The Unique Aroma of Jam Tarts

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

But contrary to Harry's expectations, these beings weren't angered by the intrusion into their domain.

Instead of swarming over, they kept their distance, watching Glenn and Harry with eager, hopeful eyes.

Wherever Glenn and the others looked, these creatures bowed and curtsied, showing great deference.

"What are they?" Harry asked.

Before Glenn could answer, the nearest house-elf spoke in a thin, reedy voice: "Sir, we are house-elves, sir. House-elves serving Hogwarts Castle."

As it spoke, the surrounding elves shot it envious looks, as if answering a student's question was a reward in itself.

"Welcome to the Hogwarts kitchens. The house-elves are very hospitable—if you ever want anything to eat, just tell them," Glenn explained.

"Don't let their size fool you. They live over two hundred years. Professor Dumbledore might not even be as old as some of them."

"Yes, Mr. Howard. Layla once saw Headmaster Dumbledore when he was little! He came to the kitchen in his first year to find something to eat," the elf who had answered Harry earlier added.

Harry was taken aback.

He could hardly imagine the white-bearded Professor Dumbledore, at the same age as them, sneaking into the kitchen for a snack.

But on top of that, he keenly noticed that this elf named Layla had already called Glenn "Mr. Howard" before he'd even introduced himself.

"Do you know who I am?" Harry tested.

"Ah! Sir, of course Layla knows. You are the famous Harry Potter. The lightning scar on your face is so obvious!"

Harry instinctively touched the scar on his forehead, realizing how stupid his question had been—there was only one person in all of Hogwarts with such a clear mark.

"Harry, a good house-elf doesn't let people know he exists, but at the same time—he knows everything. That's how he does his job well," Glenn explained briefly.

Hearing this, the surrounding house-elves grew excited, dancing and waving their arms.

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

To them, a remark like that was worth more than any treasure... sorry, if someone repaid a house-elf's work with gold and silver, it would be an insult.

But a perfectly timed compliment like that was the best reward.

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

Encouraged by Glenn's words, the house-elves were even more motivated, deciding to whip up something on the spot.

"We have roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, steak, boiled potatoes, baked potatoes, chips, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup..."

Layla rattled off the menu, all familiar dishes—if nothing unexpected happened, dinner would probably be the same.

"Uh... one Jam Tart, please. Thanks." Harry picked the one thing he'd wanted from the start from the dizzying list.

Layla nodded, then looked at Glenn.

"I'm fine. Just prepare some ingredients for me," Glenn said without hesitation.

The house-elves all wrinkled their already wrinkled faces, their earlier joy dimming a little.

But professional pride kept Layla silent. She gestured for Glenn and Harry to sit at the table, gave an exaggeratedly deep bow, and turned to get to work.

Watching the elf walk away with a sigh, Harry couldn't contain his curiosity: "Are you going to cook yourself?"

Glenn nodded.

"Why? The house-elves seem happy to prepare things for us. Why bother?" As an eleven-year-old, Harry frowned.

He really didn't understand what Glenn was up to—did he think the house-elves would poison the food? He'd eaten their cooking for half a year and was perfectly fine.

To this question, Glenn didn't answer. He just pointed to a corner of the kitchen.

"What—"

Harry followed his gaze, but stopped mid-sentence.

There, several large barrels held various fruits.

On the floor sat a big round wooden tub.

The fruits were all dumped inside, and the elves were cheerfully stomping on them to make jam...

Seeing this, Harry's expression twisted.

Suddenly, he no longer wanted to ask why Glenn wasn't having a Jam Tart either.

In fact, Harry regretted it.

Staring at the bright red Jam Tart in his hand, he hesitated for nearly five minutes.

"Not wasting food is a very fine virtue," Glenn's devilish whisper came from beside him.

Harry looked up and was startled to find himself surrounded by a ring of house-elves.

He had never received so much attention while eating, and never wanted to eat something in his hand so little.

They all stared at Harry with eager, hopeful eyes.

The corner of his mouth twitched once before Harry closed his eyes, as if he had made up his mind about something.

"Fine, I'll eat!"

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

"Glenn, you're not being fair..."

"Nothing I can do about it—I didn't even have time to stop you before you'd already ordered." Glenn spread his hands and said.

Hearing this, Harry couldn't say much in response.

Because he had indeed blurted out what he wanted to eat without even thinking—mainly because the elves had just mentioned they'd seen Dumbledore.

So he was also wondering whether these house-elves might have ever seen his parents. If they had, what kind of people would they have been?

It wasn't strange for Harry to think this way—just look at the clothes he was wearing: a sweater with a big "H" on it.

Maybe... ask?

This thought suddenly popped into Harry's head, but remembering the jam tart he'd just eaten, he held back his curiosity.

"Another day, then." Harry shook his head, thinking to himself.

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

"Want to try? I made it myself."

On the plate lay a piece of meat seared golden, the edges slightly browned and curled, glistening with a slick sheen of oil.

"You can actually cook for yourself?" Harry said, a bit surprised.

"It's like this—at my orphanage, there were kids from a lot of other countries. To cater to their tastes, the chefs always had to switch up their cooking methods. Over time, I picked up a thing or two." Glenn said with a straight face.

"Then that orphanage must be pretty high-end," Harry thought to himself after hearing that.

If he had the choice, rather than staying at his aunt and uncle's house, he might prefer living in an orphanage like that.

Thinking this, he cut a piece of the meat on the plate and put it into his mouth.

In an instant, Harry's eyes lit up.

A special fatty aroma, mixed with a faint milky fragrance, suddenly burst open in his mouth.

The queasiness in his stomach from earlier was instantly covered by a peculiar, wonderful scent.

Though he didn't want to admit it, he really had never eaten anything this delicious before.

"Delicious! Glenn, you could totally apply to the best restaurant in England!"

Hearing this, Glenn froze for a moment.

He had wanted to show off the foie gras in front of Harry, but he hadn't expected Harry's palate to be so sharp.

He knew it was French cuisine from the very first bite!