Charlie in the Kitchen
Who: Charlie Weasley
Where: Grounds and Kitchen of the Canterbury House
When: 16 May, 2001
Status: Complete
It had been almost a month.
Somehow, he couldn't bear the thought of seeing her. Not now. Not when it had all gone so perfectly, as if to spite him and his objections. And so he refused. He could almost believe that it hadn't actually happened after all that way, that his arguments had been heard and understood, that they were now all safe and happy in their large country home, a family to replace the one he seldom thought about anymore.
But no no no that was wrong thinking, and for a moment he looked almost angry, leaning against the dusty wall. The sky overhead promised rain, and he finished his cigarette quickly, grinding it into the dirt and grass with the heel of his boot.
The back door led into a short hallway, with a coat room (that they used for storage) off to the side, and the kitchens beyond. He seldom ventured into the house any more, having long ago moved his things into the groundskeeper's shack, a rundown little building that did nothing to remind him of Hagrid's place. But it suited him fine, vagrant that he'd become, and more than anything he was happy for a roof that only leaked at the corners, and a mattress to sleep on.
He did have to eat, however, and Moody or Hermione would get testy if he disappeared for too long without reporting what he'd seen, letting them know he was still alive. Apparently there would be no more vanishing for months at a time if he was to be trusted. Which he understood, but didn't like. It was just one of several things that rubbed him wrong, drove the old wedge between him and the rest of the Order.
The kitchen was thankfully empty, the icebox regrettably so. Eggs and butter, the dregs of orange juice in an old cracked carafe. Some bacon looked promising, but upon closer inspection he found it to be rancid. Milk, some spinach, onions and carrots from the garden... he found his appetite to be waning as he surveyed the prospects for a meal.
The cupboard proved to be just as sparse - some scattered cans of condensed milk, a jar of peanut butter, flour and some baker's chocolate. Some scrounging produced a vial of what he thought might be vanilla extract, and a tin on the counter had sugar in it. Some baking powder and an ancient box of baking soda had been shoved in with the spices (pepper, salt, parsley, cumin, chili powder, cloves, a little saffron, ginger, nutmeg, and a whole mess of other ones that he couldn't identify), and suddenly, it occurred to him to bake a cake.
The kitchen proved to be without a cookbook, and for a moment he entertained the idea of ducking into the library. But no... that was the Ravenclaw stomping ground, and if She were to be anywhere in the vast house, it would be there.
So instead he tried his best to remember what precisely it was that went into a chocolate cake. A few minutes work with a stub of a pencil and scrap of paper produced promising results, despite a couple of guessed measurements, and a general confusion as to what the difference between baking powder and baking soda was.
Everything he needed was there, and it was only a matter of scrounging up a bowl and a cake pan before he set to.
. . .
An hour later, there it was. It had been tricky trying to figure out the ovens, and one of the layers was a little bit floppy in the middle, but he'd made enough frosting to last three cakes, and it was easy enough to fill in the slight depression. It looked amazing, he had to admit; two layers, with icing between and all over as well, little rosebuds - made with an old pastry bag and too much patience - lining the edge.
His mum would have been proud.
He carefully cut a piece, laid it lengthwise on a cracked old china plate, and took the smallest of bites off of one of the corners. He let out a startled laugh, a smile infecting his features. It was brilliant, and for a moment he could think of nothing but sharing it with everyone else, watching them eat his creation, his thing of beauty. They all deserved it, really they did.
She deserved it.
It hit him with a sobering suddenness that he'd risked being in the house too long. He sighed, setting the plate next to the cake, and quickly tidied up, washing the big bowl and measuring spoons by hand. Eggs, milk, and the bowlful of frosting back into the icebox, chocolate and flour back in the cupboard, and one final glance to make sure he'd left nothing out, one final chance for someone to stumble across him. But everything had been done, and with a rueful glance backward he let himself out the back door, rummaging in his breast pocket for a packet of cigarettes.
Where: Grounds and Kitchen of the Canterbury House
When: 16 May, 2001
Status: Complete
It had been almost a month.
Somehow, he couldn't bear the thought of seeing her. Not now. Not when it had all gone so perfectly, as if to spite him and his objections. And so he refused. He could almost believe that it hadn't actually happened after all that way, that his arguments had been heard and understood, that they were now all safe and happy in their large country home, a family to replace the one he seldom thought about anymore.
But no no no that was wrong thinking, and for a moment he looked almost angry, leaning against the dusty wall. The sky overhead promised rain, and he finished his cigarette quickly, grinding it into the dirt and grass with the heel of his boot.
The back door led into a short hallway, with a coat room (that they used for storage) off to the side, and the kitchens beyond. He seldom ventured into the house any more, having long ago moved his things into the groundskeeper's shack, a rundown little building that did nothing to remind him of Hagrid's place. But it suited him fine, vagrant that he'd become, and more than anything he was happy for a roof that only leaked at the corners, and a mattress to sleep on.
He did have to eat, however, and Moody or Hermione would get testy if he disappeared for too long without reporting what he'd seen, letting them know he was still alive. Apparently there would be no more vanishing for months at a time if he was to be trusted. Which he understood, but didn't like. It was just one of several things that rubbed him wrong, drove the old wedge between him and the rest of the Order.
The kitchen was thankfully empty, the icebox regrettably so. Eggs and butter, the dregs of orange juice in an old cracked carafe. Some bacon looked promising, but upon closer inspection he found it to be rancid. Milk, some spinach, onions and carrots from the garden... he found his appetite to be waning as he surveyed the prospects for a meal.
The cupboard proved to be just as sparse - some scattered cans of condensed milk, a jar of peanut butter, flour and some baker's chocolate. Some scrounging produced a vial of what he thought might be vanilla extract, and a tin on the counter had sugar in it. Some baking powder and an ancient box of baking soda had been shoved in with the spices (pepper, salt, parsley, cumin, chili powder, cloves, a little saffron, ginger, nutmeg, and a whole mess of other ones that he couldn't identify), and suddenly, it occurred to him to bake a cake.
The kitchen proved to be without a cookbook, and for a moment he entertained the idea of ducking into the library. But no... that was the Ravenclaw stomping ground, and if She were to be anywhere in the vast house, it would be there.
So instead he tried his best to remember what precisely it was that went into a chocolate cake. A few minutes work with a stub of a pencil and scrap of paper produced promising results, despite a couple of guessed measurements, and a general confusion as to what the difference between baking powder and baking soda was.
Everything he needed was there, and it was only a matter of scrounging up a bowl and a cake pan before he set to.
. . .
An hour later, there it was. It had been tricky trying to figure out the ovens, and one of the layers was a little bit floppy in the middle, but he'd made enough frosting to last three cakes, and it was easy enough to fill in the slight depression. It looked amazing, he had to admit; two layers, with icing between and all over as well, little rosebuds - made with an old pastry bag and too much patience - lining the edge.
His mum would have been proud.
He carefully cut a piece, laid it lengthwise on a cracked old china plate, and took the smallest of bites off of one of the corners. He let out a startled laugh, a smile infecting his features. It was brilliant, and for a moment he could think of nothing but sharing it with everyone else, watching them eat his creation, his thing of beauty. They all deserved it, really they did.
She deserved it.
It hit him with a sobering suddenness that he'd risked being in the house too long. He sighed, setting the plate next to the cake, and quickly tidied up, washing the big bowl and measuring spoons by hand. Eggs, milk, and the bowlful of frosting back into the icebox, chocolate and flour back in the cupboard, and one final glance to make sure he'd left nothing out, one final chance for someone to stumble across him. But everything had been done, and with a rueful glance backward he let himself out the back door, rummaging in his breast pocket for a packet of cigarettes.