It was Tuesday- spaghetti night, and Ron had managed to burn the noodles again. "Merlin's Bollocks", he muttered under his breath, trying rapidly to stir away to smoky steam above the bubbling pasta. "Why can't we just conjure up food like almost everything else? When Mum makes it, it's magic. When I try- well, it's a bloody disaster." She, of course, would be home from the Ministry in a few hours. Hermione Granger, his rather pregnant wife, who for the second time, was incredibly grumpy due to hormones. He was rather wrapped up in what he was doing (attempting to cook for himself and Rosie, who at three was annoyingly brilliant.) Rosie sometimes chattered to herself- mostly fantastical imaginings or mundane things, or whatever thoughts gallop about in the rainbow confusion of wonder that is the three year old mind. "Gamp's law, Daddy," came a small chirp from behind him, originating from plump and cheerful little Rose. He'd gotten lucky that she'd not repeated after him, as Rosie picked up words and thought faster than a centaur's gallop, and curse words that were "charmingly eccentric" to his wife were not so charming coming from his three year old's mouth. He stopped a minute and looked behind him, the pot of pasta and water boiling over rapidly on the stove. He stared at Rosie, "What... did you just say? Can you repeat that for Daddy?" Rose nodded, toying with a small train on the table, "Gamp's law". He looked at her again, in slight disbelief, "What does that mean, Rosie? (notwithstanding that he wasn't sure that she'd gotten the name of the inventor right)". She responded distractedly, making the train go in circles on her placemat at the table, "It's why Mommy thinks that Daddy can't cook. But Daddy can cook- some things." He felt a bit relieved- at least something of what he'd been feeding his daughter was edible. Rosie continued to ramble, as she played with her toy train. "How do you think Mommy would feel about Indian take-out, Rosie?" "Spicy" was the only reply, with a gap toothed grin and the sleepy eyes that suggested that a nap was necessary. "A snack now, a nap, and then take out for dinner it is, Rosie", he stated as he wrangled the sleepy Rose into her room and got her settled down for a nap. Being the parent who was at home the most, he tried to preserve moments that were special for her mother in the form of a very small pevensieve. This memory, he thought, was definitely worth Hermione's attention, even if he was ashamed that he couldn't make pasta that was edible.

His wife rambled through the door two hours later, with sprigs of her hair curling up about her face and straight into the air. He promptly presented her with her container of Indian takeout, a delighted Rosie who was "excited to see Mommy", and a surprise for later.

"No, Ronald, I remember the last time you surprised me. No more," she stated briskly as she patted her belly with a wicked smile spreading across her face. "It's not that kind of surprise, 'Mione, I promise. After you know what today's surprise is, you'll understand that I've already got my hands halfway full with Rosie." Later that evening, Hermione and Ron began to catch up with the day's events. "You know, sometimes I think that Rose is more like you, Ron. She loves food, already wants her own broomstick, is devoted to 'Nuncle Drarry' and is fascinated by television." "Nope, I think she's more like her mum, and I think you'll agree- 'Mione, head into the pevensive please." Hermione gave him a sharp look, but took in the intrigued smile on his face, "Alright". Ten minutes later she came up laughing hysterically with Ron grinning from ear to ear, "Know what's the best part 'Mione?" "That you can't make pasta without burning it and that Rosie knows it?" "Nope, that she's just like her Mum."