Chapter Text
It was a normal day at Hogwarts. That is, as normal as a day could be when the ghosts were arguing about who had stolen the chocolate from the kitchen.
After dinner, the Gryffindors settled at their table with ice creams. Harry had a simple and peaceful vanilla ice cream. Ron, on the other hand, was wielding a banana split so big it looked like a roller coaster of cream, banana, and chocolate.
“Look at this, Harry! It’s a work of art!” said Ron, gesturing with so much enthusiasm that his spoon flew like an out-of-control Nimbus.
The banana split tipped. A cascade of banana, chocolate, and cream landed directly on Harry’s vanilla ice cream.
“Ronald Weasley!” exclaimed Hermione, who was enjoying an elegant strawberry ice cream. “Look what you did! Your manners are worse than those of a troll in a porcelain shop!”
Harry paid them no attention. He looked at the mix of vanilla, banana, and chocolate. He lifted a small spoonful, tasted it… and the world stopped.
His eyes widened suddenly. Something inside him awakened. It was… flavor. Balance. Texture. Ice cream creativity.
“Mmm…” he murmured. “Interesting.”
Without saying more, Harry started stealing spoonfuls from others’ ice creams. A bit of Hermione’s strawberry. A touch of Lavender’s chocolate. A splash of Dean’s caramel. Some nuts that Parvati had “just in case.” The Gryffindors first looked at him with indignation.
“Hey, that’s mine!”
“Potter, leave my ice cream alone!”
But then they tried the new combinations that Harry returned to them. Vanilla with strawberry and a touch of banana. Chocolate with caramel and an unexpected crunch. Flavors that shouldn’t work… and yet they did.
“By Shiva!” said Parvati, with shining eyes. “This is delicious!”
“More!” demanded Lavender.
Hermione frowned, still annoyed, but couldn’t resist trying.
“Harry… what happened to you?” she asked, while bringing another spoonful to her mouth. “You’re… different.”
Harry looked at his plate, now an improvised masterpiece of flavors.
“I don’t know,” he replied with a serious, almost mystical voice. “I just… feel like I have to recreate an ice cream I have in mind. I can’t explain it. But I know I must make the best ice cream in the world.”
Ron patted him on the back, staining it with chocolate.
“Whatever, mate! If that means more ice cream for us, count me in.”
Lavender nodded enthusiastically. Hermione sighed, but smiled reluctantly.
“Well… at least it’s not something dangerous. This time.”
While the Gryffindors celebrated with spoonfuls and laughter, at the Slytherin table a blonde figure squeezed the ice cream spoon with such force that the metal creaked staring intently at Potter. It wasn’t Draco Malfoy, who at that moment was too busy criticizing Pansy’s dessert. It was Daphne Greengrass. Impeccable blonde hair, blue eyes that shone with pure fury.
She had seen everything. Harry Potter had awakened his innate Master Ice Cream Maker ability.
And that… that put the Greengrass family empire in danger, owners of the ice cream market not only of Great Britain, but of the entire world. Magical ice creams, Muggle ice creams, floating ice creams, singing ice creams… everything controlled by them.
Daphne gritted her teeth. Her spoon bent completely.
“No,” she whispered, with a voice as cold as a lemon sorbet. “I didn’t think the day would come… but Potter is not going to ruin our legacy.”
She stood up slowly, looking toward the Gryffindor table with murderous (ice cream) determination.
She couldn’t stay with her arms crossed.
Daphne returned to her headquarters as quickly as she could.
Or, as Tracey preferred to call it, her closet.
The two girls had been best friends since their first year at Hogwarts, and Tracey had long ago become accustomed to Daphne's peculiar habit of disappearing into the magically expanded wardrobe whenever she needed to think. Since their first year, Daphne had obtained permission to enlarge the interior of the closet and transform it into her own private base.
Behind the ordinary wooden doors was now a spacious room filled with shelves, books, magical equipment, ingredients, and several ice cream-making magic machines.
It was there that Daphne spent most of her free time pursuing the pride of the Greengrass family.
Tracey, who had followed her into the room, watched her friend go from one side to the other several times before finally speaking.
"What is wrong with Potter becoming talented at making ice cream?" she asked, leaning against one of the tables. "You could simply hire him. 'Come work for Greengrass Ice Creams—free samples and no risk of death by basilisk.’ Sounds like a winning package.”
"It is not that simple, Tracey." Daphne stopped and looked at her. "You see, the Potter fortune does not come solely from that Sleekeazy Smoothing Potion invented by Fleamont Potter. Their involvement in the ice cream business goes back much further, perhaps five hundred years or more."
Tracey's expression became curious.
"There was once a legendary rivalry between Xavier Potter and Eric Greengrass. Both families wished to conquer the ice cream world, and for many years the two of them were so evenly matched that they divided the market almost perfectly between them. Fifty percent belonged to the Potters, and fifty percent belonged to the Greengrasses."
Daphne walked toward one of the shelves and took down an old, leather-bound book.
"Then Xavier Potter created the ultimate ice cream."
Tracey raised an eyebrow. "The ultimate ice cream?"
"An ice cream so perfect that no person or creature could resist it. That was the moment the rivalry changed forever. The Potters had created something even the Greengrasses could not surpass."
Tracey’s mouth had fallen open slightly. She closed it with an audible click. “Right… so what happened? Why isn’t that Ultimate Ice Cream still being sold in every shop from Diagon Alley to the Forbidden Forest? I’d buy a lifetime supply if it was that good.”
"Because the Potter talent was not inherited in the same manner as ours," Daphne explained, opening the old book. "It gradually faded from their family. Their descendants could still make excellent ice cream, but none possessed Xavier Potter's gift. Even so, the recipe he created remained something no Greengrass could surpass."
She turned several pages before continuing.
"Then, in 1890, during the Goblin Rebellion, a fire destroyed one of the Potter vault. Their unique recipe for the ultimate ice cream was destroyed with it. The goblins were forced to pay the Potters a considerable sum of Galleons for the loss, but the damage could not be undone. The Potters tried again and again to recreate Xavier's recipe, but they failed. They even attempted Legilimency on family portraits. Nothing worked. They could not recreate what Xavier had made."
Daphne's fingers rested upon the yellowed page.
"Slowly, steadily, they began to lose ground in the ice-cream market. And the Greengrass family… well, we did what any sensible pure-blood dynasty would do. We seized the opportunity with both hands. We expanded. We innovated. We sat ourselves firmly on the throne of the world’s ice-cream empire and made sure no one could ever knock us off.”
Tracey nodded slowly as the history became clear.
"Then James and Lily Potter were killed, and Harry never showed any sign of being a Master Ice Cream Maker. Your family naturally assumed the rivalry was over."
"Exactly," Daphne replied. "For years, we believed that no Potter would ever challenge us again." She closed the book with a firm snap. "But tonight changes everything."
“And how come Potter doesn’t know any of this? Isn’t it literally his family history? You’d think someone would have mentioned ‘Oh by the way, your great-great-whatever invented the ice cream that nearly conquered the world.’”
“No one pays attention in History of Magic. Not even you. Professor Binns covered the entire rivalry in our second year—right between the Goblin Rebellions and the invention of the self-stirring cauldron. Most of the class was asleep. You were drawing rude pictures of Flitwick on the margins of your notes.”
Tracey at least had the decency to blush a little. “In my defence, you narrate it much better than Binns ever could. He makes even duels sound like laundry lists. But seriously—what are you going to do about this? Are you planning to hex Potter into next week? Poison his next banana split? Hire a hit-wizard disguised as an ice-cream vendor?”
Daphne looked at her best friend as though she had just suggested topping a perfect ice cream with ketchup.
“Of course not. Murder is messy, illegal, and completely unnecessary. I am simply going to do what no Greengrass has ever successfully managed in five centuries.”
She walked to the centre of the laboratory, lifted her chin, and spoke with the quiet certainty of someone who had already decided the outcome of a war.
“I am going to defeat Potter… with a superior ice cream.”
Harry had managed to claim an empty classroom on the third floor and transform it into his personal ice-cream laboratory.
The project required official permission, so Harry presented Professor McGonagall with a carefully crafted strawberry and caramel ice cream, served in a small glass bowl.
The Deputy Headmistress had taken one measured spoonful, closed her eyes for a full three seconds, and declared, “Mr Potter, as long as your marks do not suffer, you may keep the… Potter Laboratory. Do try not to explode anything.”
Since that day the classroom had become a hive of activity. Floating shelves held jars of everything from ordinary vanilla beans to more exotic additions such as powdered peppermint from the kitchens and a suspiciously glowing blue extract Luna had donated “for experimental purposes.”
A large worktable dominated the centre of the room, covered in half-finished bowls, tasting spoons, and notes written in Harry’s increasingly frantic handwriting.
One evening, Luna sat eating the ice cream Harry gave her, a luminous blue mascarpone ice cream.
“You really ought to be careful, Harry,” she said suddenly, her voice as calm as if she were commenting on the weather. “The ice-cream mafia has eyes everywhere. They watch from the portraits. They listen through the plumbing. They know when someone new threatens the balance of flavours.”
Harry paused, spoon halfway to a tasting bowl. “The… ice-cream mafia?”
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they stayed in her head. “Don’t listen to her, Harry. It’s just Luna being Luna again. The ice cream mafia isn't real, it can't hurt you.”
Luna merely smiled her distant smile and took another spoonful of blue mascarpone. “That’s exactly what they want you to think.”
Ron, mouth full of experimental chocolate-chip, managed to mumble, “That's a mafia I want in. Do they get free samples?”
Meanwhile, in a different corridor of the castle, far from the cheerful chaos of the Potter Laboratory, Astoria was preparing for war.
The younger Greengrass sister—exactly two years Daphne’s junior—stood in front of a full-length mirror in an empty classroom(There are many empty classrooms at Hogwarts) of her own choosing. With deliberate ceremony she removed her Slytherin tie, folded it once, and tied it around her forehead like a bandana. She narrowed her eyes at her own reflection and struck a pose that she hoped looked suitably menacing.
“Daphne thinks she can handle this alone,” Astoria muttered, adjusting the makeshift bandana. “She thinks she’s the only one who gets to claim the glory. Well, not this time. I will be the one who defeats Potter. I will bring him to his knees. And once he is kneeling before me, I shall make him my right-hand man. My loyal ice-cream lieutenant. Then Daphne will have no choice but to recognise me as her superior.”
She paused, a wicked little smile curling her lips.
“And she will finally have to admit that it was she who ate the last portion of flan last Christmas.”
Harry was walking calmly down for a third-floor corridor, hands in his pockets.
His peace lasted exactly until a small blonde whirlwind planted herself directly in his path. She locked eyes with him and smiled a smile so wide and energetic it practically vibrated.
“Harry Potter!” she declared at full volume. “I’m Astoria ‘Tori’ Greengrass, and we just made eye contact! Therefore I challenge you to an ice-cream battle!”
Harry took a step backward. The sheer force of energy radiating from this girl felt like someone had given a golden retriever a double dose of sugar, a pair of roller skates, and permission to redecorate the entire castle. She bounced slightly on the balls of her feet.
“I… didn’t know ice-cream battles were a thing,” Harry said carefully.
Astoria’s smile grew even brighter. “Of course you didn’t! You’re new to the proper side of the dessert world. But don’t worry — once I defeat you and you become my right-hand man, I’ll explain everything. The history, the rankings, the sacred rules of flavour combat. You’ll learn it all under my brilliant leadership.”
“So… you want to work together? Why didn’t you just say that? We could do it without needing to fight. I’ve got a whole laboratory now. There’s room for more people.”
Astoria shook her head so vigorously the bandana nearly slipped.
“No. Absolutely not. We need to establish the proper order on the power scale first. The weak obeys. The strong commands. That is how the Greengrass family rose to the very top of the food chain — the ice-cream kingdom.”
Harry stared at her. Ice-cream fire burned in her eyes. She was completely serious. This girl was not going to back down, negotiate, or accept a polite “maybe later.”
“All right,” Harry said. “I accept your ice-cream challenge… how exactly is this ice-cream duel going to work? And where?”
“There will be five people serving as the jury. The whole thing will take place in a public space — somewhere with enough room for an audience — so everyone can watch us prepare the ice cream right in front of them. No hidden kitchens, no secret ingredients, no disappearing acts. Everything happens in plain sight.”
She held up one finger for emphasis.
“Before we begin, the judges will drink a stomach-cleansing potion. That way no one can claim they were influenced by earlier meals. The potion will be prepared by Madam Pomfrey herself, so you’ll know there’s absolutely no trickery involved. Pure, empty stomachs. Ready for pure judgement.”
Harry nodded slowly. The plan actually sounded more organised than half the things that usually happened at Hogwarts.
“Okay. Who are the judges going to be?”
Astoria tilted her head, thinking. “I propose one student from each house — Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff — and the fifth judge a professor. That keeps it balanced across the school. What do you think?”
Harry considered it. House pride could easily turn into house favouritism, especially where Slytherin and Gryffindor were concerned.
“And what if we choose them by lottery instead?” he suggested. “Put names in a hat or use a Sorting-Hat-style charm. That way neither of us can be accused of picking friends or allies. Pure chance. No favouritism.”
“Lottery it is. One for house. I like it.”
She stepped forward and thrust out her right hand with the same dramatic energy she had used to challenge him in the first place.
He reached out and shook it firmly.
Astoria’s grip was surprisingly strong for someone her size. She gave his hand one decisive pump, then released it with a satisfied grin.
“May the best ice-cream maker win — which will, of course, be me.”
"We'll see about that."
After presenting their rules to the Hogwarts staff, they were granted permission to use the Great Hall for the event.
Dumbledore approved the idea without hesitation, apparently finding the prospect of a ice-cream competition far too entertaining to refuse.
“I think I should participate as one of the judges,” Dumbledore announced cheerfully. “After all, I have considerable experience in judging character, and I believe ice cream should be judged with the same wisdom.”
McGonagall stared at him. “Albus, you have several stacks of paperwork waiting in your office.”
“I can do it later," Dumbledore said casually, waving his hand. "Ice cream is more important.”
“No.”
“But Minerva, I am the Headmaster.”
“And you are still going to finish your paperwork.”
Before Dumbledore could come up with another argument, McGonagall took hold of his beard and began pulling him toward the door.
“But I wanted to judge the ice cream!” Dumbledore protested as he was dragged away. “I could even provide valuable insight!”
“You can provide valuable insight into those reports sitting on your desk.”
Harry and Astoria proceeded with the lottery they had agreed upon.
Susan Bones of Hufflepuff.
Terry Boot of Ravenclaw.
Demelza Robins of Gryffindor.
Blaise Zabini of Slytherin.
And, representing the professors, Aurora Sinistra.
The Great Hall was soon transformed for the occasion. The staff table was reserved as the judging area.
In the centre of the hall, two small kitchens had been constructed side by side, one for Harry and one for Astoria. Each contained a worktable, an ice-cream machine, bowls, utensils, and enough space for the competitors to prepare their creations without interfering with one another.
The event was open to the entire school, and Hogwarts students had responded with considerably more enthusiasm than either competitor had expected. Students from all four houses and nearly every year had gathered inside the Great Hall, filling the seats and standing along the walls to get a better view.
“This is brilliant,” Ron whispered to Hermione as he looked over the two kitchens. “Do you think they'll let us eat whatever they make?”
“I doubt it,” Hermione replied. “With the time they have, they'll barely have enough for the judges.”
“I'm just saying the competition would be better if the audience got free samples.”
At the front of the hall, Professor Sinistra raised her wand, and the conversations gradually died down.
“Before we begin, I will explain the rules once more.”
With a flick of her wand, a large magical clock appeared above the centre of the hall.
“Both competitors will have a maximum of thirty minutes to prepare their ice cream. They may use any of the ingredients they have brought with them.”
Several containers on each worktable were surrounded by faintly glowing runes.
“The ingredients have been examined to ensure that they have not been altered or enchanted in any way. No competitor may introduce an unapproved ingredient once the competition has begun.”
Astoria nodded confidently while Harry glanced over his own collection of ingredients.
“Once one competitor has finished their dish, the judges will taste that ice cream. They will then taste the second competitor's ice cream. The winner will be the competitor who receives the greatest overall approval from the five judges.”
Sinistra lowered her wand and looked toward the two competitors.
“Are there any questions?”
Neither Harry nor Astoria said anything.
“Very well.”
Harry stood behind his worktable and inspected his ingredients one final time. Over the past few days, he had spent nearly every free moment experimenting in his laboratory, trying different combinations and recording the results.
Astoria, meanwhile, had prepared her ingredients with the precision of someone who had spent years training for exactly this moment. Every container had its place, every utensil was arranged neatly, and her ingredients had been carefully measured beforehand.
She reached up and straightened her chef's hat before looking across the hall at Harry.
Harry was adjusting his gloves.
Astoria gave him a confident smile. “Trying to look professional, Harry?”
Harry glanced at his gloves before looking back at her. “You're the one wearing a hat.”
Astoria immediately placed a hand on the white chef's hat. “This is a chef's hat.”
Harry shook his head with a faint smile. “Whatever you say, Astoria.”
“Competitors, prepare yourselves.” Professor Sinistra raised her wand and looked at the clock.
Harry and Astoria took their positions.
“Three.”
Harry looked over his ingredients.
“Two.”
Astoria tightened her grip on her spoon.
“One.”
The magical clock flashed.
“Begin!”