The Distinctive Aroma of Jam Tarts

At the sound of the door opening, almost all the strange creatures turned to look.

But contrary to Harry's expectations, they weren't angry that someone had intruded on their territory.

Instead of rushing over all at once, they gazed at Glenn and Harry from afar with eager, expectant looks.

Wherever Glenn and Harry looked, the strange creatures bowed or curtsied to them, showing great respect.

"Who are they?" Harry asked.

Before Glenn could answer, the nearest House-elf spoke in a soft, thin voice. "Sir, we are House-elves, sir. House-elves who serve Hogwarts Castle."

As she spoke, the House-elves around them looked at their colleague with envy. It seemed that answering a student's question was some kind of reward.

"Welcome to the Hogwarts Kitchen. The House-elves are very enthusiastic. If there's anything you want to eat later, you can tell them," Glenn explained.

"Don't let their small size fool you. They live for more than two hundred years. Professor Dumbledore might not even be as old as they are."

"That's right, Mr. Howard. Layla once saw Headmaster Dumbledore when he was little! He came to our Kitchen for something to eat when he was in his first year." The House-elf who had answered Harry's question spoke up again.

Harry was taken aback.

It was hard for him to imagine Professor Dumbledore, now with his white beard and hair, sneaking into the kitchen for a bite when he'd been their age.

But then he noticed something else: this House-elf named Layla had called Glenn "Mr. Howard" before he'd even introduced himself.

"Then do you know who I am?" Harry asked tentatively.

"Ah! Of course Layla knows, sir. You're the famous Harry Potter. The lightning-shaped mark on your forehead is so distinctive!"

Harry instinctively touched the scar on his forehead, then realized how stupid his question had been. He was the only person at Hogwarts with such an obvious mark.

"Harry, a good House-elf doesn't let people know he's there. At the same time, though, he knows everything, because that's the only way he can do his job well." Glenn explained a little.

At his words, the House-elves around them cheered and waved their arms excitedly.

"Sir! You're absolutely right! No wonder the professors say you might be the smartest student Hogwarts has ever had!" Layla said, thrilled.

To them, a remark like that was worth more than any treasure... Sorry, if someone tried to repay a House-elf for his work with gold and silver, that would be an insult.

A well-judged remark like this was the most fitting reward of all.

"Now then, sirs, would you like something to eat? Layla can prepare it right away!"

Glenn's words had fired up the House-elves even more. They decided to whip up something for the two of them on the spot.

"We have roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, pea shoots, carrots, gravy, tomato sauce..."

Layla rattled off the dishes one by one. They were all familiar fare, and if nothing unexpected happened, they'd probably be eating the same things that evening.

"Uh... just a jam tart, please. Thank you." Faced with the dazzling menu, Harry chose the thing he'd wanted from the start.

Layla nodded, then turned to Glenn.

"Nothing for me. Just get me some ingredients," Glenn said without hesitation.

The House-elves all wrinkled their wrinkly faces, their earlier joy seemingly diminished.

But professional pride kept Layla from saying anything. She ushered Glenn and Harry to a table, bowed so deeply it was almost comical, then turned and hurried off to work.

Watching the House-elf leave with a sigh, Harry couldn't hold back his curiosity. "Are you going to cook for yourself?"

Glenn nodded.

"Why? The House-elves seem happy to make things for us. Why go to the trouble yourself?" Harry asked, frowning like the eleven-year-old he was.

He really couldn't understand what Glenn was up to. Was he worried the House-elves would poison the food? He'd been eating their cooking for over half a year and was still perfectly fine.

Glenn didn't answer. He merely pointed to a corner of the kitchen.

"What—"

Harry followed the direction he'd pointed, but halfway through his sentence, he swallowed the words.

There were several large wooden barrels in that corner, filled with various fruits.

On the floor sat a huge round wooden tub.

The fruits had been tossed inside and were being turned into jam by the House-elves cheerfully stomping on them...

At the sight, Harry's expression twisted.

Suddenly, he didn't want to ask Glenn why he wasn't having a jam tart, too.

As a matter of fact, Harry regretted it.

He stared at the rosy-red jam tart in his hand, hesitating for nearly five minutes.

"Not wasting food is a very admirable virtue," Glenn murmured devilishly beside him.

Harry looked up and was startled to find himself surrounded by rings of House-elves.

He'd never been watched so closely while eating before, and he'd never wanted so badly not to eat what was in his hand.

They all gazed at Harry with eager, expectant eyes.

His lips twitched. Then he closed his eyes, as if steeling himself.

"Fine, I'll eat it!"

By the time the House-elves had left, the jam tart in Harry's hand was already in his stomach.

"Glenn, that wasn't fair..."

"I couldn't help it. I hadn't had a chance to stop you before you'd already ordered," Glenn said, shrugging.

At that, Harry had nothing more to say.

He really had blurted out what he wanted without thinking. Mostly because the House-elves had just said they'd seen Dumbledore.

So he'd wondered whether they might have seen his parents, too. If they had, what kind of people had they been?

It was no wonder Harry thought that way. Just look at what he was wearing: a sweater with a huge "H" on it.

Maybe... I should ask?

The thought suddenly occurred to Harry, but remembering the jam tart he'd just eaten, he managed to suppress his curiosity.

Maybe another day. Harry shook his head, thinking to himself.

Seeing this, Glenn smiled and pushed the plate in front of him toward Harry.

"Want to try some? I made it myself."

On the plate sat a piece of meat, seared golden-brown, its edges curled and lightly charred, gleaming with a sheen of oil.

"You can cook, too?" Harry asked, surprised.

"That's right. There were children from quite a few different countries at the orphanage I lived in. The cook had to keep coming up with different dishes to suit their tastes, so I picked up a thing or two over time," Glenn said seriously.

That orphanage must be pretty fancy, Harry thought after hearing that.

If he could, he might prefer living in an orphanage like that to staying with his aunt and uncle.

Thinking this, he cut off a piece of meat and put it in his mouth.

Harry's eyes lit up at once.

A rich, distinctive aroma of fat mingled with a faint milky sweetness and burst across his tongue.

The queasiness in his stomach from earlier was instantly overtaken by that peculiar aroma.

He didn't want to admit it, but he'd never tasted anything so delicious.

"It's delicious! Glenn, you could apply to work at the best restaurant in Britain!"

Glenn paused.

He'd wanted to show off some Foie Gras to Harry, but hadn't expected Harry's palate to be so sharp.

He'd recognized it as French cuisine from the very first bite!