1105311347 - FIC: "cooking skills" (HP, gen, PG13, 407w)
Title: Cooking Skills
Author: tristhe
Rating: PG-13
Fandom(s): Harry Potter
Pairing(s): gen
Wordcount: 407
Status: Complete
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-Voldemort, but essentially timeless. Some casual foul language.
Notes: Un-beta'ed. This one written in 15 minutes, so don't expect too much.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and make no money off of them.
Summary: Being forced to do something by people you hate rarely ends well.
Harry knew how to cook. Harry knew how to cook very well.
And he fucking hated it.
He may not have been five-star material, but Harry could bluntly state without any hubris at all that he was a solid four-star chef.
And if he never touched another kitchen utensil again, it would be too fucking soon.
Harry lived off of fruit and toast and trail mix and sandwiches and milk and tea. Occasionally he'd heat a can of soup or a microwave dinner of some kind, but that was it. That was the full extent of his willing participation in the kitchen.
He didn't even have an oven; not even a cooktop. He did have a microwave and mini-fridge for a while, along with a cutting board and basic cook's knife. But then he finally got off his ass and learned the proper domestic charms for slicing and heating and chilling food with his wand instead, and so promptly threw the muggle tools away. He still had a fridge, of sorts, though it was an enchanted wooden chest that didn't so much cool things down as it kept any food placed inside exactly as fresh as it was put in. It was much more versatile than a refrigerator or freezer or pantry, and guaranteed to work for the life of the enchantment, which was generally about ten years. He had shit packed away in there that was years old.
Most of it was take-out.
He'd made the mistake, when he was younger, of allowing a couple people to know he could cook, but he'd quickly learned better. Nowadays you couldn't pry his cooking skills out of him with a crowbar. He'd even mostly managed to get his friends convinced he'd just forgotten everything about cooking through sheer disuse.
Harry Potter, at the age of twenty-three, was completely resolute to never cook another 'proper' meal in his life. Ever. And Harry Potter was...well known for his stubborn will.
- -
In reality, he did end up cooking proper meals again...twice. Once at the age of forty-seven, and once again at sixty-one.
Other than that, Harry fulfilled his brash, youthful promise to himself and gleefully refused to so much as touch a kitchen appliance for the rest of his life.
In the afterlife, where all things are known, his loved ones finally figured it out and spent some time whapping him over the head for it, but he didn't care.
.
Author: tristhe
Rating: PG-13
Fandom(s): Harry Potter
Pairing(s): gen
Wordcount: 407
Status: Complete
Spoilers/Warnings: Post-Voldemort, but essentially timeless. Some casual foul language.
Notes: Un-beta'ed. This one written in 15 minutes, so don't expect too much.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and make no money off of them.
Summary: Being forced to do something by people you hate rarely ends well.
Harry knew how to cook. Harry knew how to cook very well.
And he fucking hated it.
He may not have been five-star material, but Harry could bluntly state without any hubris at all that he was a solid four-star chef.
And if he never touched another kitchen utensil again, it would be too fucking soon.
Harry lived off of fruit and toast and trail mix and sandwiches and milk and tea. Occasionally he'd heat a can of soup or a microwave dinner of some kind, but that was it. That was the full extent of his willing participation in the kitchen.
He didn't even have an oven; not even a cooktop. He did have a microwave and mini-fridge for a while, along with a cutting board and basic cook's knife. But then he finally got off his ass and learned the proper domestic charms for slicing and heating and chilling food with his wand instead, and so promptly threw the muggle tools away. He still had a fridge, of sorts, though it was an enchanted wooden chest that didn't so much cool things down as it kept any food placed inside exactly as fresh as it was put in. It was much more versatile than a refrigerator or freezer or pantry, and guaranteed to work for the life of the enchantment, which was generally about ten years. He had shit packed away in there that was years old.
Most of it was take-out.
He'd made the mistake, when he was younger, of allowing a couple people to know he could cook, but he'd quickly learned better. Nowadays you couldn't pry his cooking skills out of him with a crowbar. He'd even mostly managed to get his friends convinced he'd just forgotten everything about cooking through sheer disuse.
Harry Potter, at the age of twenty-three, was completely resolute to never cook another 'proper' meal in his life. Ever. And Harry Potter was...well known for his stubborn will.
- -
In reality, he did end up cooking proper meals again...twice. Once at the age of forty-seven, and once again at sixty-one.
Other than that, Harry fulfilled his brash, youthful promise to himself and gleefully refused to so much as touch a kitchen appliance for the rest of his life.
In the afterlife, where all things are known, his loved ones finally figured it out and spent some time whapping him over the head for it, but he didn't care.
.