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Harry Potter didn’t remember applying to Hell’s Kitchen.
He remembered plenty about that night, like the way George tried to balance a cutting board on his head while also doing shots or how Fred screamed “TRUTH OR DARE, YOU COWARDS!”
But the rest…
“You won’t,” Fred had said, grinning wickedly.
“Can’t even hold a spatula,” George chimed in.
“I CAN cook!” Harry slurred, shirt half-buttoned and wearing a birthday crown. “Sirius taught me how to—”
“SIRIUS IS THE WORST PERSON TO LEARN FROM, WHY WOULD YOU—” Hermione shrieked, drunk out of her mind, it's a wonder how rational she is at this point.
“You’ve only ever used the toaster or the microwave for Pop-Tarts,” Ron mumbled, as he clutched onto Hermione half-asleep with a Butter Beer in hand, a creation of his own.
But it was too late.
The application was sent.
With a selfie. Shirtless.
Holding a can of beans and a slice of toast like it was the Holy Grail.
Harry loves beans.
What he didn’t expect was a call. A real call. From a real producer.
And the next thing he knew, he was on a plane to LA with a hangover, a half-packed suitcase, and no real memory of how to do anything besides cook eggs.
Draco had simply had enough.
His so-called friends, mostly Pansy, Theo, and Blaise, had been mocking him at a wine bar one night.
“Oh come on,” Pansy laughed, “you think boiling water is for peasants.”
“You’ve never cooked a thing in your life,” Blaise added, sipping something aggressively pink. “You’d burst into flames if you touched a pan.”
“I can cook,” Draco had insisted, offended. “I’m just.. prioritizing more important things.”
“You don’t even know where your stove is.”
“I have a stove!”
“Then prove it,” Pansy grinned, eyes glittering with evil. Apply to Hell’s Kitchen. Survive one week, and I’ll admit that you’ve got a shred of talent. I will even eat at that scandalous fast food place, Mc-Draco-nald’s.”
“And I’ve told you, I’m not fat.” Draco shot back, clicking the application button just to shut them up.
The acceptance notice felt like both a win and a curse.
And so, when Season 9 of Hell’s Kitchen aired, there they were. Staring at each other like someone had summoned Bellatrix from the depths of the pantry.
“What the hell are you doing here?” they shouted in unison.
“You followed me here,” Draco snapped.
“I applied first!” Harry snapped back.
Draco scoffed. “You can’t even make bad decisions in peace.”
“At least I’ve seen the inside of a kitchen.”
“You set a microwave on fire.”
“It was one time!”
They were both on the Blue Team.
They were not pleased.
“Why are you on my team?” Harry hissed.
“I should be asking you. You wear Crocs in public.”
“They’re comfortable! And you used packaged pasta for your signature dish!”
Draco pointed at Harry like he’d committed a crime. “How was I supposed to know you're not supposed to use it? It was right there! And your fish was drier than the bloody desert.”
“How was I supposed to know wine could suck the moisture out?! And you’re literally holding your knife backwards.”
“I’m reclaiming it. For fashion. Know your trends, Potter”
Things got worse when the teams were finalized. No more girls vs. boys.
And that’s when they met her.
Dolores Umbridge.
Yes, that Umbridge.
Pink chef coat. Tiny heels. A voice like warm sewage.
Apparently, she was a “former teacher turned aspiring chef.”
She failed at both.
She did not like Draco.
Draco did not care.
“You need to move faster, Mr. Malfoy,” she snapped at her fish station.
“I am moving,” Draco replied, searing the salmon. “Perhaps if you stopped screeching, I could hear myself think.”
“I will not be disrespected at my own station!”
“I didn’t know it was your station. I assumed it was cursed.”
“Mr. Potter, tell him to—”
“Leave me out of this,” Harry growled, trying not to burn the risotto again.
“Do not mumble, Mr. Potter! You sound like a delinquent!”
“I am a delinquent.”
She would. Not. Shut. Up.
Umbridge shrieked.
Draco threw his towel into the fryer.
“HEY! WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON!?” Gordon asked.
“She called me incompetent!” Draco shouted.
“He said I sound like a dying pig!” Umbridge hissed.
Harry deadpanned. “That’s an offense to pigs.”
“GET. IT. TOGETHER!” Gordon roared. “OR THREE OF YOU CAN FUCK OFF UPSTAIRS!”
Everyone thought they were dating.
Everyone.
How did they even come to such nonsense?
“Y’all got that enemies to lovers vibe,” Jackie said while chopping chives.
“They bicker like an old married couple.”
“I heard them yelling about egg yolks and thought it was foreplay.”
“Did you see Draco fix Harry’s collar during roll call?”
“He was choking me! ” Harry defended.
“Sure,” someone whispered.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night,” said Bob, cleaning a bowl.
At one point, during prep, Jake turned to them and asked, “So. Are you two, like, a thing?”
“WHAT?!” they both yelled.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” Draco snapped.
“We’re not even friends!” Harry shouted. “Who’d want to be friends with him?”
“Excuse me?! I’m a delightful person. You should be grateful I speak to you!”
“You put truffle oil in scrambled eggs!”
“Because I have taste!”
Jake just nodded and walked away.
“Sucks to be single.”
And then came the raw chicken.
“WHO COOKED THE CHICKEN!?” Gordon held the bird. “IT’S FUCKING DRY!”
Draco pointed at Harry.
Harry pointed at Draco.
“It was his station!” they said at the same time.
“You said ‘pan-sear,’ not pan-sabotage!” Harry yelled.
“Oh, please, you seasoned it like you were trying to summon the Dead Sea!”
“Oh, you little—!”
“OUT!" YOU TWO!” Gordon threw the chicken at the counter. “OUT!”
To make it worse, their beds are right next to each other.
Shared prep stations.
One challenge literally forced them to cook as “partners.”
The dish? Surpsingly stunning.
The tension, on the other hand, was questionable.
“We are not dating,” Draco snapped. “I have standards.”
“I’m not getting therapy,” Harry added. “I’d rather slap myself.”
“You did slap yourself when he called you ‘honey bun,’” someone said.
“I WAS COVERED IN CARAMEL SAUCE. AND HE THOUGHT AN APPLE WAS A POTATO!”
“LIKE YOU DID ANY BETTER!” Draco screamed.
During the “Cook for the Marines” challenge, they hit a breaking point.
Draco set a garnish on fire.
“PUT IT OUT, YOU PONCE!” Harry screamed.
“I’M TRYING, YOU UNCULTURED DUNDERHEAD!”
The fire alarm blared. Marines clapped. Dolores fainted, probably on purpose.
“You two are like the Romeo and Juliet of the kitchen,” one teammate groaned. “Except I wish both of you would die before dessert.”
Later during confessionals..
“If I have to do one more challenge with Potter, I will personally strangle him,” Draco said.
“If Malfoy mentions ‘truffle’ again, I’m putting him in the freezer.” Harry muttered.
Umbridge was finally eliminated after a dinner service so bad it made Gordon Ramsay speak in tongues.
A filet mignon and two dropped pans.
Plus, she called Gordon “young man.”
“I hope you all crash and burn without me,” she snapped, dragging a pink suitcase.
“Oh good,” Draco whispered. “We’ll finally get some fresh air.”
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Harry added.
They high-fived.
Harry missed.
Draco called him an idiot.
Harry called him a hair model reject.
They didn’t stop grinning the rest of the night.
Somehow, they got black jackets.
Gordon looked at them with less loathing compared to usual.
“You’ve improved,” he said once.
It was the nicest thing he ever said to them.
It may or may not have brought a tear to their eye.
Draco was convinced it was the onions.
Harry was convinced Draco was full of it.
Before the semi-finals, they were paired again.
A full-course meal based on a theme.
The teamwork was a disaster.
Draco nearly threw a potato.
Harry nearly threw Draco.
“THIS IS HELL’S KITCHEN, NOT LOVE ISLAND!” Gordon screamed.
“WE ARE NOT DATING!!” they both shouted.
They did not make the finals.
It wasn’t a surprise.
But there was a deleted scene.
It never aired.
Something about the walk in fridge and a fight over chocolate ganache.
And a moment far too close for comfort.
But that’s for the reunion episode.
Everything returned to normal.
Sort of.
Two weeks after the show wrapped, Harry and Draco were spotted leaving a bakery in Brooklyn together, arguing over whose bagel was better.
One week later, they moved in together.
They still fight every day.
They are still completely insufferable.
Then the phone rang.
“Hello, this is Hell’s Kitchen. You’ve been selected for the All-Stars sea—”
“NO!!”