Cooks in the Kitchen
AN: Characters don't belong to me and are slightly OOC. First H/S fic, please be gentle!
Chapter 1
Of all the things to leave her for, Ronald Weasley chose the fact that Hermione just couldn't cook. No other woman, no issues with her overtime, or nagging, or excessive flossing. Just no. Ron apologized sweetly to a thoroughly pissed off Hermione and explained slowly, as if to a confused child, that "a wizard simply needs three, solid, lovingly home made meals a day, tea, and treats to tide him over in order to function properly at work." When she furiously pointed out that she thought that was what she had been providing, he simply shook his head sadly and said, "No, babe. You've been providing frozen dinners, take-out, and meals that I can't properly call food. I'm sorry, love. You just can't cook. And a wife that can't cook is no wife at all."
Hermione had hit him over the head with his supper, at that point. He flooed out of their tiny cottage's kitchen with his tail tucked between his legs, Hermione's wand pointed at the family jewels, and scalding hot mozzarella from what was previously dinner trailing down the side of his great, empty, red head. They weren't even married yet, the git. With a few truly masterful flicks of her wand she had his belongings packed in a trunk with a liberal dusting of the twin's patented Ants Pants Powder and through the floo to the Burrow.
So what if she couldn't really cook? She was a busy woman. Between work, charity functions, friends, and family there was little to no time for trial and error in the kitchen. And why the hell couldn't HE do some cooking? He was tired after long days at work. He didn't know the recipe. He couldn't remember the spell to turn on the stove or mash the potatoes. His mother cooks everyday for her larger family, what's cooking for two? And the kicker? He just knew she was better at it than he was. Ron had many excuses. He always had excuses. "Sorry, love, can't help with the chores this weekend. Quidditch with Harry." "Oh, babe, I forgot to tell you I can't make it to your charity ball. I took the night shift as a favor to my supervisor." Or Hermione's favorite. "Hey, love, here's your engagement ring. I had Mum and Ginny pick it out since I didn't have time. Why are you looking at me like that? We are getting married, aren't we?" Best proposal ever.
Ron and Hermione had been together since the Final Battle. 3 years wasted on a relationship she had already known, deep down, just wouldn't work. They were simply incompatible as a romantic couple. Any of that spark that had kept their teenaged selves so fascinated with each other hadn't turned into a flame as they became adults and only sputtered out once living together became generally unbearable. Honestly, though, who leaves a woman after 3 years because you suddenly can't abide her cooking? A great bloody prat, that's who.
Hermione sat down at her dining table and banged her head dully against the surface a few times, groaning from the heartache. Alright, she was more upset that he beat her to the punch than anything. Damn it! She'd had such a great speech prepared, too! She stood suddenly and stalked to the refrigerator and ripping the door nearly off its hinges. Hermione stared at the sad, but truthful evidence of her lack of skill in the kitchen. Rock hard puddings, giant bowls of mystery left overs, no fresh fruits or vegetables, and a packed freezer filled with instant meals. Shit.
Without a second thought about Ron or the cooling pizza on the floor, Hermione found the newest copy of the Daily Prophet at the window where the delivery owl had left it. She tore through the pages until she came upon the advertisement section of the paper. Scanning the pages frantically, she found what she was looking for. A picturless ad she'd seen and taken note of previously, not because of it's cleverness or humor, but because it seemed to scold the reader. "Cooking is an art, not a chore. Become an artist with our Master Chef." Hermione wrote down the address and open hours, planning to go the very next day.