Harry loved the kitchens. Even with the house elves and the ever-present magic, they still reminded him of the one part of his childhood that he really didn't mind: cooking.
When he had learned about the house elves, those little servants who cooked and cleaned and puttered about with their strange, powerful magic ... well, honestly he had been a bit disappointed. He had loved cooking, and it would have been wonderful to be able to do some of what he loved while he was living in this new world.
At first, he had considered Potions to be the nearest magical equivalent to cooking. With its careful precise instructions, exotic ingredients, and familiar tools, Potions had been a viable alternative... until he met Professor Snape. Snape had, for lack of a better term, destroyed what passion he might have had for the subject.
Not just metaphorically. He had read in one of the musty old texts in the library that the reason that Potions was a viable magical trade was because the brewer's magic and emotions combined with the ingredients and affected not only the strength of the potion, but the success of it as well. Just like Neville's innate fear of Professor Snape caused his potions to be little more than chopped ingredients floating in a base, Harry's anger and uncertainty made his potions volatile and unresponsive. Muggles could not brew potions, and neither could a wizard who feared or hated them.
Swallowing his pride, Harry decided to give up on Potions. He would go to class, he would chop the ingredients, combine them, stir them. He would be angry at Snape, he would resent the Slytherins, he would be preoccupied. He would scrape by with an 'A', and that was all.
He turned to other things in the meantime. Flying was wonderful; it gave him a taste of the wide-open freedom that he had been denied most of his life. But still there was something missing.
Then the Weasley twins had introduced him to the kitchens, and his worldview had changed.
Now it was almost second nature for him to sneak down here and cook. The elves even gave him his own little corner to work in: a small counter and adjoining stove. Then they would hover about him and watch him work, experiment. Sometimes they would even adapt his own recipes and serve them to the school, which delighted Harry to no end.
He cooked for his own enjoyment, but he also cooked as a form of meditation. The mindless mixing of ingredients was a good way to calm him, but it wasn't the aspect of the art that he truly adored. The experimentation, the choices, they were what he lived for. Should he use basil or cilantro? limes or vinegar? cooking flour or bread flour? The choices, his ability to control something in his life -- that was the beauty of cooking.
The cake was not something prepared, nor was it meditative. He worked without a recipe, carefully measuring and adding ingredients by hand, making his choices, and humming all the while. Cakes were meant for celebration and were always denied to him at the Dursleys'. After all, who would want to celebrate while they were saddled with a freak like him? But not, that chapter of his life was now over, and he turned from the thought. Now was a time for celebration, a celebration of his final mastery of the Patronus Charm -- a spell everyone claimed was years too hard for him to do.
He hesitated a bit as his ears picked up the slight swish of fabric and then ignored it and reached instead for the cocoa. What better way to celebrate his ability to conquer the dementors than with a bit of chocolate?
The one thing he appreciated about magical cooking was the fact that cooking time was radically reduced. Something in the ovens managed to almost speed up time, if that were even possible. All Harry had to do is pop the cake in, set the temperature and cook time and how long soon he needed it done and, well, it worked. So the cake went in to cook an hour's worth in 5 minutes and turned to the tast of creating icing.
Decoration and presentation was nearly as enjoyable as the rest of the art, and it was the only part of the cooking-to-potions analogy that didn't work. The only presentation in potions was in the bottle, and perhaps the taste if the properties of the potion allowed for such leeway in brewing. It was also something that the house elves weren't altogether too skilled at. Every time they served a roast it looked the same; every bowl of mashed potatoes looked like every other. There was no variety between incarnations of the same dish.
But one of the few things he didn't have in the kitchen was the luxury of time, as anyone might waltz right in at any moment, today being no exception. After carefully spreading the chocolate icing about the two layers of the cake and tastefully arranging the sliced strawberry atopt it, Harry picked it up and carried it to the large oak table in the center of the kitchen. The table looked much like an ordinary table from the Great Hall, sturdily constructed with a bench running along either side. Quickly obtaining two place settings, Harry quickly placed them out as well, one on each side of the table, and put a pitcher of cold milk alongside the cake.
As he poured some milk into one of the glasses, he called out to the seemingly-empty kitchen, "Feel free to join me, Professor."
There was a sharp intake of breath from one of the shadowy corners and then nothing, as if the person was trying to decide upon the appropriate course of action. Then Professor Snape ducked out of the shadows, stalked over, and took the chair across from Harry. "Potter," he growled, looking absurdly out of place and slightly unsure of himself.
Harry ignored the warning tone and handed him the first slice of cake. "I know you don't appreciate my potion-brewing skills," he began and ignored Snape's subsequent snort. "Frankly, I don't appreciate the art enough for my skills to be anything other than adequate on a good day. But I love cooking and I'm good at it."
He didn't say any more. He didn't need to. And Snape didn't need to reply. Harry ate his cake, bid his professor a quiet 'Good night', and left. Snape ate his piece, contemplated the rest of the cake for a moment, and vanished it.