dracotops_mods (dracotops_mods) wrote in dracotops_harry,
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FIC: Compliments to the Chef (NC-17)

Title: Compliments to the Chef
Author: dracogotgame
Prompt: # 60
Summary: Harry’s latest assignment is a toughie. He’s been sent in to interview the newest face on the magical food and wine circuit. Chef Malfoy is not going to make this easy.
Rating: NC 17
Warning(s): Angry Sex, Swearing
Word Count: 5,100
Author's Notes: Who doesn’t want to write Draco as Gordon Ramsay a rude chef at least once? birdsofshore, thanks for making one of my fondest wishes come true with this brilliant prompt. digthewriter, I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you for the beta.



Compliments to the Chef


It would be uncharitable of me to say that my time at the esteemed Magical Food and Wine Association was unpleasant. In a mere six years, I have had the opportunity to visit the choicest eating establishments this side of the world, and sample the fare of the country’s finest wizard chefs. It has been, without question, the experience of a lifetime. That being said, I feel compelled to point out that had they wished to poison me, they could surely have chosen a far less painful way to do so.


Harry’s lips quirked as he went over the first few lines of the ‘article’ he’d been toying with. He would, of course scratch that last bit out. It was an odd quirk of his, but jotting down exactly what he felt at the moment helped him centre himself enough to flesh out an actual piece that wouldn’t end him on the wrong side of the Prophet.

Besides, as far as his latest assignment went, surely he reserved the right to complain just a bit? Yes, it was his job to write the feature on the ‘up-and-coming face on the culinary scene’ and of course he knew that the chef in question could make the fussiest food connoisseur weep with joy. But the chef in question was also Draco Malfoy and if half of what Harry had heard on the food circuit was correct, he also made his staff weep on a regular basis. And there was no joy there, he had been assured.

So, it was with no little trepidation that Harry entered the upscale establishment located on the ritzier side of Diagon Alley.

‘Ambrosia’ is one of those minimalistic places with a side of pretentious thrown in, just to shake things up. Boasting a stark, modern decor complete with contemporary art, artful lighting and crisp, white linen — this place clearly means business. Everything seems designed to say ‘you’ll be lucky to get a table here on a Friday night’.

So far, this has Malfoy written all over it.


“Ah good, you’re here.”

Pansy Parkinson was serving as the front of the house this evening. She approached Harry with quick, purposeful strides, somehow managing to make the crowd of grumbling would-be diners part as she approached. She looked rather well, if a tad harried. The black evening dress was chic and sophisticated, but the pearls were a bit much. Harry made a quick note of that in case he needed to spice up his article a bit.

Meanwhile, Parkinson took his arm and led him through the crowd. Someone muttered about ‘waiting two hours now’ but Harry had no time to sympathise. He was being taken to the kitchens.

In all my years as a food critic, I have only been privileged enough to partake in a ‘behind the scenes’ visit a precious few times. Most chefs seem to blanch at the idea, preferring to keep their trade secrets well out of reach and critics out of the kitchen. Nevertheless, once in a while I come across a braver sort — the kind of chef with nothing to hide and complete confidence in his or her abilities. Could it be that Chef Malfoy is in fact, as good as the rumours claim?

Either that, or he’s just a cocky bastard.


“Don’t touch anything, don’t taste anything and for Merlin’s sake, don’t get in his way,” Parkinson rattled off as she led him to the back. “We also have an understanding of discretion with your Association, so anything… particular he does in there, stays out of the papers.”

“Of course,” Harry replied, catching the subtle warning. As if he had any plans of revealing the secret ingredients of Malfoy’s Lobster Bisque to the public. He wasn’t an idiot.

“If – excuse me – when he goes completely ballistic in there, feel free to write all you like about his hissy fit. The crowd loves it. It really draws them in.”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes and offered a curt nod.

Parkinson seemed satisfied. “Well, then you’re golden. Have fun, and try to stay out of wand range.” She took her leave with a parting nod and Harry watched her retreating back until the clacking of her high heels faded away.

Then he entered the kitchen.

It was an assault on every single sense in his possession. Steam and smoke wafted around him, the scents were overpowering, the heat blazed against his skin and the noise! After having experienced the soothing zen like atmosphere in the dining area, the clamour of the kitchen hit him like a freight train. Harry staggered a bit before regaining his sensibilities and he took a look around.

“Gangway! Coming through!” a young woman screeched, bolting past him with a dish precariously balanced in each hand. Harry stepped out of her way in record time and returned to his inspection.

No one seemed to notice his arrival. Business as usual, then. That was a good sign. It was frantic but it still struck Harry as a smooth and efficient process. To his right, knives were busy chopping vegetables by themselves and a whisk zoomed past him and commenced stirring some batter. Chefs and cooks milled about, handling the more complex tasks of prepping and plating.

It certainly is lively in here. Chef Malfoy runs a tight ship. I do wonder when I’ll see the famous chef himself. Rumour has it he makes quite the entrance…


“What the fuck is this?! Are you fucking kidding me right now?! You call this a crème brûlée? My grandmother could do a better job and she’s bloody dead!

Clearly, the rumours are true.


Malfoy barrelled past Harry without so much as a glance, apparently in his element. Assuming of course, that his element was all encompassing rage. Harry took a minute to observe the man – for purely professional reasons of course. It wasn’t often someone in his position got to witness a five star chef in the thick of action. Plus, the fact that Malfoy didn’t know he was there meant that he would act without any pretences and that was rare indeed.

Malfoy was still as tall and lean as he remembered. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and black slacks with an apron around his waist, his blond hair tousled and his grey eyes flashing as he glared, he still projected that irritating aristocratic air of his — that annoying sense of entitlement and confidence. Right now — even as he was bearing down on one of his hapless chefs in a fit of fury — Malfoy still seemed to look more in charge and collected than everyone else in that kitchen, Harry included.

And Malfoy was the one yelling his head off.

“... sack you on the spot!” he finished with aplomb. “Are we clear here?”

“Yes, Chef,” the cook squeaked, edging cautiously around Malfoy as he returned to his station.

Malfoy was by no accounts, done. “And you!” he snarled, turning on a young woman now — the same one Harry had noticed earlier.

“Yes, Chef!” she blurted, snapping to attention.

“What are you doing? What is that?” Malfoy barked. He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, he dug a fork in and tasted whatever was in the sizzling pan, before turning back on her with a sneer of disgust.

“Seriously? That rooster is so undercooked I could take it Basilisk hunting! Do it again!”

“Yes, Chef!”

“And you! Chop those onions on the double or I’ll give you something to cry about! Fucking hell, people! Did you get your culinary training at the Leaky Cauldron? Work with me, for fuck’s sake!”

Harry was starting to wonder if Malfoy would ever notice him there when the man finally turned around and scowled at him. “Potter!” he snapped and Harry jumped. “If you’re done loafing about, ask me your sodding questions so I can get back to cooking fucking dinner for half of bleeding Diagon Alley!”

Harry blinked, slightly caught off guard. For one thing, there was a lot of varied swearing in that one sentence. For another, he hadn’t realized just how much Malfoy waved his hands about as he spoke, emphatically and almost violently. It was a display of passion he hadn’t quite expected. Since when did Malfoy do passion?

“Potter! Get to it! Some of us have work to do!”

Harry bristled and rummaged for his notepad and quill. Mentally, he was already rehearsing what he was going to jot down for his article.

Malfoy definitely has a certain charisma going for him. His staff is attentive to the last detail and seem to be — quite reasonably — terrified of him. However, the bluster and bravado aside, this is clearly someone who puts his reputation on the line with every plate that comes out of this kitchen. It may strike some as admirable and frankly, courageous. Others may construe the same behaviour as prat-like. It’s tough to pick a side.


“Potter! Are you being paid to waste my time? Hurry the fuck up!”

It’s getting easier to pick a side.


“Very well,” Harry replied, opting for polite professionalism in the face of Malfoy’s tantrum. “Let’s start with the basics then. When did you first discover a passion for cooking?”

“Wrong question,” Malfoy snapped.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What you should be asking me is how I get anything done with these incompetent fools working for me!” Malfoy hissed, pushing past him and making for another victim. Harry felt a twinge of pity as the young blond whimpered and stepped away from the batter he was folding.

“What are you doing, Peterson?” Malfoy intoned with forced calm.

“F-folding, Chef?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I… was...”

“Get out of my way!” Malfoy snarled, grabbing hold of the bowl and stirring viciously. “And pay attention! You just wasted thirty minutes of your life on this stupid batter! Unless you plan to marry this bowl of goop you have no bleeding business wasting this much time on it! This is not love-making! This is a fuck! A fast, dirty fuck in the back of an alley, a quick and nasty in a toilet stall in a skeevy pub down the street! You go in, show that batter what for and you get out. That’s what you do! Do you understand?”

Peterson just gaped at him, eyes wide and unblinking. Harry couldn’t really blame him. Malfoy’s spiel had had quite an... inspiring effect on him too — particularly that part about the quick and nasty. Harry swallowed and adjusted himself discreetly.

“Do you understand or do I have to put you on dishwashing duty again?” Malfoy growled.

“Yes, Chef! I mean no, Chef! I mean… got it, Chef?”

Malfoy sneered and shoved the bowl at him before turning back to Harry. “Shoot,” he ordered. Harry opened his mouth to ask another question but something distracted Malfoy again. Harry groaned as the man bolted towards a simmering pan and started stirring with brutal efficiency. Well, at least he was standing still a minute.

He’s finally settled down a bit. Perhaps now, I can approach him. It’s a bit like trying to photograph a dragon in the wild — dangerous and quite frankly, not worth it. But then, he always did have a flair for the dramatic. It just adds to the mystery. What happened to the Malfoy I used to know at Hogwarts?


“Potter, you’ve been here forty minutes and you have yet to ask me a single question,” Malfoy said suddenly, breaking into his reverie. “I can only assume you are awful at your job.”

“I did ask you a question,” Harry reminded him, coming over to stand beside Malfoy as he stirred. “When did you first discover your passion for the kitchen?”

“I went to France after Hogwarts. Things were easier for me there after the war. I was looking for a change and culinary school seemed like an adequate distraction from the horror my life had become. Next.”

Harry gaped, somewhat dumbfounded by Malfoy’s nonchalance and his detached, almost bored reply. For someone who got all riled up over an undercooked chicken, he was sure handling the subject of his sordid past rather well.

“Potter, next,” Malfoy bit out. Harry hastened to ask another question before Malfoy discovered some overcooked potatoes and lost his marbles again.

“Tell me a bit about your early influences.”

“I experimented a lot with classic French Cuisine,” Malfoy replied, adding some cumin into the mix for good measure. “A few twists to old favourites, that sort of thing. Some successes, some massive failures. But fusion foods came easier to me after that. An Asian palate for example, needs a little something extra to… McIntyre! Get me that salmon for table twelve! I want it fresh enough to swim upstream! Now!

“Got it, Chef!”

He’s definitely good. He cares about the food that comes out of his kitchen, that much is evident. You can see it in his eyes — they light up when he talks about food. The corners of his mouth pull up in an almost smile. It’s quite charming, really and not altogether…


“What are you scribbling down there, Potter?”

“Nothing,” Harry replied, hurriedly shielding his notepad from prying eyes. “So tell me about…”

“Taste this,” Malfoy ordered suddenly. Harry’s eyes widened as Malfoy’s thumb brushed his jaw and tilted his face up. His cheeks flared at the intimate touch but Malfoy merely frowned quizzically as he slipped a spoon into Harry’s mouth and awaited his reaction. A medley of sweet and subtle flavours assaulted Harry’s senses and he moaned out loud.

Gateaux in all its glory. The flavour is exquisite. Tart and rich, perfectly executed. I prefer a dash of extra chocolate myself to really bring out the texture but I have to say, this exceeds expectations.


He flicked his tongue out to get to the last of the dessert. When his eyes fluttered open, Malfoy was watching him intently. Harry could have sworn Malfoy was staring at him, but by the time he could have known for certain, Malfoy had cleared his throat and turned back to his cooking.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Very good,” Harry replied. “A bit light on the chocolate but…”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “What?!” He took a taste of his own and his mouth twisted in apparent disgust.

And here we go again.


Harry attempted some damage control. “I wouldn’t worry. It’s not supposed to be too…”

But Malfoy wasn’t listening. “You lot!” he snarled at the kitchen at large. People froze in their tracks and dishes clattered as they were dropped abruptly. In ten seconds, the silence of a crypt had descended in the kitchens. Malfoy glared at the terrified troop, his eyes flashing. “Who made that?” he hissed, pointing at the offending dessert.

There was silence as the staff exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, the young girl from before stepped forward. “That... that was me, Chef,” she stuttered, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Clarisse Devereaux,” Malfoy intoned in a flat, dangerous tone. Clarisse whimpered and Harry felt instantly sorry for saying anything at all.

He turned back to Malfoy. “Look, don’t yell at her. It was fine. I shouldn’t even have…”

“Oh, I’m not going to yell at her,” Malfoy replied, uncharacteristically amiable all of a sudden. Then he turned back to the young woman and dropped the bomb. “Devereaux, you’re fired. Get out of my kitchen.”

“What?” Clarisse whispered. Her eyes welled up and her lip quivered.

“What?!” Harry blurted in shock. “Malfoy, that is completely out of line!”

“That dish is out of line,” Malfoy sneered. “It’s such an insult to cooking, a hippogriff would probably off us on its behalf! Devereaux, why in Merlin’s name are you still here? Hand over your apron and get out.”

Clarisse burst into tears and Harry saw red. This was ridiculous! “Don’t go,” he said softly to the sobbing girl, before rounding up on Malfoy. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you work at being such a prat or does it just come naturally to you? Give her her job back!”

“Do not tell me what to do in my kitchen, Potter!” Malfoy growled, taking a step over and bearing down on him threateningly. Harry however, had just about had it. He was not one of Malfoy’s poor, hapless cooks and he was not scared shitless of the prat. Enough was bloody well enough.

“You complete wanker!” he snarled back. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Lording it over everyone just because you can tell a Hollandaise from a Béarnaise! Well, I’ve had it up to here with your crap! You arrogant, obnoxious excuse for a…”

Malfoy was starting to go a dangerous shade of purple. His eyes were flashing and damn it, if the bastard didn’t look fucking sexy even when he was a hair’s breadth from bludgeoning Harry to death with a spatula. “Potter, I’m warning you.” His voice was low and dangerous. “Cease and desist, now.”

“I don’t work for you,” Harry sneered. “So, no.” The gateaux was still sitting there innocently on the counter. Harry reacted on instinct. Oh, he knew it was a bad idea, but Clarisse was still wailing and Malfoy was still glaring and Harry was just so damn angry. It was Hogwarts all over again and suddenly, all he wanted was to rile Malfoy up, show the arrogant prat that he couldn’t get his way on everything just because and that Harry was not going to back off because he was in Draco Bloody Malfoy’s way.

So, he did the unthinkable. He looked Malfoy in the eye, smirked as he held that smouldering, grey gaze…

... and stuck his finger smack bang in the middle of the gateaux, completely destroying it.

The sous-chef gasped in horror, a line cook whimpered in sheer fright and the rest of them mumbled uneasily amongst themselves. Harry didn’t care. Malfoy looked livid and that was all that mattered. Still smirking, he lifted up his chocolate smeared finger and brought it to his lips, licking it clean.

“Barely three stars, I’m thinking,” Harry stated offhandedly.

And that was it. That right there, was the straw that broke the centaur’s back.

“Out,” Malfoy managed, his voice shaking with pure rage. “All of you. Everyone out of this kitchen now!

There was stunned silence for a few seconds. One of the braver or possibly, more suicidal cooks finally spoke up. “B-but Chef, it’s dinner rush and…”

“Get! Out!”

The chefs scattered like terrified mice, preparing to Disapparate. Harry smirked and prepared to leave as well, but Malfoy pointed a threatening finger in his face. “Not you,” he bit out.

They glared daggers at each other until the last of the staff disappeared with a sharp crack. The kitchen was suddenly empty and silent as a grave. The heat seemed to be coming in waves now. Harry swallowed and wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip. Malfoy cast a Locking Charm on the door. Harry’s gut twisted uncomfortably as he registered the apparent lack of witnesses. He was trapped alone with a homicidal chef — who was a lunatic, to boot — and he had just ruined Malfoy’s gateaux.

Malfoy was going to kill him.

“I’m going to kill you,” Malfoy declared. “But first, I’m going to make you pay!”

He pounced without warning. Harry squeaked as strong, firm hands wrenched into his collar and dragged him over. He had about a second to register a surge of alarm as he stared into Malfoy’s furious grey eyes and then Malfoy’s mouth descended on his, crushing and almost brutal. Harry gasped into the kiss — if one could even call it that — and Malfoy took due advantage and his tongue slipped in, insistent and invasive. This time, Harry moaned. Sparks flew down his spine and his hands twined into Malfoy’s hair, pulling him closer and giving as good as he got.

“Tosser,” Malfoy hissed, breaking away for a second. His eyes were dark and his lips were swollen. His hands were roaming Harry’s body with abandon now, slipping under his shirt and pinching and grabbing wherever they found purchase. “Always so bloody infuriating… just can’t let it go, can you?”

“Why don’t you let it go?” Harry spat back. His lips were bruised and his breath was coming in shallow pants, but he managed to rip Malfoy’s apron off. “Such a bastard... making little girls cry for no damn reason. Merlin, you’re a bloody nightmare for those people, you know that?!”

“You don’t tell me what to do in my fucking kitchen!” Malfoy roared.

“You don’t tell me what to do in your fucking kitchen either!”

“Fuck you!”

“Oh, you wish!” Harry belted back.

Malfoy growled and all but tossed Harry on a countertop. Harry splayed a hand out to balance himself, sending a rack of pans to the floor. Malfoy didn’t seem to give a damn. He attached himself to Harry’s neck, biting and sucking and marking the skin at his disposal, even as the clangs and clatters of fallen utensils filled the air. Malfoy kicked a saucepan out of his way and crowded into Harry’s space, gripping his hips and holding him down as he ravaged his neck.

“Fucking bastard,” Malfoy hissed. “Coming in here and distracting me with your stupid fucking glasses and your stupid messy hair and your stupid perfect arse. During rush hour, no less! Admit it, Potter! You’re trying to ruin me!”

Harry would have agreed if only to spite him, but Malfoy was doing some bloody distracting things with that mouth of his. Harry’s eyes rolled back in his head as Malfoy teased the hollow of his throat with his tongue. Damn the bastard for picking up on his weak spot. He was so fucking hard — Harry groaned and arched against Malfoy, trying to get some friction going in the right places.

“Slag,” Malfoy accused, his lips stretching in a sharp grin.

“Tease,” Harry retorted.

Malfoy growled and turned him over. Harry had to splay his hands out again to keep from falling on his face. Malfoy’s hands were busy working on his trousers now and Harry gasped as they were yanked off unceremoniously, followed by his pants. Despite the heat in the kitchen, a cool breeze caressed his bare flesh — followed up by Malfoy’s fingers. Harry stifled a yelp as strong, capable hands squeezed his arse cheeks, pulling them apart. His cock throbbed between his legs, twitching with every touch Malfoy bestowed.

“Now there’s a delicacy.” He could almost hear the smirk in Malfoy’s voice.

Harry groaned and pushed against him, and Malfoy squeezed just a bit harder. Harry turned to look at him with dark, smouldering eyes. “In your words, Malfoy, this is a fuck,” he growled. “A fast, dirty fuck in the back of an alley, a quick and nasty in the toilet stall of a skeevy pub. The question is can you put your mascarpone where your mouth is?”

“Fuck,” Malfoy groaned, struggling with his own trousers. He was flushed and panting and Harry felt a surge of triumph at having reduced the bastard to this. Malfoy was clearly in no mood for conversation anymore. Harry heard the faint sound of a bottle being unscrewed and the faint scent of olive oil wafted over, seemingly going straight to his cock. Then a slicked finger was slipping inside him, quickly followed by another. Malfoy stretched him quickly and efficiently — as if Harry was just another dish he was prepping. The thought brought another groan to his lips and he bucked into Malfoy’s fingers, hissing with delight as they brushed at his prostate.

“Enough,” Harry rasped. “Get to it already!”

“Greedy tart,” Malfoy snarked, but he withdrew his fingers without protest and then something thicker — much thicker — was nudging at Harry’s slicked hole, pushing its way through. Harry grit his teeth as Malfoy slid on home. He was thick and almost ridiculously long. The burn gave way to a far more pleasurable sensation and Harry groaned, swivelling his hips to get used to the feeling of Malfoy inside him. Fuck, but he felt good. Malfoy hissed, drew back and thrust. Harry gasped as he saw stars. The sensation was exquisite, and damn Malfoy for having such a bloody perfect cock! He started moving again, thrusting rapidly and with abandon, plying Harry with smooth, rapid strokes that almost always hit that spot.

Holy fuck.

Harry started moving in tandem, aligning his hips to meet every brutal thrust. Malfoy swivelled his hips and Harry moaned and threw his head back as the prat hit the jackpot. His body arched on instinct and Malfoy growled in pure pleasure. His hands gripped at Harry’s hips to keep him still, squeezing ruthlessly as he fucked Harry in near perfect rhythm. Despite his best efforts, Harry couldn’t stop the needy, desperate moans spilling from him.

“Fuck! Malfoy...again...more, damn it...just... more!”

“Three stars, eh?” Malfoy snarled, punctuating each word with a thrust. “I’ll fucking show you three stars!”

His hand wrapped around Harry’s cock and he jacked him off with single minded intent. Harry moaned as Malfoy twisted his wrist every now and then.

“Oh, Merlin...Malfoy! Just...fuck...that’s…fuck, Malfoy!

He came with a harsh cry, scrabbling for purchase against the counter as he bucked and writhed. A whine of shameless pleasure escaped him and even as he spurted all over Malfoy’s kitchen, Harry somehow retained the presence of mind to note that if Malfoy had forgotten to put up a Silencing Charm, he would eviscerate the bastard. Then the haze of pleasure took over and he slumped, sated and boneless on the counter.

Malfoy was clearly in a world of his own. Harry’s climax seemed to have spurred him on because he was moving faster now and his motions weren’t quite so smooth and precise. His breath was coming in harsh, eager pants and he faltered a bit and then his hands were gripping Harry so hard, he just knew he was going to bruise. Malfoy threw his head back and half moaned, half growled as his cock twitched inside Harry. One more weak thrust and Malfoy collapsed on him with a groan.

They stayed there, tangled up and peacefully silent until Malfoy decided to open his gob again.

“And that’s how it’s done,” he mumbled, sounding rather pleased with himself.

Harry scowled at the smug tone and pushed against him. “Geroff, you prat,” he grumbled, shoving Malfoy off and straightening himself. He grimaced as a wet trail made its way down his thighs. A Cleaning Charm was definitely in order...

Surprisingly, Malfoy whipped out his wand and obliged him. Harry nodded tersely in thanks and retrieved his clothing, watching warily as Malfoy did the same.

“You will come see me again,” Malfoy announced as he put his trousers back on and tied up his apron again.

Harry bristled at the back-handed order. “No, I really don’t think I will,” he snapped. His cock however, twitched in approval at the idea— the traitor.

Malfoy gaped at him. “Why the hell not?” he demanded. He actually had the nerve to sound affronted about it. Apparently, he couldn’t perceive a world where people didn’t do as he asked just because he asked them to. Merlin, he was such an arse.

“For starters, I don’t like you,” Harry informed him. “Also— and I may have mentioned this before — I don’t work for you, so I don’t have to do anything you say.”

Malfoy frowned, trying to work this perplexing situation out in his head. Clearly, this was new territory for him. “Well, I don’t like you either,” he replied, speaking slowly and clearly — undoubtedly for Harry’s benefit. “But I do like shagging you, so we will definitely be seeing each other again.”

Harry’s fingers were beginning to itch for his wand. “Malfoy…”

“I’ll hire Clarisse back.”

Harry snapped his mouth shut. Well, that was certainly worth considering. That poor girl hadn’t done anything wrong in the first place. Besides, shagging Malfoy wasn’t the most off-putting idea in the world...

“Very well,” Harry finally offered, trying and failing to sound reluctant. “You give Clarisse her job back and be nice to your staff and I’ll consider having dinner with you tomorrow night.”

He had to stifle a smile when Malfoy perked up, looking boyish and almost cute in his evident delight. “I’ll cook,” he announced happily.

“Of course you will,” Harry agreed, trying not to look too amused. “You’re very good at it. I’ll be sure to mention that in my article.”

“Naturally, Potter,” Malfoy replied smugly. “I’m the best there is. Now if that’s all, I have to retrieve my staff and get back to work so get your arse out of my kitchen.”

He snapped his fingers and Harry jumped as the chefs Apparated back in, assembling and going about their business as if nothing was amiss. He blushed slightly as he took in the state of the kitchen and his own dishevelled appearance. Nobody said anything. Nobody even batted an eye, actually. For the first time, Harry was actually rather glad they were so damn scared of Malfoy.

“Break’s over, back to work!” Malfoy snapped, adjusting his apron. “Devereaux, you’re hired again. Start on that sushi and don’t disappoint me.”

Clarisse stifled a sob of relief and nodded eagerly. She gave Harry a grateful look and bounded off with a “Yes, Chef!” thrown over her shoulder.

“McIntyre, for fuck’s sake!” Malfoy barked, turning on someone else. “You put any more ginger in that and it’ll turn into a Weasley!”

Harry had a feeling that one had been purely for his benefit. He turned to leave and barely suppressed an indignant squeak as a sharp smack landed on his bum. Harry turned around to glare at Malfoy, but the prat was already busy ladling out his bisque. “See you tomorrow, Potter,” he said, smug smirk firmly in place.

Harry rolled his eyes and left, trying to hide a smile and the very definite hitch in his step. He had a feeling this article would write itself.

And so in conclusion, I can only confirm the rumours surrounding the newest face on the magical culinary scene. Draco Malfoy is equal parts mad and genius, with a dash of lunatic thrown in for good measure. But there is no denying that the results are... most gratifying. Abrasiveness and eccentricity notwithstanding, I have yet to meet a rival chef with that level of passion, technique and talent. Five stars and well deserved, says this critic. I’ll be returning to Ambrosia very soon — hungry for more.



Tags: [admin] fest-2014, author: dracogotgame, fic length: one shot, fic length: short, kink: food smut, rating: nc-17, type: fic
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