Chicken & Egg
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine.
Title: Chicken & Egg
Characters: Molly, Harry
Rating: G, gen
Summary: Molly wants their young houseguest to feel at home, but Harry’s not familiar with the concept.
A/N: written ages ago, so nothing DH related
A/N 2: posted for suntzu_s on the occasion of her birthday. :)
When Molly heard the sudden squawking of a hen, she was almost too busy to look out the window. She had five things going at once - one blade diligently slicing scallions, another peeling potatoes, dishes washing in the sink, salad greens soaking, and both hands occupied with pouring pumpkin juice into a row of glasses. But it was an ingrained habit now, to check into all disturbances. She set the pitcher down, drew back the curtain, and caught sight of a twelve-year-old in the yard. Nothing unusual about that, save that this child had a tangle of jet-black hair instead of ginger. Their young houseguest was standing in the midst of several ruffled chickens, looking a bit bewildered.
“Harry! Don’t fuss up the chickens, they won’t lay!” she called, anxious to get back to her stew.
“Sorry, Mrs. Weasley,” he called back. “I tripped.” He hurried off. Molly turned her attention back to the simmering pots on the stove, and remained absorbed with the work until she heard Ron clatter in the back door. She was drawing breath to tell him to set the table, when he burst out with “Mum, have you seen Harry?”
Molly looked up at once, a tiny stab of panic in her heart. Concern for Harry, foremost, of course, but also a tiny bit of ‘good heavens, what if I have to tell Dumbledore I’ve misplaced the Boy Who Lived?’
“I thought he was with you,” she said carefully.
“No. I saw him heading for the house earlier, but he never came back.”
“Well, you go wash for supper, I’ll see if I can round him up.” She turned off the stove, laid her dishtowel down on the table, and climbed onto the stairs. Halfway up the first flight, she paused.
Molly knew her house, it was almost an organic extension of her family and the stones often spoke to her. She had seven children and she was a witch. Her children joked and complained about the eyes she supposedly had in the back of her head, but in reality, it was more like listening than looking. More feeling than knowing.
Molly closed her eyes, her hand on the wall, until she was able to place the extra heartbeat in the house.
She sighed. What was the big fascination boys had with attics, anyway? Six sons later and she still hadn’t been able to figure that one out.
Molly climbed and climbed, puffing a bit by the time she reached the highest floor of the Burrow. The door was open, and she ventured in, stifling the urge to sneeze.
Evening sunlight slanted in through the vents, illuminating years worth of old furniture and hoarded clutter.
She looked around, not seeing anyone, not even their resident ghoul, until her gaze fell upon an old sideboard cupboard they were keeping in storage, and she noticed one of the cabinet doors was very slightly ajar.
“Harry? Are you in there?”
She knelt down, pulled the door all the way open, and found Harry sitting inside, folded up with his arms around his knees.
“Harry! Sweetheart, what are you doing in here? It’s very dangerous. What’s the matter?”
She reached out to brush the hair off his forehead like she might have done with any child, but he cringed and ducked away from her touch. He didn’t want her to touch the scar, she realized, and curled her fingers back and withdrew.
“Are you a little homesick, maybe?” she guessed.
Harry shook his head vigorously.
Not homesick, then.
“Did you get into a scuffle with one of the older boys?”
Another shake, gentler this time.
“You can tell me, Harry. What happened?”
“I’m s-sorry about the chickens,” he said, barely managing to get the words out.
Molly felt slightly ill as she finally realized why he was upset. “Oh, Harry, I wasn’t scolding you about the chickens. Did you think I was angry with you?”
He hugged his knees. “I didn’t mean to scare them,” he said earnestly, then added in a small, worried voice. “They’ll still lay eggs, won’t they?”
“Good heavens, of course they will! I only meant that… well, sometimes children think it’s fun to chase them, but chickens do better if they aren’t flustered. I certainly didn’t mean to fluster you.”
“I wasn’t chasing them, Mrs. Weasley. I was just running and I forgot they were there and I had to jump over a couple.”
Molly patted his arm. “I don’t suppose there are very many chickens on Privet Drive, are there?” she ventured.
Harry shook his head.
“Tell you what. You can come out to the henhouse with me in the morning and we’ll feed them, and I’ll tell you all about them. And then we’ll round up all the eggs and make a big omelet for breakfast. How does that sound?”
He nodded. “Yes, I can make omelets,” he told her, sounding a little happier about the situation.
Molly blinked at him, wondering how it was that a twelve-year-old knew how to cook anything at all. She hadn’t even let her eldest put biscuits in the oven until he was practically old enough to Apparate.
“Can you really? Well, that’s wonderful, dear. You can help me with that tomorrow, then. Now you go and get washed up, it’s time for supper.”
Harry gave a nod, and climbed out of the cupboard with the ease of the very young. He loped off down the corridor, and she could hear him clumping down the stairs in his oversized trainers.
It took Molly a bit more effort to climb off the floor. If Harry needed retrieving from any more hiding places, she hoped he picked someplace higher off the ground next time.
Molly sighed. She remembered what it had been like, sleeping over at friends’ houses when she was a girl. It was fun and it was exciting, but she remembered that it could also feel very foreign and frightening.
She started off down the stairs. Thank goodness they were having steak-and-kidney pie for dinner, she thought with relief. She would’ve hated to serve Harry chicken after all this … he might never have gotten over it.
Title: Chicken & Egg
Characters: Molly, Harry
Rating: G, gen
Summary: Molly wants their young houseguest to feel at home, but Harry’s not familiar with the concept.
A/N: written ages ago, so nothing DH related
A/N 2: posted for suntzu_s on the occasion of her birthday. :)
When Molly heard the sudden squawking of a hen, she was almost too busy to look out the window. She had five things going at once - one blade diligently slicing scallions, another peeling potatoes, dishes washing in the sink, salad greens soaking, and both hands occupied with pouring pumpkin juice into a row of glasses. But it was an ingrained habit now, to check into all disturbances. She set the pitcher down, drew back the curtain, and caught sight of a twelve-year-old in the yard. Nothing unusual about that, save that this child had a tangle of jet-black hair instead of ginger. Their young houseguest was standing in the midst of several ruffled chickens, looking a bit bewildered.
“Harry! Don’t fuss up the chickens, they won’t lay!” she called, anxious to get back to her stew.
“Sorry, Mrs. Weasley,” he called back. “I tripped.” He hurried off. Molly turned her attention back to the simmering pots on the stove, and remained absorbed with the work until she heard Ron clatter in the back door. She was drawing breath to tell him to set the table, when he burst out with “Mum, have you seen Harry?”
Molly looked up at once, a tiny stab of panic in her heart. Concern for Harry, foremost, of course, but also a tiny bit of ‘good heavens, what if I have to tell Dumbledore I’ve misplaced the Boy Who Lived?’
“I thought he was with you,” she said carefully.
“No. I saw him heading for the house earlier, but he never came back.”
“Well, you go wash for supper, I’ll see if I can round him up.” She turned off the stove, laid her dishtowel down on the table, and climbed onto the stairs. Halfway up the first flight, she paused.
Molly knew her house, it was almost an organic extension of her family and the stones often spoke to her. She had seven children and she was a witch. Her children joked and complained about the eyes she supposedly had in the back of her head, but in reality, it was more like listening than looking. More feeling than knowing.
Molly closed her eyes, her hand on the wall, until she was able to place the extra heartbeat in the house.
She sighed. What was the big fascination boys had with attics, anyway? Six sons later and she still hadn’t been able to figure that one out.
Molly climbed and climbed, puffing a bit by the time she reached the highest floor of the Burrow. The door was open, and she ventured in, stifling the urge to sneeze.
Evening sunlight slanted in through the vents, illuminating years worth of old furniture and hoarded clutter.
She looked around, not seeing anyone, not even their resident ghoul, until her gaze fell upon an old sideboard cupboard they were keeping in storage, and she noticed one of the cabinet doors was very slightly ajar.
“Harry? Are you in there?”
She knelt down, pulled the door all the way open, and found Harry sitting inside, folded up with his arms around his knees.
“Harry! Sweetheart, what are you doing in here? It’s very dangerous. What’s the matter?”
She reached out to brush the hair off his forehead like she might have done with any child, but he cringed and ducked away from her touch. He didn’t want her to touch the scar, she realized, and curled her fingers back and withdrew.
“Are you a little homesick, maybe?” she guessed.
Harry shook his head vigorously.
Not homesick, then.
“Did you get into a scuffle with one of the older boys?”
Another shake, gentler this time.
“You can tell me, Harry. What happened?”
“I’m s-sorry about the chickens,” he said, barely managing to get the words out.
Molly felt slightly ill as she finally realized why he was upset. “Oh, Harry, I wasn’t scolding you about the chickens. Did you think I was angry with you?”
He hugged his knees. “I didn’t mean to scare them,” he said earnestly, then added in a small, worried voice. “They’ll still lay eggs, won’t they?”
“Good heavens, of course they will! I only meant that… well, sometimes children think it’s fun to chase them, but chickens do better if they aren’t flustered. I certainly didn’t mean to fluster you.”
“I wasn’t chasing them, Mrs. Weasley. I was just running and I forgot they were there and I had to jump over a couple.”
Molly patted his arm. “I don’t suppose there are very many chickens on Privet Drive, are there?” she ventured.
Harry shook his head.
“Tell you what. You can come out to the henhouse with me in the morning and we’ll feed them, and I’ll tell you all about them. And then we’ll round up all the eggs and make a big omelet for breakfast. How does that sound?”
He nodded. “Yes, I can make omelets,” he told her, sounding a little happier about the situation.
Molly blinked at him, wondering how it was that a twelve-year-old knew how to cook anything at all. She hadn’t even let her eldest put biscuits in the oven until he was practically old enough to Apparate.
“Can you really? Well, that’s wonderful, dear. You can help me with that tomorrow, then. Now you go and get washed up, it’s time for supper.”
Harry gave a nod, and climbed out of the cupboard with the ease of the very young. He loped off down the corridor, and she could hear him clumping down the stairs in his oversized trainers.
It took Molly a bit more effort to climb off the floor. If Harry needed retrieving from any more hiding places, she hoped he picked someplace higher off the ground next time.
Molly sighed. She remembered what it had been like, sleeping over at friends’ houses when she was a girl. It was fun and it was exciting, but she remembered that it could also feel very foreign and frightening.
She started off down the stairs. Thank goodness they were having steak-and-kidney pie for dinner, she thought with relief. She would’ve hated to serve Harry chicken after all this … he might never have gotten over it.