On One Side Of The Door
The Lovegood kitchen is full of the smells of butter and spices and baking fruit. The large table in the middle of the room is covered with bowls and measuring cups, small drifts of flour and spatters of egg. The front door out to the garden is propped open to let in the breezes that blow about the top of the high hill where the Lovegood’s tower-shaped house is situated.
On the opposite side of the kitchen is the door out to the add-on extension where a dozen or more baking sheets of scones are cooling on the pantry counters. This door is tightly shut. Luna had had to close it off to discourage the garden gnomes from trying to sneak through and steal nibbles.
Luna herself is squatting patiently in front of the oven door, mittened hands resting on her knees, waiting for the latest batch to turn the proper shade of golden brown. Lemon-ginger scones this time. Upstairs she can hear Dad alternately muttering and humming as he sorts items into piles for packing. It’s no easy feat, packing up to be gone for a week, especially while camping. All morning has been spent calling up and down the circular staircase in the middle of the house:
“Dad, don’t forget your quills.”
“Luna, dear, I’m packing you an extra jumper. The evenings will be cold.”
“I think I last saw your galoshes out by the garden gate, Dad.”
“Luna, are you wanting to take your paints?”
“Dad, do you think gingerbread scones for Mackie and Gwennie, or cinnamon?”
“Gingerbread, and the Cooks will be arriving three days after us and said they’ll bring extra sausages and cheese.”
Tomorrow morning, they’ll be catching an early port key to the site of the Quidditch World Cup. The match is still a week away, but Dad had wanted some time to explore the moors around the stadium. And besides, traveling by port key will get more expensive the closer the World Cup gets. The Lovegoods will be the first to arrive and set up camp, and a handful of Dad’s friends will be joining them over the course of the week.
And when they arrive, there will be scones waiting.
Luna finally judges the scones to be done, carefully maneuvers them out of the oven, and heads for the pantry door. She does sums in her head, figuring in her and Dad, Mr. and Mrs. Cook and their twins, Auntie George, Mr. Spring, and Archie, and the number of days each will be there and how many they are likely to eat.
Archie could probably go through two batches all on his own, she thinks, balancing the hot baking sheet in one hand and trying to grip the door knob through her oven mitt. Until, with a bit of an impatient sigh, she retrieves her wand from behind her ear and waves it at the catch.
Perhaps a batch of raspberry, she decides, as the door opens. And a batch of Irish Soda, in honor of the home team. And it wouldn’t go amiss to have another batch or two of plain cream scones, since Auntie George had signed up to bring jam and marmalade.
Luna is so deep in her plans that it takes her a moment to realize that she has not, in fact, walked into the pantry.
“Oh,” she says, blinking around at this strange place.
“Well. My goodness.”
On the opposite side of the kitchen is the door out to the add-on extension where a dozen or more baking sheets of scones are cooling on the pantry counters. This door is tightly shut. Luna had had to close it off to discourage the garden gnomes from trying to sneak through and steal nibbles.
Luna herself is squatting patiently in front of the oven door, mittened hands resting on her knees, waiting for the latest batch to turn the proper shade of golden brown. Lemon-ginger scones this time. Upstairs she can hear Dad alternately muttering and humming as he sorts items into piles for packing. It’s no easy feat, packing up to be gone for a week, especially while camping. All morning has been spent calling up and down the circular staircase in the middle of the house:
“Dad, don’t forget your quills.”
“Luna, dear, I’m packing you an extra jumper. The evenings will be cold.”
“I think I last saw your galoshes out by the garden gate, Dad.”
“Luna, are you wanting to take your paints?”
“Dad, do you think gingerbread scones for Mackie and Gwennie, or cinnamon?”
“Gingerbread, and the Cooks will be arriving three days after us and said they’ll bring extra sausages and cheese.”
Tomorrow morning, they’ll be catching an early port key to the site of the Quidditch World Cup. The match is still a week away, but Dad had wanted some time to explore the moors around the stadium. And besides, traveling by port key will get more expensive the closer the World Cup gets. The Lovegoods will be the first to arrive and set up camp, and a handful of Dad’s friends will be joining them over the course of the week.
And when they arrive, there will be scones waiting.
Luna finally judges the scones to be done, carefully maneuvers them out of the oven, and heads for the pantry door. She does sums in her head, figuring in her and Dad, Mr. and Mrs. Cook and their twins, Auntie George, Mr. Spring, and Archie, and the number of days each will be there and how many they are likely to eat.
Archie could probably go through two batches all on his own, she thinks, balancing the hot baking sheet in one hand and trying to grip the door knob through her oven mitt. Until, with a bit of an impatient sigh, she retrieves her wand from behind her ear and waves it at the catch.
Perhaps a batch of raspberry, she decides, as the door opens. And a batch of Irish Soda, in honor of the home team. And it wouldn’t go amiss to have another batch or two of plain cream scones, since Auntie George had signed up to bring jam and marmalade.
Luna is so deep in her plans that it takes her a moment to realize that she has not, in fact, walked into the pantry.
“Oh,” she says, blinking around at this strange place.
“Well. My goodness.”