Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of Joanne K. Rowling. Any characters, settings, places from the Harry Potter books and movies used in this work are the property of Joanne K. Rowling, and Warner Brothers, or the movie "Ratatouille" and its owners. Original characters, settings and concepts belong to the author of this work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the private enjoyment of readers at FanFictionNet, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.
All characters, places and events in this story are either the products of the relevant author's imagination or they are used entirely fictiously.
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This was written in response to the following prompts at the LiveJournal community Portus Envy:
dominiondreams wanted:
Severus and Hermione meet up both doing the most unlikely job you can imagine.
anijade requested:
S/HG meeting up in a foreign country but of fluff
And sc010f asked for:
Sev Herms and a reunion (any kind)
Many thanks to duniazade for expert advise on French cuisine.
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Choosing the Restaurant
Hermione caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glossy black finish of her Citroën Déesse Décapotable.
"This is me," she thought, awkwardly balancing a huge stack of cookbooks on one arm, while attempting to open the boot with her free hand.
"Great." All that was visible in the shiny surface of her car was a warped vision of books topped with a mop of bushy hair. Nothing appeared to have changed since the day near the end of her Sixth Year, when she'd scrutinised a very similar tableau in the window of the library at Hogwarts and found herself wanting.
"I think it's apparent I need to rethink my life a little bit," she muttered. With a glance she ascertained that no Muggles were looking her way. Then she pushed the boot open and deposited her books inside, right at the top of the stairs. She couldn't be arsed to put them away on her shelves properly right now. Another quick look around, and she slammed the boot shut again.
"What's my problem?" she grumbled, as she circled her car and slumped in the driver's seat. She switched on the ignition. Her car roared to life with the growl of rudely interrupted nap. "Oh, come on, Bumblebee," she wheedled. "Be a dear and wake up. I promise I'll feed you essence super at the first possible opportunity."
Her car might have started out as a fancy old-timer and penis prosthesis for rich old men. But by now it was so chock-full of magic that it was near – No, scratch that, Hermione thought – that it was sentient.
The bad thing about that was – the car had developed a nasty temper more suited to a toddler in his terrible twos. The good thing about it was, Hermione contemplated, after having placated her volatile vehicle with a tank-full of the best essence super this side of the Channel (or at least that was what she'd told the car), that you could really relax behind the wheel. If the car was in a good mood. And thanks to her bribery, Bumblebee was in a very good mood indeed.
Therefore Hermione leant back in her seat, switched on the radio, gripped the steering wheel lightly in a perfect ten o'clock/two o'clock position … and closed her eyes.
Her musings quickly returned to her original train of thought. "Let's see. So what's my problem? I mean, apart from Harry having turned into a pompous prat who thinks the sun shines out of Shacklebolt's arse, and Ron being happily engaged to his brother's shop … Well, he would be, if that was at all feasible. Right. So, first of all, I'm an outcast Gryffindor among millions of positively Slytherin Muggles, which means life is hard. More's the pity. And second, I have a highly developed sense of justice. Which is a veritable tragedy."
She started drumming her fingers on the steering wheel. Bumblebee picked up on her growing agitation and revved up the engine with a resounding roar.
Right after the war, with the conviction of the righteous (or should that be 'self-righteous'?) she had started a splendid career at the Ministry of Magic as assistant secretary in the Department for Magical Law Enforcement. That had lasted exactly six months, two weeks, five days, nine hours and thirty-seven minutes. Give or take a few seconds. At that precise moment she had realised that her very first project – the posthumous exoneration of Severus Snape – would never happen. And that she'd only been appointed chairwoman of the committee for house-elf relations because no self-respecting house-elf would talk to her and so she wouldn't be underfoot and trying to interfere when heroes of the war like Harry Potter or Percy Weasley or Draco Malfoy made the important decisions on the junior level of the ministry's hierarchy.
Fed up with the wizarding world of Britain, she'd transferred to Beauxbatons Academy and started her Potions apprenticeship.
That attempt at finding gainful magical employment had lasted slightly longer (nine months, one week, seventeen hours and twenty-six minutes, give or take a few seconds) and ended with her throwing a scroll into the fire that listed on exactly seven feet and eleven inches, or two metres, forty-one centimetres and three millimetres, at least eighty different reasons why the Beauxbatons Potions Mistress was nothing but a frumpy fraud who didn't deserve to kiss the boots of one Severus Snape.
Unfortunately that incident had made her come to her senses. Albeit belatedly. Hermione had realised that possibly the establishment was not (or at least not exclusively) to blame for her problems. Indeed, she'd eventually come to the conclusion that her initial interpretation of why she was having all those problems was probably not the fault of the relevant persons or institutions at all.
Upon sober reflection, Hermione had determined that she was the problem.
And not the other way around.
Since she appeared to be unable to change the wizarding world, she turned things around. That way she arrived quickly at an astonishingly simple and surprisingly effective solution: Instead of trying to remove the problems she perceived in the wizarding world and among its inhabitants, she removed herself from the wizarding world and its inhabitants.
In other words, she'd gone Muggle.
She hadn't broken her wands or foresworn magic or any such non-sense. Quite the opposite. Even living in the Muggle world, she used magic daily; though she avoided using it on Muggles, since she didn't want to get into unnecessary (and hugely overrated) trouble with the local authorities. But apart from that, she used it all the time: on herself (cope with her hair without magic? unthinkable), on her car (dear Bumblebee was the only male in her life, and had been for a couple of really good years now) and most important, on the litter-box of her cat.
Now and again she still marvelled at how easy it was to live like that – as a magical vagabond in a Muggle world.
Setting out, the first thing she'd done had been to invest the stipend paid to her by the British Ministry of Magic because she was A Heroine Of The War and A Third Of The Golden Trio into a car. Not just any old car, either; but a black Citroën Déesse Décapotable. And a divine car it was. Especially after she'd enlarged the boot into a comfortable studio apartment with a whirlpool, a library and an open fireplace. She sighed. There might be no one else left for her to love, but at least Hermione could love her car.
As her next step, she'd put the two lessons she'd learnt from the Beauxbatons Potions Mistress to good use and found herself a Muggle job.
"You are what you eat."
And: "The work of a critic is easy."
She'd be damned if she'd go back to the fatty, dull cuisine of Hogwarts and the likes of Molly Weasley, spending her days in a race to close the gap between her width and her height.
Also, if the wizarding world put no value into her ideals or her hard work, she'd rather enjoy ripping apart the products of other hands and other lives, than to be ripped apart herself.
In other words: she really liked her job as restaurant critic for the (in-)famous Guide Rouge Michelin.
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A/N:
Copious quotes from the movie "Ratatouille" in the text.
Citroën Déesse Décapotable is a really fancy car. A friend of mine told me that the French president used to have a Citroën DS.
Bumblebee belongs to me.
And the Guide Rouge Michelin is the most famous guide for eating out and getting drunk in France. They are the guys that award the stars to famous restaurants.
Please feel free to leave a comment! I'm always interested what made you smile, frown, laugh or cry, wonder or wince ... and I don't mind if you let me know which typo slipped through my proofreading.
