The Ill-Begotten Feast
Harry’s hands trembled as he worked. The weight of the bag felt like a heavy secret, an ominous burden he didn’t understand. The air in the kitchen was thick, suffocating with an energy that seemed wrong, and Harry could feel it in his bones. His stomach growled, but his mind was clouded with dread. What was he cooking? What was in the bag? He didn’t know, but he also knew he didn’t have a choice.
His hands moved, almost mechanically. He’d cooked for himself before, but never with a meat like this. The Dursleys didn’t care about feeding him, let alone giving him proper tools to cook. But now, in this place, far from Surrey, He was allowed to make something for himself. It was twisted freedom, but freedom nonetheless.
The monster had given him the bag, and although Harry had no idea what was inside, it had to be prepared. It had to be cooked. There was nothing else to do.
With a trembling hand, he opened the bag. Inside were pieces of flesh–gore slick and twisted. Harry swallowed hard, his breath caught inside his throat as he stared at what lay before him. The texture was wrong, soft and unnatural, Resisting the knife as Harry began to slice it. His hands shook, but he couldn’t stop. There was no one to stop him here, no one to tell him no. He had to cook it. It didn’t matter what it was. He didn’t even know what it was.
The smell hit him first. A thick, fetid scent that seemed to cling to everything in the kitchen, seeping into the very walls. It felt wrong. His stomach churned, the gnawing hunger growing in his belly, but a voice inside him screamed that something was terribly, terribly off. His mind couldn’t reconcile the idea of eating…this. But he stirred the pit nonetheless, and ding root vegetables, herbs and a few random bits that seemed edible.
Stirring it all together felt like a terrible mistake, but Harry kept going, his fingers mechanical, pulling and chopping as though his hands weren’t his own. The stew began to bubble and hiss, and the smell worsened, curling into the air like some malignant force. Each Stir felt like a betrayal of everything he knew. Each spoonful of this concoction felt like he was crossing Aline he couldn’t uncross.
But then, there was nothing else to do.
As the stew simmered, Harry’s mind wandered, distant. He tried to push the unease aside, bury it somewhere deep where it wouldn’t reach him. He tried to think of the Dursleys. To remember how they’d never cared enough to even feed him properly. How they’d lock him in a cupboard, leaving him alone with bruises and the cold. At least here, he could cook. He could feed himself.
But as he stirred the pot and the monstrosity slowly turned into something more recognisable–a thick stew– he realised something else. Something darker. The monster hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even been present, but Harry could feel its presence in the room, hovering at the edge of his awareness. The monster hadn’t told him what to do, but it had made sure that Harry knew exactly what was expected.
Harry swallowed hard as he ladled the thick, foul–smelling stew into a bowl. He hesitated, staring at it distantly for a long moment. The meat was so dark, almost black, with pieces that looked wrong–too soft, too wet, like they weren’t meant to be there. But Harry could hear his stomach gnawing at him, the hunger taking over, and so he picked up the spoon, his hand shaking violently. His mouth tasted bitter from the smell, but he couldn’t stop.
He ate.
The taste was worse than he could’ve imagined. It was metallic, rich, and disgustingly heavy in his mouth. It coated his tongue with a flavour he couldn’t describe, thick and oily, clinging to the roof of his mouth. Harry tried not to gag, tried to force himself to swallow, but the taste lingered, clawing at his throat. It felt wrong. Everything about this felt wrong.
But he ate. He ate because he was hungry, and there was nothing else. There was no choice but to consume what was placed before him.
And then, the monster appeared.
It loomed at the edge of the kitchen, its form indistinguishable in the darkness, a hulking silhouette. Harry could feel it watching him, though it’s eyes were unseen, it’s presence suffocating, palpable. He barely looked at it, his attention fixed on the bowl in front of him, but when he took another bite, he felt a strange shiver crawl down his spine.
The monster leaned in closer. The heavy scent of its presence made Harry’s stomach churn even more, but then–then the creature made a noise. A deep, rumbling sound that was almost satisfied.
Harry froze, the spoon trembling in his hand as looked up. The creature’s unseen gaze was fixed on him, and the low growl of approval rumbled in its chest.
The monster liked it. It liked the stew.
Harry’s heart hammered in his chest, a mixture of fear and confusion pooling in his stomach. He didn’t know what this meant. Didn’t know if it was a good thing or something worse. But the realisation stuck him like lightning. The monster wasn’t angry at him. It wasn’t punishing him.
It was pleased.
The creature moved away, the floorboards creaking under irs weight, it’s footsteps echoing in the stillness of the house. Harry, still shaking, couldn’t stop his hand from reaching up to wipe the sweat off his brow. The whole experience felt surreal. He couldn’t understand why he had done it, or why he hadn’t stopped when he should’ve.
But in the end, he’d done what was expected. And the monster seemed satisfied. For now.
As Harry sat on the floor, his stomach still churning from the taste, he realised that in some twisted way, he was living here. In this house. Under the creatures watchful eye. This was his reality now. And what terrified him the most was that, somehow, despite everything, he didn’t know what was worse–the meal he had just prepared or the strange comfort he felt, however fleeting, in having fed the monster and himself.
The silence stretched on.
The stew was gone.
And Harry had no idea what was coming next.