Beta: The fabulous Cat!
Word Count: 3,763
Challenge: #27. "Cooking lessons don't go as planned."
Summary: Uhhhhh... Cooking lessons don't go as planned...
Notes: This is a new installment for my "Little Burrow" universe.
“Ron, you’re making me a nervous wreck! Give me that before you hurt yourself!”
“Back off, Potter,” Ron growled, jerking his arm out of Harry’s reach. “I think I can handle it.”
“Now, boys,” Ron’s mother chuckled. “There’s no need to get all worked up. Harry’s right, though, Ron. You should really curl your fingers so your knuckles slide on the side. Let me show you.”
“Why don’t you just show us the charm you use to make it work by itself?” Ron whined. “This is so… so Muggle!”
“Told you, Molly,” Hermione, who was sitting at the scrubbed wood table, said smugly. “Ron’s hopeless without magic.”
“I’m not hopeless,” Ron retorted. “I just don’t see the point! Mum always uses magic for these boring little…”
“I do not always use magic!” His mum countered. “You just assumed I always did. That explains why you’ve never fully appreciated all the hard work I do around here.”
Ron felt his face flush with guilt, and he realized that he’d never really spent much time watching his mother in the kitchen, despite how many hours she’d spent there when he was growing up. His appreciation for all she’d done had increased, however, ever since he and Harry had moved into the Little Burrow. It wasn’t long before he came to realize how spoiled he’d been by a constant supply of clean laundry, a cluttered but hygienic house, and a steady supply of hot, delicious foods.
He’d actually grown accustomed to the meal issue rather quickly. He and Harry simply bought take-away or visited the Three Broomsticks for dinner. However, during one of her surprise visits (or “inspections”, as they’d come to think of them), Ron’s mum had informed them, in no uncertain terms, that they would be receiving cooking lessons. She’d made this pronouncement after running about picking up old take-away containers, some of which had begun to develop their own miniature eco-systems.
When Harry argued that he already knew how to cook, the task having often fallen to him while living on Privet Drive, she simply answered, “That might have been good enough for those horrid Muggles, but I’m going to teach you how to make proper food.”
And so, two days after the Quidditch season had ended, Ron and Harry found themselves at the Burrow, slicing, chopping, mixing, and stirring, all under the watchful gaze of Molly Weasley in all her domestic splendor. Hermione Granger, who had developed a rather sadistic sense of humour, just “happened to pop by” on that particular day, much to Ron’s chagrin. He knew she’d come for the sole purpose of taking the piss out of him as he struggled cut the carrots on the bias into inch-long segments. Now both the women and Harry (whom Ron was having trouble not thinking of as a woman at that moment) were all ridiculing his use of a kitchen knife.
“Magic’s fine if you’re in a hurry,” his mother explained, “but nothing beats the personal touch. Here, look how nicely Harry’s cut the onions.”
“Look how nicely Harry’s cut the onions,” Ron repeated in a mocking, nasal tone, though he at least had the common sense to keep his voice low so that only Harry could hear him. The only reason he’d even agreed to this humiliation was that his mum had promised she’d show them how to make a real chocolate gateau, Ron’s single favorite dessert. However, he was required to participate in the preparation of the pot roast they were making for dinner before that secret would be revealed to him.
And so Ron did his best to learn the rudiments of food preparation. Harry hadn’t been exaggerating. By sheer repetition he had indeed become quite adept with utensils. Ron watched with mixed admiration and envy as Harry beat out a rhythm on the cutting board as he deftly reduced whole mushrooms into equal sized slices, without once cutting his finger. Ron already had two painful cuts on his left index finger just from trying to rough cut carrots.
Eventually, the roast, surrounded by vegetables and potatoes, was cooking away in the oven, and the moment Ron had been waiting for had arrived. He soon discovered, however, that the sheer ecstasy of eating chocolate cake had to be purchased through the tedious task of making it. Ron’s mother carefully measured out the ingredients, while Harry obediently took notes. Ron couldn’t believe just how many ingredients there were, and was surprised to find his favourite food on earth even contained cognac.
After Harry had been given the task of melting the chocolate and butter in a double boiler at the stove, Ron’s mum said, “Ron, dear, why don’t you separate the eggs.” She handed him two bowls and pointed to the basket on the table containing a half dozen fresh eggs robbed from the Weasley’s chickens that morning.
Ron looked at the eggs and the bowls in his hand. Though he had no idea of why he was doing so or what criteria he was expected to follow, Ron quickly carried out the assignment.
“All right, they’re separate,” he said casually, holding up the two bowls for his mother’s inspection.
“Already?” his mother asked, turning quickly and fixing her gaze on the bowls. At first she simply stared, and then the corners of her mouth began to twitch. Next, she produced a sound something like a small cough, followed by a few more. From that she transitioned into giggles which soon grew in length and volume until she was holding onto a chair and laughing uproariously.
Shocked by her reaction, Ron turned to Harry, who stepped away from the stove to examine the cause of Molly’s amusement. In another moment he, too, was nearly legless from laughter, as was Hermione, who had stood to look into the bowls well.
“What?” Ron demanded. “You told me to separate the eggs and I did!”
“Hopeless!” Hermione managed to gasp out through her laughter.
“Oh, Ronnie,” his mother chuckled wheezily.
Looking back to the eggs, Ron tried to suss out just what was so funny. He’d done what he’d been asked to do, and with very little instruction, he might add. He’d decided colour to be the determining factor, and so had placed the four white eggs in one bowl, and the two brown eggs in the other.
“Ron,” Harry said, struggling for breath, “you’re supposed to separate the yolks from the whites!”
“That’s right,” Ron’s mother nodded. “Very good, Harry.”
“Very good, Harry… very good, Harry,” Ron parroted in the same mocking tone he’d used earlier, only this time he was too peeved to keep his voice down. “All right, since you’re so smart, very-good-Harry, why don’t you show me the spell to get the yolk out of an egg!”
Asking Molly to keep an eye on the melting chocolate, Harry stepped over to the table and returned all the eggs to the basket. Taking one, he deftly cracked it on the edge of one of the bowls using one hand. Holding his other hand over the bowl, he poured the egg into it. Setting the shell aside, he poured the egg from one hand to the other, allowing the clear slimy whites to drop between his fingers into the bowl until there was nothing left but the yolk, which he slid into the second bowl.
“Voilà,” he smiled smugly at Ron.
“Excellent, Harry!” Ron’s mother actually clapped her hands.
“And he did it all without magic, Ron,” Hermione giggled.
Ron could feel the blood rising in his face. How the hell was any bloke supposed to know how to do that? How the hell did Harry know how to do that? And yet the three of them stood there acting as if the procedure was common knowledge, and that he was a prat for not knowing it.
Forcing his face into a calm expression, Ron said, “All right, let me have a go.” He took another egg from the basket and held it in his right hand. “Now, the first thing is to crack it open, right?”
“Yes, but gently,” his mother instructed. “You don’t want to break the yolk or the whites won’t whip properly.”
“Oh, of course,” Ron smiled. “Gently. Wouldn’t want to break the yolk.” Then, before anyone could stop him, Ron lifted the egg high and smashed it onto the top of Harry’s head.
“Ronald Weasley!” his mother shouted.
“Oh my,” Ron said with feigned concern, delighting in the shocked look on Harry’s face as egg began to drip down his forehead. “I think I might have broken the yolk. Let’s try that again.”
“Don’t you dare!” his mother threatened, but to no avail. Both Ron and Harry had already made wild grabs at the remaining eggs and taken several steps back from one another, the shelled projectiles clasped in their hands. Harry, being the consummate Seeker, had managed to snatch up two eggs to Ron’s one.
“You’re dead, Weasley,” Harry growled, an evil but playful grin on his face.
“Funny,” Ron grinned back. “You’d think I’d have stopped walking arou –” Before he could finish, Harry had flung an egg towards him. Now it was Ron’s Keeper skills that came into play. In a move that surprised even him, he snatched the egg out of the air intact. “Nice try,” he smirked. “That’s why you’re not a Chaser.”
Ron cocked his arm and flung the egg back at Harry, who attempted to dodge but was blocked by the china cupboard. The egg exploded on his left shoulder, splattering bogey-like goop from his ear to his elbow. As Molly Weasley shouted, Harry crouched down and returned fire with a side-arm fling. Ron crouched as well, not realizing Harry had aimed low. The egg, which would have hit him on his chest, instead smashed on his forehead.
“STOP IT! STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!” Molly screeched frantically. Hermione, always the most practical of the trio, had simply moved out of the line of fire, and was chuckling as Harry jerked left and right, eying the remaining egg in Ron’s hand.
Ron watched Harry’s eyes. He could usually tell if a Chaser was feinting or planning to move in a given direction from the eyes. Sure enough, Harry made as if to dodge left, but Ron aimed his egg right and hit Harry full on the chest.
With a roar, Harry lunged forward as Ron ducked. However, running into Ron hadn’t been Harry’s intention. Instead he reached past him and stuck his hand into the bowl of flour Molly had measured out. As Ron turned, he was engulfed in a white cloud as Harry flung a handful of flour into his face.
Unable to see, Ron groped around the table looking for anything he could use as a weapon. His hand found a bowl filled with some sort of powdery substance, and he grabbed as much as he could. Wiping one eye, he found Harry and flung what turned out to be cocoa powder at him. It fell all about his head and stuck to the egg still dripping through his hair and down his face.
“Now that’s enough!” Molly snapped as she stepped between them, but it was too late. Flour, cocoa, and baking powder were filling the air from attacks and counterattacks until there was nothing left to throw. Finally, Ron and Harry stopped and just stared at one another, panting for breath. Examining the results of their food fight, they both began snorting and then broke down into guffawing laughter.
“THAT’S IT!” Molly screeched. “That’s the last time I try to teach you two anything! You can both starve for all I care! I have never seen such immature behaviour from so-called adults in my life! Even Fred and George…” And on she went.
“I tried to warn you, Molly,” Hermione said shrugging, once Ron’s mother had paused for a breath. “Now you see what I’ve put up with all these years.”
“Well, you certainly have my sympathies,” Molly spat, brushing her hands briskly over the front of her apron, apparently unaware of the various powders covering the rest of her body and colouring her hair brown and white. “Just look at the state of this kitchen! Look at the state of me!”
“Don’t worry, Mum,” Ron said as contritely as he could while still laughing. “We’ll clean it up.”
“You’ll do no such thing!” Molly replied. “I’ve had it with both of you! I want you out of my kitchen and out of my sight!”
“Mrs. Weasley…” Harry said in an apologetic tone.
“No, Harry!” Molly retorted. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll take Ron and Floo home before I really lose my patience! And don’t even think about coming back until you’ve both grown up!”
After enduring another three or four minutes of Molly’s shouts and Hermione’s glares, Ron found himself tumbling out of the fireplace into the living room of the Little Burrow. Harry followed a second later amidst a cloud of soot, flour and cocoa powder.
“Well, you really did it this time,” Harry began immediately, though when he looked at Ron, he appeared to have trouble keeping the smile from his lips. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen your mother so angry.”
“Well, you have a short memory, then,” Ron snorted. “Did you forget her last visit?”
“Nah, this was worse,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I think she was more upset because it was her kitchen.”
“I’m not too worried about that,” Ron chuckled. “It’ll take her and Hermione about half a minute to clean up the mess.”
“Speaking of which,” Harry said, holding out his arms and looking down at his flour encrusted t-shirt.
“Yeah, I suppose we ought to change,” Ron agreed with Harry’s unfinished observation.
“I think a shower might be in order as well.” Harry touched the top of his head, and added, “The egg is beginning to harden.”
“You’ve always been hot-headed,” Ron laughed. “I reckon it’s started to cook.”
“I’ve got a hot head?” Harry said with raised eyebrows. “You started it.”
“Oh, sure,” Ron said sarcastically. “It could never be very-good-Harry’s fault. It must be ham-handed, clumsy, doesn’t-know-anything-about-cooking-Ron’s fault.”
“Does everything have to be a competition with you?” Harry asked with a slanted smile. “It’s not my fault I had to learn to cook for the Dursleys.”
“You could have cooked crap for them,” Ron reasoned. “You didn’t have to get so good at it.”
“I never heard you complain when you were shoveling my steak and kidney pie into your pie hole.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ron replied, trying his best to sound as if he was conceding the point. Then he added, “About that…”
“About what?” Harry asked, just the slightest bit irked.
“We really should talk to Mum about teaching you how to make a proper steak and kidney pie. Yours isn’t nearly as good as hers.”
Ron fought the urge to smile as noticed his comment had its intended effect. Harry’s face reddened so fast that he might have been a Weasley.
“Not as good as hers?!” Harry sputtered. “And just what makes hers so good? You have a lot of nerve saying – ” Harry stopped his rant as soon as Ron started snorting. His face contorted through a few emotions before he finally settled on comprehension. “One of these days, Weasley,” he said threateningly.
“One of these days you’ll learn to cook properly?” Ron asked, still chuckling.
“Hark who’s talking,” Harry chided. “At least I know how to separate an egg.”
“Don’t start that again,” Ron warned. “Not unless you want to spend the rest of the day cleaning our kitchen.”
“Can’t scare me,” Harry smirked. “I know we don’t have any eggs.”
“Well, if there’s one thing you should have learned today, it’s that I can make a weapon out of anything,” Ron replied, glancing towards the kitchen.
“All right, all right,” Harry conceded. “I think we’d do better to clean up the mess from the last fight before we get into another.” He turned to walk down the hallway, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. Looking back over his shoulder, he added. “I’m gonna have a shower. Care to join me?”
They left a trail of soiled clothing all the way from the lounge to the bathroom. In a matter of moments, Ron stood behind Harry, massaging shampoo through his sticky hair while Harry purred his approval.
“Well, I may not be able to cook,” Ron noted, “but I know what you like.” He slid his hands down Harry’s neck and over his shoulders, and then reached around to his chest. Harry pressed back into him as Ron’s hands roamed further still, making small circles on his slim abdomen while his fingers brushed his coarse pubic hair.
“Mmmmmm,” Harry hummed as he tilted his head back onto Ron’s shoulder. Ron kissed him on the cheek while he rested his right palm flat on Harry’s engorged cock.
“Wanna see my recipe for a Harry Jelly?” He asked teasingly, softly gripping Harry’s manhood.
“Oh, fu-uck,” Harry groaned in response.
“I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I?” Ron teased even more as he began stroking Harry’s distended dick at a torturously slow rate.
“Oh, fuck, Ron… fuck, Ron… fuck, Ron,” seemed to be all Harry was able to say.
Never one to pass up an opportunity, Ron said, “Not a bad idea.” Still grasping Harry, Ron turned them around and said, “Hands on the wall, Harry.”
As if under an Imperius Curse, Harry obediently leaned forward, placing his splayed hands against the tiles. Ron reached up to the shower caddy where he’d confidently put his wand when they’d entered the shower. Pointing it at Harry’s tight anus with his left hand, he muttered the Lubricatus charm, inserting the tip just enough to ensure a comfortable coating of Harry’s interior. All the while his right hand continued stroking Harry, quickly enough to keep him on edge, but slowly enough to ensure he wouldn’t finish too soon.
“Spread your legs for me, love,” Ron whispered into Harry’s ear. Harry obediently complied, and Ron lined himself up, pushing forward with his hips until he shivered from the intense feeling of the head of his cock being gripped by Harry’s tight sphincter. Bit by bit, he continued pushing until, after what seemed like hours, his hips pressed firmly against Harry’s arse. Despite the intensity of the feelings, and the lack of blood to his brain, Ron still had the capacity to chuckle, “Now we’re cookin’, eh?”
Ron took Harry’s panting breaths as agreement, and began to buck forward and back, while increasing the tempo of his hand on Harry’s cock to match that of his rocking hips. Harry whimpered in what Ron chose to interpret as carnal lust, the sound sending a rush of adrenaline through the tall redhead. Soon, their wet skin slapped with Ron’s thrusts, loudly enough to be heard over the sounds of the warm, splashing water still pouring from the showerhead.
When he could activate an ample number of brain cells, Ron remembered to slow his pace so as not to end things too quickly. It was always over too quickly, of course. Ron knew of no better feeling than to be deeply embedded inside Harry, but he also knew that the feeling couldn’t last forever. Even if he could hold out for an hour, Harry would never allow him to withhold the fast, fierce thrusts he always demanded, in rather vulgar words, when Ron fucked him.
Today was no different. “Fuck me, Ron!” Harry insisted. “Fuck me hard! Ram that beautiful huge cock in me! Fuck my arse hard!” The first time he’d heard it, Ron had been a bit disconcerted. He’d have never guessed that his reserved, normally quiet, best mate would be so crudely vocal when it came to sex. Still, he couldn’t deny it was stimulating, and he couldn’t deny Harry what he asked for.
Harry rocked forward each time Ron pushed into him, grunts and groans punctuating his pleas for more speed and power. From somewhere deep within himself, Ron found a reserve of strength that allowed him to fulfill Harry’s request. His own desire overcame any ability to hold back, like a werewolf obeying the shining full moon, turning him into an animal functioning purely on instinct.
“Oh, Godric, YES!” Harry shouted loudly as Ron plowed as deeply as he could. “That’s it, Ron! Right there! Oh, fucking bloody hell!” Shielded from the falling water by the top half of Harry’s body, Ron could feel Harry’s hot come flowing over his hand, at the same time gasping as Harry’s arsehole tightened almost painfully around his throbbing shaft.
Pushed over the edge by this proof of Harry’s orgasm, Ron drove as deeply as he could into Harry and began coming deep inside his bowels, shouting in turn, “Oh, fuck, Harry. You’re fucking incredible!”
For a long time after they stood in the same positions, panting for breath, unable to speak. Eventually, however, Ron felt Harry quiver beneath him. He stood up straight and pulled his softening cock out of Harry’s slick hole. Barely able to stand himself, he nevertheless managed to catch Harry under the arms as his lover all but collapsed, lowering him slowly to the tiled floor. Giving into his own post-coital exhaustion, Ron sat down next to Harry, wrapping an arm around his waist and allowing him to rest his head against his chest.
“And that,” Ron said between deep breaths, “is how you make a Harry Jelly.”
“Bet your mum doesn’t even know that recipe,” Harry chuckled tiredly into Ron’s chest.
“I should hope not!” Ron said quickly.
“Then again,” Harry said, looking up mischievously, “She’d know how to make an Arthur – ”
“Harry!” Ron said, shocked. “Shut up!”
Harry laughed, replacing his head on Ron’s chest as the water continued to flow over them both. “Well, at least I can tell her you’re not totally hopeless when it comes to following a recipe.”
“It’s easy if you have the right ingredients,” Ron smiled. “Take one part horny Harry, insert one part of a horny Ron, add water and mix vigorously.”
“Yeah, let’s just keep that recipe our little secret, shall we?” Harry snorted.
“Not a problem,” Ron nodded. “I do like chocolate gateau, but I think I might actually prefer a Harry Jelly.” Tightening his one-armed embrace a bit, he added, “And you’re the only one to whom I’ll be giving cooking lessons.”