Archive of Our Own

Every once in a while, even the most sensible person I know is struck by a craving for something deep-fried and pungent. There is absolutely no substitute for it; resisting the urge only makes things worse. 

Hogwarts graduates who may recall the one dinnertime Theodore Nott ate ten Scotch eggs and washed them down with Windsor soup to raucous cheers from the Slytherin Quidditch team—yes, it did happen, and yes, it was borne out of restriction because dear Theo had resisted the siren call of battered quarters the night before and the deep-fried cod the night before that. Make of that what you will.

When I started this column, dear readers, I had not expected such overwhelming demand for modern dishes. A surprisingly popular recipe was for the pumpkin and sage tortellini, served with steamed samphire and a preserved lemon and brown butter sauce. I must have received over thirty owls from witches and wizards who had successfully wooed their lovers with this deceptively simple dish. 

You must understand—I came over to the Quibbler without any idea of what Luna had in mind, only that she was a former classmate of my wife’s and had a rather unique approach to business. Thus far in my career at the Prophet I had made it a habit to review the same ten stodgy restaurants in the Wizarding world and comment on their seasonal menus in the most droll fashion imaginable.

Having come here, I’ve had the great luck of expanding my repertoire both inside the kitchen and out—and now I must pay my dues by indulging some particularly persistent fan letters for a dish that will clog arteries, worsen gout (if any), and indeed, prevent any sort of oral intimacy for the coming week.

When it comes to dinner parties, anyone in the know is intimately familiar with those hosted by the Brown-Patil household. Their meals move away from traditional British fare and endow guests with a renewed sense of control over their heart-health. Personally, I am a fan of their Cold Yoghurt Soup, which includes, as Lavender told me over a glass of their patented WOBS smoothie (wheatgrass, oat, banana, strawberry), defatted chicken stock, low-fat yoghurt, and a generous pinch of cumin and turmeric alongside artfully skinned cucumbers and lemon juice. Parvati is a dab hand at cooking, and I bask in the honour of being able to call her a dear friend.

But this is not what you want. What you wish to hear, I know, is an account of the dinner I was photographed leaving just this past Saturday. 

The Potter-Malfoy marriage was one I saw coming the moment we entered Hogwarts for our Eighth Year. Many remember me as Draco Malfoy’s beau in our youth, but truthfully I was nothing more than a beard, and besides, struggled with my own attraction to the same sex. When we re-entered Hogwarts, Draco knew he had a long way to go to redeem himself in the eyes of wizarding society, as did I. Thus began our long campaign of fading into the background, only for Draco to start shacking up with Harry Potter, who, in usual Gryffindor fashion, insisted on making their dalliance both public and serious. More details can be found in my upcoming memoir, but I digress.

This past Saturday was their fifteenth anniversary. If there is one thing we know about the Malfoys, it is that their penchant for drama is hereditary. Lucius Malfoy often made an appearance at my parents’ parties with his cane out (not in that way, naughty) and had a very special way of Apparating away with a flourish of his cloak that left onlookers both impressed and intimidated. Draco has inherited his father’s tendencies in the best way. While his technique with a cloak leaves much to be desired, he has gained a way about the kitchen that leaves more advanced cooks in the dust, the same way he sped ahead of the rest of us in Potions.

On Saturday I arrived promptly at half-past six, which all Purebloods know is the correct time for dinner. Ginny was waiting outside the Potter-Malfoy dwelling, looking as dashing as ever with her windswept hair and that dragonhide jacket I got her during our honeymoon to Romania to visit her dear brother Charlie, whom, at the point of this article’s publication, is still single and has recently returned to Wizarding Britain as Hogsmeade Zoo’s lead Dragonkeeper.

“Darling,” I said to her. “Did you bring a gift?”

She then produced artisanal soaps, a bottle of fine red wine, and a bouquet of flowers from her Extendable rucksack. Ginny’s gift-giving skills have improved greatly since the advent of our relationship; gone are the days of receiving Pygmy Puffs simply because her brother bred them for business. These days we trade first editions of our favourite books, go on long hikes in remote places, and do our best to neaten up the second sitting room in the house, which contains her extensive broom collection.

I kissed her on the cheek as a reward for selecting the gifts (I had a spa day booked and was indisposed), she placed her hand on my waist, and we entered most ceremoniously. 

Harry greeted us at the door, took the gifts, and had a vase ready for the flowers, and we adjourned to the first-floor drawing room where Parvati and Lavender were waiting, to discuss Ginny’s new role as the Head Coach of the Harpies. Before long, our esteemed Minister for Magic Hermione Granger Flooed through with her husband Ron Weasley, apologising for their tardiness.

And then we all traipsed into the kitchen to see how Draco was doing. There is one thing Harry Potter did right early in the relationship, which went a long way in convincing Draco to move in with him, and it’s how he redid the kitchen. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, is big and old-fashioned, and Harry had gutted it and ordered glass-fronted cupboards that stretched to the ceilings to be built in, and restored the old marble sink that was the size of a child’s tub, and whitewashed the scullery so it looked more inviting and less like where you would send an impertinent house-elf to iron his fingers.

Before I start, there is some context I must make clear to readers who were not raised in or exposed to Pureblood culture. There is a longstanding tradition for pregnant women to subsist on types of food that replenish blood loss and encourage fullness without resorting to Potions and the like; such foods include goose cooked any way seen fit; black pudding, redolent with suet and pig’s blood, as well as flowering cabbage (really, anything deep green and the leafier the better), and Scotch Broth, as traditional as you can get, served with rutabagas, the fattiest lamb shank one can find, split peas, and pearl barley.

Draco had never been one for black pudding. He’d been put off by the idea of eating blood from a young age; I recall how we were sent on a picnic with a governess and some dutiful house-elves to the lake near Malfoy Manor, and Narcissa had packed boudins blanc et noirs for me (I was a child with a very varied palate who enjoyed scalloped potatoes in cream, poached string beans, potatoes anna and, on one notable occasion, Branston pickle by itself) atop stacks of toast, a well of butter, fresh blackberry preserve studded through with little seeds, a jug of milk, several shepherd’s pies, and a little plate of vegetable fritters, which were for Draco. However, upon finding out that the little veal-and-cream white sausages and their red-black brethren had been sitting atop his lunch, Draco threw a mighty tantrum and refused to eat a bite, and went home cold and hungry. That is how much he hated black pudding.

Now, Harry cooks meals he enjoys, such as chicken-and-celery salad, orzo, and deep-fried zucchini blossoms, and Draco is free to focus on his Unspeakable research or what have you. My best friend does enjoy maintaining his air of mystery.

Of course, most readers will know where I am going with this, as everyone must have seen the announcement in yesterday’s Quibbler. But in that moment, watching Draco slice black pudding on the bias in elegant rounds, I knew . Harry, on the other hand, continued to heap extravagant amounts of rich grass-fed Irish butter unawares into the mashed potatoes while Ron egged him on. How the both of them manage to stay in shape is beyond me, and I had to tug at Ginny’s sleeve and excuse the both of us to the loo.

“Draco’s pregnant,” I told her once we were out of earshot, ensconced within the bathroom closest to the drawing room. The walls were a very pale blue, and I fretted at the hem of my (very expensive) shirtdress. “He is, and don’t ask me how I know. Oh Merlin, I can’t believe he would do this! You know I have a very delicate constitution, I can’t be given news in a group setting. It’s almost insulting.”

Ginny had given me one of her crooked smiles—infamously immortalised when England won the World Cup with her as Captain—and kissed me until I couldn’t breathe. When she pulled away she told me to hush, which I was obviously cross about, I was raised knowing exactly when to hush, and she told me to let Harry and Draco announce it on their own time.

We returned to the dining room, where Lavender had saved me a seat beside Draco, and another on my other side for Ginny. There was a vibrant green salad with hearty beets and peeled orange slices with barely any pith, a large striped bass stuffed with scallion greens, garlic cloves, and lean bacon, dotted with butter and baked until perfectly flaky, a dish of chopped walnuts with charred brussel sprouts and raspberry vinaigrette, and a whole roasted pork loin served with braised fennel, celeriac, onion, and red peppers. For dessert there was a beautifully decorated peach pie (hothouse, of course, given the season), and brownies that Draco had served deliberately underbaked to Harry’s taste, giving them a velvety, chewy, custardy centre.

We sat down to dinner, and in the middle of the table Draco placed the mound of mashed potatoes, black pudding, and a bowl of the most enormous cloves of garlic that had been blanched in whole milk, and then caramelised in butter and brown sugar. He’d studded the mash through with deep-fried cloves of garlic (or garlic confit, for the more louche among us), and as I recall, Ginny had to place a steadying hand on my arm. I felt nearly faint at the sight of it, and of course with the knowledge that we’d been brought together for a pregnancy announcement.

To be completely honest, I have almost zero recollection of what the meal tasted like, save for how I disgraced myself while trying not to confront Draco. I spooned the mash onto my plate, made a dent in the middle, and ladled ungodly amounts of caramelised garlic cloves into the well. Really, it was the only thing I tasted. Dear Ginny held my elbow solicitously, and only pinched a little when I leaned over to ask Draco if he’d been eating, because he was just a touch paler and thinner than I remembered.

“Pans, of course,” Draco had said. “Harry cooks most nights. I’ve been busy with my research.”

“Mm,” I said, and ate another spoonful of mash and garlic to stop myself from saying anything. During the meal, there were many toasts to each other, including one congratulating Hermione on winning the recent election, but I kept my eye on Draco, who sipped pumpkin juice from his goblet and looked as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

Towards the end of the night, we gathered around the fireplace, and Harry wheeled out a cart from which we selected our tipples of choice. Ginny chose a tawny port, I had a classic Sauternes, and Lavender and Parvati shared a glass of homemade herbal spritz sans alcohol. Draco sat down with a glass of sparkling water, infused with lemon, and I was no longer able to contain myself.

“Draco, darling, is something the matter?” I asked him then. Ginny nudged me just a little, bless her, but there was no stopping this runaway train. I’d sat through dinner with my tongue weighed down by garlic, and I needed an answer.

He then smiled, patted my hand, and said what I had wanted to hear.

“Thank you for your patience.”

I nearly emptied my wineglass on him. Ginny gave him a fistbump as Harry laughed, and then Draco made the announcement to all of us, with rounds and rounds of congratulations in order. I hugged him, of course, and whispered that I would very much like to kill him.

Draco looked at me then. It’s funny growing up with someone and staying friends with them well into adulthood—Vincent is eternally seventeen in my mind—I saw the start of lines around Draco’s eyes, and the weary way with which he held himself, and the glow on his cheeks that spoke of my future godchild.

“I can never hide anything from you, can I?” He had said then, and we fell back into the hug. I squeezed him until Harry cleared his throat, and then I had to let go and hug him too, given that he had some part in creating their offspring. The others were much more reserved in their congratulations, but there was nary a dry eye in that room.

At any rate, I’m out of space, and my wife is waiting for me in bed with a glass of wine and a rare Pureblood fertility spell to see if we can’t make something of our own too. Ta, darlings! Till next week!

For blanching

• 2 whole heads of garlic, peeled and separated
• Half quart of milk, for blanching

1. Heat the milk over a low heat in a saucepan until it reaches a gentle simmer. Do not let it boil over.
2. Once the milk is simmering, carefully add the peeled garlic cloves to the pot. Ensure there is enough milk to cover.
3. Allow the garlic to poach in the milk for 15-20 minutes, or until the cloves become tender and can be pierced easily with a fork.
4. Remove the poached garlic cloves from the milk with a slotted spoon.
5. Retain the milk for the mashed potatoes.

For caramelising

• 160g light brown sugar
• 7 tbsp unsalted butter
• 6 tbsp white wine
• 4 tbsp water
• 1 head of blanched garlic

1. Place the sugar and butter in a small heavy skillet over medium heat and add the wine. 
2. Cook until golden, tipping the pan and swirling the mixture to ensure even cooking. 
3. Add the water 1 tablespoon at a time, swirling the pan to incorporate the liquid. 
4. Add the garlic and cook until well-coated for about five minutes. 
5. The garlic should be soft.

For frying

• 2 whole heads of garlic, peeled and separated
• 250ml vegetable, canola, peanut, or avocado oil
• Fresh rosemary, to taste
• Black pepper, to taste
• Lemon zest, optional, to taste
• 1 tsp salt

1. Crush garlic cloves with the flat of the knife very slightly. Cloves should be cracked but not split.
2. Place the garlic cloves and oil in a small heavy-bottomed saucepan. Ensure there is enough oil to cover. Add accoutrements if desired.
3. Bring to a boil and then reduce to a simmer, keeping oil at 175°C. Cook uncovered for 45 minutes to an hour, watching closely, or until the garlic is tender and golden-brown.
4. Turn off the heat and stir in the salt.
5. Pour into a heat-proof container to stop the cooking. This garlic-infused oil has many different applications.

For mashing

• 2kg of Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled
• 12 tablespoons salted butter
• Milk from blanching the garlic
• 120ml heavy cream

1. Cut potatoes into small chunks. Rinse in colander under running water, tossing with hands, for about 30 seconds. 
2. Transfer potatoes to pot, add water to cover by 1 inch, and bring to boil over high heat. 
3. Reduce heat to medium and boil until potatoes are tender for 20-25 minutes.
4. Meanwhile, heat butter, heavy cream, and milk in a small saucepan over medium heat until butter is melted, about 5 minutes. Keep warm.
5. Drain potatoes and return to pot. Stir over low heat until potatoes are thoroughly dried for 1-2 minutes. 
6. Mash the potatoes by hand, or set a ricer or food mill over a large bowl and press or mill potatoes into the bowl. 
7. Gently fold in warm cream mixture and salt with rubber spatula until cream is absorbed and potatoes are thick and creamy.

For serving

Place a medium-sized bowl in the middle of a large serving plate to hold the caramelised cloves. Stud the mashed potatoes with as much deep-fried garlic as you wish and arrange around the bowl in the middle, being careful not to mix the two. Arrange black pudding (store-bought is perfectly fine) all around the exterior edge of the mash.