Story Title: It's Quite Nice Here

School and Theme: Hogwarts; Write about a budding relationship

Year: 1

Mandatory Prompt: [Action] Baking

Additional Prompt: [Plot Point] Muggle AU

Word Count: 2,434

Additional information/Triggers: Muggle AU, mentions of death


When Molly's thirteen-year-old son, Ron, asks if he can bring his new friend Harry home from school one evening, she doesn't hesitate to say yes.

A young boy with messy jet-black hair and round-rimmed glasses arrives on her doorstep, and he's the spitting image of his father — apart from his vibrant green eyes, which he takes after his mother. Molly knows all about the Potters, of course, and how they met their tragic end in a car accident when Harry was only a baby. Harry now lives with his aunt and uncle, an experience that Ron describes as 'leaving much to be desired'.

"Hello, I'm-"

"Harry! How wonderful to meet you. Come in, come in!"

She ushers the two boys inside, wanting to encourage nothing but a cheerful presence. The stories Ron has shared about his friend already have her on edge — how Harry's Uncle Vernon yells at him to get in the car when he picks him up from school, bypassing any pleasantries, or how he directs his nephew into the cupboard underneath the stairs as punishment after meals. The mistreatment Harry suffers is appalling, and the notion fuels her desire to get to know the young boy even more.

"I've got biscuits warming in the oven and a tray already cooling on the rack. Make yourself at home, Harry. I'll return with a snack plate in a few minutes."

As Molly strolls to the kitchen, she overhears the curious boy whispering, "Your mum is nice," to which Ron mutters under his breath, "You've never seen her angry before." The quip from her son tugs a smile at the corner of her lips.

She attunes her trained ear to listen in to their conversation as she works, and Harry's next words quickly wipe the grin off of her face.

"I'd take your angry mum any day over my Aunt Petunia on a good one."

Molly's fists clench on the counter. How is it possible that a child as warm and well-mannered as this one could be so disregarded?

His intense history reminds Molly of her loss, one so profound even when surrounded by family, and it's almost unbearable to think of this young boy going through it alone. When she dealt with the unexpected death of her two brothers, Fabian and Gideon, she had relied on her family to pull her through. It breaks every part of her heart to know Harry had to live through that experience without someone by his side.

Molly busies herself by filling a plate with shortbread biscuits as she dwells on her worries. Although she is eager to return to the two boys, the familiar irresistible scent of vanilla and cinnamon spice wafting through the kitchen calms her enough to finish her task. A loud crash from the other room causes her to drop the small, flat-baked treat in her hand on the edge of the porcelain, snapping the biscuit into crumbling pieces.

"Fred! George!" Ron cries out.

A heavy breath leaves Molly's mouth as she rubs her temple, inwardly chastising the ill-timed appearance of her rambunctious and rowdy twins.

"Aw, Ronnie actually has a friend. We were wondering." Fred sniggers.

George joins in with another taunting remark. "Yeah, we thought Harry might be a figment of his imagination!"

"Don't pick on him!" Molly's hand freezes as she's reaching for the last biscuit to add to the heaping pile, realizing the voice didn't come from any of her children. "He didn't do anything to you!"

All is quiet after Harry's outburst — too quiet — and she quickly formulates a plan on how to chat with the young boy. She's developed a keen sense of what projecting anger looks like. It's an opportunity, if he allows it, for her to help him through his struggles, despite how little she knows of his upbringing.

She grabs a clean flannel to dust off the excess crumbs from her fingers, holding it in her hands as she takes quick strides to set her plan in motion.

"Harry?" Molly maintains a calm, appeasing tone as she opens the swinging door that separates her from the living room. "Would you mind helping me in the kitchen?"

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley."

A glance around the small, but bright room reveals that the twins have already disappeared much faster than she expects is humanly possible. She turns to the only head of ginger hair remaining in sight apart from her own.

"Ronald, I believe you have washing to tend to, right?"

"But-"

Molly sends Ron a look so stern that it rivals the time he got behind the wheel of his father's Ford Anglia without permission. It silences his protest in an instant.

"Fine." Her youngest son relents, giving his friend an apologetic shrug before bounding up the stairs to his bedroom in the attic.

Harry follows Molly into the kitchen with hunched over shoulders that allow the edges of his long-sleeved shirt — which is much too large for his small frame — to hide his bony fingers. His sullen and withdrawn demeanor leaves Molly wondering if she's made the right choice singling him out so soon. At the same time, she sees a boy suffering without complaint, and she's itching to learn more about him.

She points to an old, repurposed metal container in the center of the dining table. "My children always raid the biscuit tin, so I give you full permission to do so as well."

Molly watches in silence as Harry skims his fingers over the large wooden table and mismatched chairs crammed inside the small kitchen before he examines the pile of cookbooks stacked on the dusty mantlepiece of the cozy fireplace against the wall.

"You can borrow one if you'd like."

"No thanks." Harry shakes his head, placing the copy of 100 Cheese Recipes to Charm Your Guests back into its original position. "I think my Uncle would get rid of it before I could return it to you."

Molly twists the towel in her hands a little tighter, bristling over how hard she bites down on her tongue. Harry isn't her child, and she mustn't say or do anything that will overstep her boundaries.

"Well… you're welcome to read them when you're here, then."

Harry doesn't respond. He's moved to the stove, studying the bubbling caramel inside her favorite well-loved pot, rusting from over the years. Picking up the wooden spoon on the counter, Harry stirs the sauce with mindful ease — and without instruction to do so — until it turns to its signature golden brown color and a sweet, nutty aroma fills the air.

Molly crosses her arms, observing the scene in front of her with brimming curiosity. "Do you bake?"

"Not really. But I make breakfast for my aunt, uncle, and cousin all the time."

Judging by how thin he looks, Molly wonders if he's even allowed to eat a large enough portion of what he cooks for his family — if they're suitable enough for that title. She mentally catalogs a reminder to give him additional helpings at mealtimes.

"It sounds like you know your way around a kitchen."

"I've never made biscuits before, though." Harry's voice grows quiet as he avoids her gaze. "I'm not allowed to have them."

Molly's heart sinks to the pit of her stomach. Yet, she forces a smile upon her face, determined to maintain a positive stance. She opens the rickety door to the back garden to allow in the fresh air, listening for the sound of the croaking frogs in the nearby pond that has always soothed her, and also hoping that the natural light will bring additional warmth into the room.

"Well, you're in luck. I just started mixing a fresh batch. Care to help me?"

His silent nod is all the affirmation Molly needs to pull on her apron and roll up her sleeves. She slides the ceramic bowl, already filled with a generous amount of white flour, in front of Harry.

"The key is to add loads of butter and sugar. It's how we achieve the perfect crispness on the outside of the biscuit while still maintaining its soft, chewy center." She flips to a marked page in her tattered recipe book before placing it on a stand in front of Harry, taking great care to wipe off any stains or blotches from previous uses. "Make sure to read the instructions very, very clearly. Wouldn't want to accidentally use salt instead of sugar, now would we?"

Harry gets to work straight away on measuring out the appropriate portions of each ingredient, and the experienced baker is thoroughly impressed by his ability to read the tiny, almost illegible scrawl on the page. He's a natural in the kitchen, she quickly realizes, and he approaches each methodical task much as she would.

Baking is a salve that's gotten Molly through her darkest days; training her so she can be fully present and engaged in one single activity, and leave behind any unwanted or negative distractions. She wonders if Harry feels the same.

"I'm always bustling around the house," she mentions to him after a few minutes of working in comfortable silence together. "Spending adequate time in the kitchen reminds me to slow down."

Harry hums his agreement. "It's quite nice."

Quite nice, indeed.

After encouraging Harry to not be shy about scraping the sides of the bowl to maximize the dough proportions for each dollop added to the baking sheet, Molly turns to him as he's maneuvering the tray of biscuits into the oven with careful, steady hands.

"I see that you are quite protective over my son."

Harry's fingers still as he's turning the knob to set the timer. He winces. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley, I—"

"Oh, no need for apologies." Molly waves a flippant hand through the air. "Merely an observation. And I appreciate that Ronald has a friend like you to spend his time with. It's not easy growing up with many older brothers."

Harry wanders over to the biscuit tin, plucking out a single round shortbread before slouching in one of the chairs at the dining table. The only sound that follows in the room is his gentle munching, as if he is afraid of making too much noise.

Picking up on his quiet behavior, Molly takes the seat across from him. "I also imagine life hasn't always come easy for you, hm?"

Although tempted to give him unsolicited advice, she holds back. She wants him to talk about himself, but only when he's ready.

She continues, "I lost both of my brothers on the same day. I don't speak of it often."

"Really?" Harry lifts his head, meeting her gaze. "That's terrible. I'm sorry."

Tears of gratitude fill Molly's eyes. No matter what she does, a sense of loneliness creeps in as thoughts of her brothers swirl through her mind, and it's pleasant to have a person to talk to that truly understands the depth of that emotion.

She leans forward with her elbows on the table, keeping her voice low and soft. "We've both dealt with circumstances beyond our control. It takes a tremendous amount of strength to live through what we have."

Harry stares at the mahogany surface, his fingertips nipping at a chip in the wood. The silence that follows is noticeable, but not awkward, and Molly reckons the young boy isn't afraid of it. Sometimes it can be more healing than the most well-intentioned words.

"I was in the car with them. Why me? Why did I get to live?"

The sincerity shown through his mumbled words makes Molly's stomach rollover. It's easy for her to recognize that Harry is suffering from survivor's guilt. She knows it all too well and wishes she could tell him that it gets easier.

Her trembling hand finds its way to Harry's and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay not to have the answer to that question. What I can tell you is that the people we love and then lose in our lives, no matter how much more time we wish we had with them; they don't just disappear."

"I wish my aunt and uncle knew that. They act like my parents never existed and they refuse to mention their names." Harry's voice starts sharp and then it breaks. "It's like there's a taboo against them. I hate that."

"You have real feelings that are valid." Molly gives his hand one more pat before releasing it. "And you shouldn't be afraid of talking about your family."

"Yeah." Harry nods with growing confidence. "I'm not so sure what a family is really supposed to look like, but I've got a better idea now that I've been here."

Her lips part to release a small gasp. She's impressed by the fearless independence and emotional depth this boy possesses, two qualities that few his age seek out — qualities that she wishes she identified with as well.

"Okay, Mum. I'm done with my chores!" Ron makes a loud, startling entrance through the swinging door. His eyes jump back and forth between the pair at the table for one confused second before shaking his head. "Can I go outside with Harry?"

Molly locks eyes with Harry for the briefest of moments, the corner of her lips twitching. "Certainly. But don't go too far."

Ron dashes out the back door before she can finish, and Molly figures that her son can learn about manners from his friend.

She's learned a thing or two from her new one.

Molly grabs a handful of biscuits from the tin, passing them to Harry with a wink. "You best take a few more for later. Baked goods make everyone happy."

"Er, thanks." He shoves the desserts into his pockets before standing and pushing in his chair.

Molly takes in his appearance, remembering herself at his age. As a full-grown adult with children of her own, making friends with a thirteen-year-old wasn't ever considered. When she'd first heard of the young boy, she figured she could be a source of maternal love that he might be looking for.

A different kind of relationship can form when least expected.

"You are welcome here anytime. You don't always have to go it alone. Even in darkness, we can all find a source of light."

"Can I come back and bake with you again, Mrs. Weasley?"

"I'd like that. And Harry?"

When he turns around, his green eyes shining a little bit brighter than they did upon arrival, a magnificent beam spreads across her face.

"Please call me Molly."