Allen's casual words—"I'll borrow the kitchen tools"—rendered the house elves utterly speechless.
The elf standing before him had served Hogwarts for over fifty years. In all that time, he had never once heard of a student asking to borrow the kitchen. Not even among his predecessors had there been such a request.
"Are you sure you want to borrow the kitchen?" the house elf asked hesitantly. "Theoretically, there's no issue—as long as it doesn't interfere with dinner preparations—but what exactly do you intend to do with the kitchen?"
"Make myself something to eat, and teach you how to cook food that actually tastes good," Allen said matter-of-factly. He tossed the book in his hand toward the house elf. "Hold this for me."
The elf caught the book in a fluster and followed Allen, clearly overwhelmed. "Sir, I don't quite understand… We've been preparing meals at Hogwarts for decades. No one has ever complained about the food. Not a single person among the 543 has said it wasn't good."
"That's because I hadn't arrived yet," Allen said, rolling up his sleeves. "You lot should've started studying the moment I got here. Last night's dinner was almost unbearable."
He approached one of the working elves. The elf, using magic, expertly controlled a floating dough ball, kneading it mid-air. The dough was promptly vacuumed of air and levitated into the oven.
Allen patted the elf lightly. "Please give me your spot."
Though puzzled, the elf obeyed and stepped aside.
"You don't need to learn anything new, really," Allen said as he began examining the cooking station. "What you need is better heat control and seasoning. Magic is convenient, sure, but it lacks finesse when it comes to taste."
Allen didn't start cooking. Instead, he picked up various condiments, sniffing and tasting small amounts to assess their flavors. After confirming the available ingredients, he began carefully blending a mixture.
The kitchen wasn't stocked for a grand feast. There were basic supplies—smoked bacon, sausages, beans, and vegetables—but nothing extravagant. Dinners like the one from last night weren't standard fare, and clearly, the kitchen wasn't always prepared to accommodate them.
Allen decided to prepare an all-purpose seasoning—one so flavorful that it could make even shoe leather palatable. Creating such a mixture would be nearly impossible for an average person, but with Allen's Divine Hand, he could measure proportions with precise accuracy, achieving a near-perfect result.
In no time, he finished blending a small batch of seasoning and handed it to the elf who had stepped aside earlier.
"Here. Use this seasoning to make me an omelette and bacon. This should be enough for about three servings," Allen instructed.
The elf looked uncertain but took the plate of seasoning and left to cook. Allen sat down, sipping the black tea brought by another nervous elf. He watched the kitchen at work, deep in thought.
His vision for the future absolutely included opening a high-end restaurant. That would require a competent and loyal staff—and house elves were the ideal choice.
But hiring house elves was no easy feat. Typically, only ancient pure-blood families had the means to own even one or two. Sometimes, these families would allow their elves to intermarry, continuing the bloodline.
What made elves unique was their unwavering loyalty.
Even if the wizarding family fell into ruin, house elves would never abandon them—not due to contracts, but because of a deeply ingrained servility. It was something the wizards had deliberately instilled over generations. To a house elf, being masterless was not freedom—it was shame.
Allen had no intention of changing that. After all, he stood to benefit from it. Why stir up trouble by challenging a system that worked in his favor?
But this also made acquiring house elves extremely difficult. Aside from Dobby, who was an oddity among his kind—rebellious and, frankly, not very bright—there were no "free agents" out there.
That left Allen with only one option: the Hogwarts kitchen elves.
Winning them over wouldn't be easy. Dumbledore's image loomed large in their hearts—overcoming that kind of loyalty was harder than defeating the headmaster himself.
Allen sipped his tea calmly.
"No need to rush. Let them worship me first. Then I'll make my move. If that doesn't work… well, there's always that method."
He had seven years. There was plenty of time.
Just then, a tantalizing aroma wafted through the kitchen.
All the house elves froze. They turned, eyes wide, toward the elf who had been tasked with cooking Allen's breakfast.
The smell coming from the pan was incredible. Simple eggs and bacon now exuded a rich, savory fragrance that far surpassed their usual meals—just shy of the finest dishes served at grand banquets.
And all because of that magical seasoning!
The frying pan floated through the air, gently placing the cooked eggs and bacon on a plate. Two slices of golden, crisp bread were added to the side.
Then, the elf who had prepared the breakfast walked toward Allen, holding the plate with both hands as if presenting a sacred offering.
All the other elves watched in awe. That one condiment had transformed a basic meal into something divine.
Allen accepted the plate with grace. Picking up a knife, he cut into the omelette.
The soft-boiled yolk flowed gently out, releasing a tantalizing aroma as it mingled with the seasoning. It was like a bite of spring.
He took a taste.
Then he nodded.
"Not bad."
The elf beamed with pride, as if he had just been awarded a medal.
Allen finished the meal quickly, wiped his mouth, and turned to the elf.
"What's your name?"
"Sir, my name is Kelly," the elf said, clasping his hands nervously.
"You have talent," Allen said. "In the future, when I come to borrow the kitchen, you can observe from the side."
"Thank you, sir! But..." Kelly hesitated, rubbing his hands together awkwardly. "Could… could you tell us how the seasoning is made?"
"I don't mind. Consider it a thank-you for letting me use the kitchen," Allen said with a smile. "But you can't share the recipe with anyone else."
"Of course!" Kelly said hurriedly. "Even if our beloved Dumbledore asks, we won't say a word!"
"Good."
In truth, Allen wasn't all that concerned about the recipe. The so-called "universal seasoning" performed reliably across various dishes, but it wasn't extraordinary.
The true art of flavor came from technique and ingredients. This seasoning only elevated the baseline—it didn't define the dish's ceiling.
Still, it was enough to vastly improve the food at Hogwarts. At the very least, Allen wouldn't have to suffer through bland meals.
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