding all these ingredients in London wasn't easy. British wizards didn't usually go in for this kind of spicy, tangy flavor. So Allen could only imagine Tom's embarrassment repeating "Buffalo sauce" in a terrible American accent to bewildered clerks.
Given Tom's dedication, Allen had already decided to give him a generous portion today—as both reward and revenge.
That's right. Today was Buffalo wing day.
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Allen had recently concluded that the flavor of dragon's blood didn't really pair well with traditional British fare. His earlier idea—using it in blood sausage—was a culinary dead end. But today, he was determined to make it work with an American classic.
At Allen's instruction, Tom flicked his wand to activate the kitchen's magical exhaust system to maximum capacity. This was critical. If the aroma of today's dish managed to seep into the Great Hall like it usually did, Allen feared St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries would be overwhelmed by patients with burning nostrils.
With everything in place, Allen rolled up his sleeves and got to work.
He started by heating oil in the deep skillet. Next came chopped onions and minced garlic, followed by a careful blend of cayenne, paprika, garlic powder, and onion powder. The air thickened with the sharp, tangy aroma. Once the mixture bloomed into its full potential, Allen added a generous pour of hot sauce, watching it sizzle and coat the pan in blazing red glory.
Then came the twist—his substitute for "dragon's blood." He wasn't using literal dragon's blood, of course. That would've been a bureaucratic nightmare. Instead, he was using a gelatinous, protein-rich herb called embergrass—a jelly-like plant that Tom had retrieved from a specialty store. Rich in iron and with a faint magical shimmer, it was a perfect substitute.
He tossed in the embergrass, letting it sear and soak in the sauce. His hands moved with divine precision—an extension of his magical ability known as the Hand of God. Each flick of his wrist and turn of the spatula was exact, preserving the integrity of the embergrass even under intense heat.
Once the wings—or, in this case, the embergrass morsels—were coated evenly in sauce and lightly caramelized, Allen finished the dish with melted butter, a dash of vinegar, and a thickening touch of magically enhanced corn starch. The result: a full pot of crimson-red Buffalo-style "dragon's blood wings."
The oil glistened brightly under the kitchen's enchanted lights. The color was vibrant, a deep red-orange that could only mean one thing—flavor with intent. Dangerous intent.
As for the smell… well, not even Tom's aggressive use of magical air filters could entirely remove it. The rich, spicy aroma pierced the air like a spell gone rogue. Wizards in line started sneezing violently, tears forming in their eyes, but no one dared move. The scent was overwhelming—but irresistibly mouthwatering.
Allen plated the first portion for himself and gave another to Black, who was eyeing the wings like they might fly off the table.
Then Allen untied his apron, turned to Tom, and declared, "Limited to one portion per person. Five Galleons each."
Tom, now used to Allen's pricing, nodded without surprise. But his eyes widened as he looked at the angry red sauce coating the wings.
"Mr. Cecil," Tom began nervously, "isn't this a bit too… pungent?"
Allen raised an eyebrow. "Then do you want to eat it or not?"
"I do! I mean… I think I do," Tom said, swallowing hard. "I'm just a little scared."
"Don't be," Allen said with a devilish smile. "Spice is addictive."
He wasn't joking either. Allen had used an excessive amount of seasoning and layered on way more butter and sugar than usual. The sugar was a trick—it reduced the immediate sting of the spice but didn't kill it. No, it waited. It waited and burned twice as hard on the way out.
That's right. Spice that burns at both ends.
Allen was still bitter about being woken up from a nap the night before, so this dish was his form of revenge on the world.
And honestly? He was happy with it.
He never worried about taste. The Hand of God guaranteed his food would be good—even if the ingredients were odd or the techniques unconventional. That said, for Allen himself, the spiciness was underwhelming.
After giving Black a single taste—just a little—Allen quickly snatched the bowl away. Black was already running around in circles, tongue hanging out, scrambling for water. And he was a magical dog.
As for Allen, he took a slow bite, letting the heat settle. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Then another. He took another bite. The fire built steadily. It was good. Really good.
But something was missing.
"A bowl of rice would be perfect right now," Allen muttered to himself. "Spicy wings, hot rice… that would be heaven."
The taste was nearly divine, but not quite the ultimate. Allen could feel it in his bones—this wasn't the one. He was chasing something more. A recipe so perfect it would transcend taste itself.
Still, today's creation was a win. The wings were a hit. The line stretched farther than usual. Wizards were crying, gasping for water, some even laying down after finishing their portion—but not a single complaint was heard.
One wizard hiccuped violently and gave Allen a double thumbs-up before collapsing to the floor with a satisfied grin. Another simply said, "Pain... so much pain… but I need more."
Tom, meanwhile, had tears streaming down his face but managed to whisper, "Mr. Cecil… I think my tongue is broken."
Allen laughed, tossed him a piece of celery, and said, "That's what the blue cheese is for."
There were, of course, critics. One particularly arrogant seventh-year tried to complain about the spice level and demand his Galleons back. Allen responded by handing him an extra portion—on the house.
The boy took one bite and didn't speak for the rest of the day. Rumor has it he's still hiccuping.
As the crowd thinned and Allen cleaned up the kitchen, he looked at the pot—now nearly empty—and smiled to himself.
It wasn't perfect. It wasn't the ultimate dish.
But it was damn close.
And he still had more ideas.
After all, a true chef never stops cooking.
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