HarryPotter- Harmione One Shots

Potter Chefs

They'd decided to ease off on their use of magic after Ron's abrupt departure, an impromptu dance in a music-filled tent, and a crushed wand beneath a giant snake.

Hermione quickly learns that Harry is pretty good with a pot, a few herbs, and some stolen,grubby potatoes from a nearby village. She doesn't feel good about stealing, but the rumble of her stomach and the anonymity the Invisibility Cloak leant her provided enough of a buffer between her and her moral compass to snap up some potatoes.

She watches him fall into a rhythm--snap off some rosemary leaves, steadily peeling the potatoes with a small pocket knife, deftly cutting the potatoes and depositing them into the boiling pot of water over the fire he'd built.

He rummages through her bag of collected mushrooms with a discerning eye before tossing them over the small grate, along with the potato peelings, on the fire after another dash of rosemary and salt.

She rests her chin on the knees she's drawn up to her chest and just watches him and lets a peace settle over her in the comfort his tranquility provides.

"Harry?"

He 'hmms' in response, flipping the nicely grilled mushrooms and peelings over and watching the precious drippings hiss into the fire. He huffs and mutters something about wishing he had foil and throws a look over his shoulder.

"Just wondering where you learned to cook..."

He smiles-one of those special Harry smiles that is part sadness and part acceptance and it makes her think of little boys with skinned knees and watery, compassionate eyes.

He clears his throat and shrugs his shoulder noncommittally, "Just learned. You know how it is,'Mione."

He tries not to think about all of the searing burns, spitting oil, and slaps he received as he was 'taught' by Aunt Petunia how to properly fry up a bit of bacon, brown meat for a shepherd's pie, or torch the delicate, fluffy whiteness of a meringue.

He smiles quickly, keeping it light and vague.

She raises an eyebrow, "You did eat my mushrooms from last week, right? I think it's pretty evident I don't know how it is." Harry laughs at the pained look on Hermione's face, as if it was too much for her to admit she was inadequate at something.

He waves her over, eyeing the boiling pot of meager potatoes.

"C'mere for a second, I'll let you in on a chef's secret."

She scrambles to her feet and walks over to the small, makeshift kitchen. He tugs her hand down so that she's sitting next to him, cross-legged and attentive.

He looks at her, face serious and she almost wants to giggle if this is his impression of a teacher face. Harry clears his throat dramatically and points to the pot of boiling potatoes.

"Now, Ms. Granger, we call this boiling water. You'll find if you fill the pot with enough water and salt and place it over a fire, it will rise to a hot enough temperature that it will boil. Are you getting all this down? Should we find some parchment for you or..."

She slaps his arm and throws her head back, laughing. "Prat!"

He laughs too and suddenly they are hunched over potatoes and mushrooms, tears streaming down their faces, leaning into one another and struggling to breathe through their hiccups of laughter.

It's a catharsis in a way--releasing fears and anxieties and exhaustion into something positive. The smoke around them smells faintly of charcoal and Harry rights himself quickly, removing the slightly burned mushrooms and potatoes peels from the makeshift stove.

She takes a crunchy potato peel and bites into the savory, earthy goodness. It quells the tightening feeling of hunger and she can't help the soft moan of pleasure and relief she feels.

Harry pauses and looks up at her, head tilted back and eyes closed. He feels the corner of his mouth tilted up slightly in a smile he can't help. The flames bounce off of her skin and provide enough warmth to infuse her cheeks with a soft warmth, reddening her cheeks and making her look infinitely beautiful.

He reaches out, tentative and unsure, to tuck back a tendril of hair and her eyes fly open at his touch. He quickly pulls back and makes himself busy with stirring the pot of potatoes, clearing his throat.

"Sorry, you just, uh, had a, uh, thing."

She laughs softly and girlishly and something warm and fierce stirs in his chest. He cooked for her, made a fire for her, made her laugh, gave her escape. He feels stupid and giddy and reckless.

He remembers that this is what he's fighting for--Hermione and potatoes and mushrooms and fire and captured moments of happiness.

He's startled out of his thoughts by a warm press of lips to his cheek. He looks at her, eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

She blushes prettily and pops another mushroom into her mouth.

"You had a thing too."

He grins and she smiles back. Something had shifted between them. Perhaps this was another one of those things you couldn't go through without becoming more than friends--surviving abandonment and learning to live on their own, without magic, just the two of them, total isolation.

Hermione leans her head against his shoulder and it doesn't feel weird at all. It feels natural and he presses a kiss to the top of her head and inhales the scent of her--woodsy and sweet all at once.

He clears his throat and continues his lesson, "You clean the rosemary off the branch first. Don't use any of the stem or the very woody parts of the plant. They taste bitter. If you can, cut up the rosemary to release the oils--or flavor--in the herb. Even better, if you toast it, it heats the oils up and also helps enhance the flavor. For the mushrooms..."

He keeps going, Hermione a pleasant, warm weight next to him. Her arm winds itself around his waist and he finds his own arm coming up around her shoulders, anchoring her against his side. Weeks, maybe months , later they are done with the war and have escaped the scrutiny of the Wizarding World and the newspaper. They've disappeared to a small forest where she once whispered into his skin that she wished they could stay there, grow old together.

They build a small cottage with a roomy kitchen and that first night she drags him to their rickety table and sits him down and produces a pot and a sack of potatoes and mushrooms and a sprig of rosemary.

"Now, Mr. Potter, you better take notes because I'm about to make the best potato and mushroom soup you've ever had."

He laughs and gets up from the kitchen, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her to him.

"I love you, Mrs. Potter."

She beams.

"I love you too, Mr. Potter."