A Motherly Intervention.

Title: Coq Au Vin, Anyone?
Author: pekeleke
Rating: T
Pairing(s): Severus Snape/Harry Potter.
Challenge: Prompt 20 (Picked from an online seasonal prompt list): Baking.
Word Count: 2123
Content: Chapter 20 of my Christmas Series: A Motherly Intervention.
Warnings: Getting Together. Enemies to friends to lovers. Mild Angst. Romance.
Disclaimer: The characters, setting, and the HP franchise are owned by JKR and not me. I make no profit from writing this piece of fanfiction.
A/N: Unbeated. Posting one chapter a day from December 1st to the 25th.
Summary: "Told you dinner would be worth your time," Harry crows. He sounds so happy and excited that just listening to his voice brings the widest grin to Molly's face.“

CoqAu Vin, Anyone?

Molly is finalizing the list of ingredients she needs for her Christmas's lunch menu when she remembers the fancy set of baking pans some fan sent Harry a couple of years ago. Molly can't begin to guess why the witch had assumed that Harry could bake. Harry is an excellent cook, if you can get him inside a kitchen, but baking somewhat escapes him. Despite the unlikelihood that he'd ever use them, the pans in question were of such intricate design and good quality that Harry had decided not to donate them like he does with almost everything else he receives.

At the time, Harry had attempted to gift them to her, but Molly had refused to accept them, reasoning that she could always borrow them if the need arose. This year Molly is in the mood to crown her seasonal feast with the most decadent Christmas pudding in existence, and she'd like to bake it in a pan that will also shape it into a visual masterpiece.

Molly casts a Tempus charm to ensure it's late enough for Harry to have left work. He should have been back home for a couple of hours by now, and she can't remember him mentioning any specific engagements for the evening. Thus reassured, Molly grabs a pinch of floo powder and throws it into her hearth, calling out Harry's Floo coordinates. The call connects instantly, reinforcing her belief that he must be at home. Harry's security wards are such that Grimmauld Place goes on complete magical lockdown whenever he's away.

There is nobody in the living room. And the place is so unexpectedly neat that Molly does a double-take and cranes her head forward to ensure she hasn't called someone else by mistake. This is definitely Grimmauld Place, just— cleaner. Harry's usual collection of messy socks is missing from its customary place under the coffee table, and the haphazard collection of empty cups perched on every available surface has also mysteriously disappeared.

Furthermore, Harry's pile of old case files, newspaper clippings, and random consultation books is nowhere to be seen. The side of the sofa is so shockingly clutter-free that Molly can finally see the furniture's wooden feet resting on the fireside rug; she hasn't seen them for two years. The rug is also crumb-free. Harry's dirty old trainers are gone from their usual spot in the corner.

Molly wonders if Harry has finally caved to Draco's nagging and borrowed one of the manor's house-elves. Poor Kreacher is too old to keep up, and Narcissa is openly furious about the general air of disrepair of the property. Ginny says that her mother-in-law has berated poor Harry on at least three separate occasions for allowing the charming home she remembers to collect 'dreadful doxy nests in the parlor curtains.' In Molly's humble opinion, Narcissa is a bit of a snob and a neat freak to boot, but she does have a point in this case.

Molly clears her throat loudly. It's unusual for Harry not to be holed up in the living room. Thus she's rarely had to deal with calling his attention to the floo and doesn't know what else to do. Nothing happens. Molly frowns, now thoroughly puzzled, and is trying to decide whether she should attempt to cross over or give up and send him an owl when she hears a loud burst of laughter coming from the direction of Harry's kitchen.

Molly's puzzlement instantly dissolves into bubbly delight, for she might have heard it only a couple of times so far, but she's already familiar with the sound of Severus's mirth. She looks back around the living room, reassessing the exceptional cleanliness of it now that she knows that Harry is not only entertaining but that he's also somehow managed to convince Severus to return to Grimmauld Place. Quiet contentment settles in Molly's heart. This is good. This is more than good. It is perfect, actually. She can't believe how far they've managed to progress out of her sight.

She's about to drop the call and leave Harry to his courting when the door to the kitchen creaks open. Severus's voice reaches her clearly, now that he's standing in the corridor. Molly is too curious to retreat at that point and shamelessly decides to lurk, head firmly stuck inside green-tinged flames, hoping to learn whether this is a strictly friendly meeting or she has proper reason to celebrate.

"Despite my reservations to the contrary, I must admit you have reason to boast. Your Coq Au Vin is to die for, Harry," Severus says, and Molly gasps, beyond shocked.

Although he is skilled in the art, mostly due to the abysmal laziness of his horrible aunt, Harry rarely bothers to cook. He is content enough with the leftovers Molly sends over, and when he gets tired of home-cooked meals, orders stuff from that spicy place round the corner that Ron and him like so much. In the ten years since the end of the war, Harry has cooked for her a grand total of four times. All of them had been special occasions. And every single time, he'd produced a praise-worthy meal. Molly can very well understand why Severus is impressed.

"Told you dinner would be worth your time," Harry crows. He sounds so happy and excited that just listening to his voice brings the widest grin to Molly's face.

"Yes, you did. And you were right. Still, I didn't want to inconvenience you like this. It's hard to come home at the end of a long day and muster enough enthusiasm to tinker in the kitchen."

"That depends on how motivated one is, Severus. I've been dying to feed you since I learned you survive on nothing but sandwiches."

Molly frowns. She's never heard that tidbit of information before. It's no wonder that Severus is so thin that it looks like the slightest breeze could lift him. She needs to start sending him leftovers too.

"I eat properly on Fridays," Severus points out, and Molly's cheeks color with pleasure.

"There are seven days in a week, Severus. Seven. You can't have a proper meal only once a week and starve yourself the rest of the time."

"Don't be so dramatic. Sandwiches are perfectly acceptable meals. They're also easy enough to make and don't require me to approach either a flame or a cauldron after coming home from work. I get enough of that at the lab."

"Is that really the reason why you don't cook or are you trying to hide the fact that you can't do it? For a second there, you sounded just like Angelina," Harry teases him, and Molly worries that Severus will find his comment offensive until he hears him chuckle.

"You've found me out. I'm terrible at it," Severus confesses, "I survived on Hogwarts' fare while I was a student there and enrolled on a magical boarding college to do my mastery for the same reason. I became a teacher so soon after graduating that I never developed proper skills in this arena. Once I was back at Hogwarts, I didn't see the point in trying."

"It's just so strange to hear you say you can't cook," Harry says softly, "You're such a gifted potioneer."

"And you're an excellent cook who can't brew a potion to save his life," Severus snarks, and Harry bursts out into laughter.

"Point. Still, now that I've proved I can feed you without poisoning you, you must promise to let me feed you at least twice a week, Severus."

"Harry-

"Please. I'm worried about you, and I enjoyed planning this meal. It was no trouble, I swear."

"I don't think-

"I'll sic Molly on you. If I describe your diet habits to her even in passing, she'll mother-hen you to death. You must know she's already unhappy about how thin you are."

"Don't you dare. She'll worry unnecessarily."

"Not unnecessarily, you, git. Molly cares about you. All of us do. Let us fuss over you, please. It's no trouble. I promise."

"It just— it feels like taking advantage," Severus argues, but his tone lacks the firmness he usually employs when he's adamant about refusing aid. Molly is ninety percent positive that he's at least a little bit tempted to let Harry coddle him.

"It's only taking advantage when you're the one demanding care. I'm offering it freely. Let me feed you twice a week. Molly will take care of Fridays. That's three days out of seven. I'll talk to Draco and George; they can take you out at least once each. That'll only leave you unsupervised over the weekends."

"You make me sound like a toddler. I'm almost fifty years old. I don't need round-the-clock supervision. The very idea is embarrassing, Harry," Severus grumbles, even though Molly can practically hear the defeat in his tone. Severus wants to surrender in this instance. He longs to be looked after, and the fact that Harry wants to look after him means they're working toward the same goal for once.

"I won't involve George or Draco if you agree to go to Molly's an extra day. Alternatively, you can let me take you out to diner on top of eating here twice, and we'll keep it between us."

"Don't you have better things to do with your evenings than chasing after me? According to the papers, you're a very busy young man," Severus snarks.

"I'm not so young anymore. According to Molly, it's high time I start chasing after somebody. I like you well enough, Severus, so I might as well chase after you."

Molly holds her breath, impressed at Harry's boldness, and her heart threatens to burst right out of her throat with anxiety in the small silence that follows.

"That's not as funny as you think, Harry," Severus says finally, and Molly wishes she could see his face because there's something strangely vulnerable coloring his tone.

"I'm not joking, Severus," Harry says firmly, voice gone soft with unmistakable sincerity.

Severus hesitates, "I-er— I can't invite myself to Molly's willy-nilly, anyway. I'm not a charity case."

"No, you're not," Harry counters swiftly, treading his way around Severus's oblique answer rather masterfully, "You're family. Your name is on the clock, remember? Molly would be delighted to look after you if letting me do it frightens you so much. Caring for her flock is what she does best."

"I'm not afraid of— I just don't want her to worry. That's all."

"Is that your way of telling me to back off or the excuse you plan to use to justify a closer friendship between us?"

"I— you weren't playing games. After the trial. Were you? I'm starting to think you meant it when you kissed me."

Molly's eyes threaten to bug right out of their sockets. It's happening. Right now. Her boys are finally talking about their feelings.

"Of course I meant it," Harry says simply, "I mean it now too."

"And your partying? Your scandalous lifestyle and the different lovers you entertain on a nightly basis? How does that fit in with—  me?"

"It doesn't. I haven't gone out clubbing since you started showing up at Molly's. And I won't go back to it. I was playing the field because the man I wanted wasn't available. I won't settle for anyone but you, Severus."

"I'm not sure. I'm twenty years your senior, and ugly as sin. You could do so much better than me."

"No, I couldn't. And you won't be able to convince me to the contrary," Harry growls.

"Hum," Severus hums but fails to communicate his own thoughts immediately after. He's probably staring thoughtfully at his feet like he's wont to do whenever he's trying to figure what to do. Harry must be sweating up a storm. Merlin knows Molly herself is so anxious that the butterflies fluttering around inside her tummy have just turned into a murder of crows.

"Sandwiches are perfectly acceptable meals, Potter. Every pub in the land serves them," Severus offers, at last, apropos of nothing, and Molly feels utterly dejected.

Harry, on the other hand, sounds upbeat. His Severus's speech translator must be more accurate than Molly's, "You calling me Potter because you're mad or because I'm winning?"

"Both," Severus huffs, and Molly sighs with relief. She's heard enough. It's time for her to drop the call. Harry is too busy to entertain her right now, anyway. She hangs up quietly and sits back on her fireside rug with the biggest smile on her face. She must visit the craft store at once. She must purchase a few spools of extra wool. She needs to start working on Severus's first family sweater, posthaste. Christmas is going to be very special indeed this year. She can feel it in her bones.