The Angel Investor

Written for the Summer 2014 SSHG_Promptfest on Livejournal. Based on the following prompt: Gallivanting with Granger: write a magical screwball comedy. No angst, no violence, no noncon/dubcon etc; instead lots of witty banter, snappy dialogue and romance (SS/HG).

I had a lot of fun watching screwball comedies in preparation for writing this two-chapter fic. To JK Rowling, I'm grateful you never get your knickers in a twist over Potterverse fanfiction. A big thank you to my alpha and beta team: teddyradiator, tychesong and dragoon811. Ladies, you're the best! Finally, many thanks to iulia_linnea for hosting the Promptfest once again.

Chapter One

Hermione slowly revolved and took in the restaurant's dining room. She admired the walls, which had been freshly painted in a warm gold and hung with gilded mirrors. Tables were draped in luxurious linens and topped with candles, bottles of olive oil, and springtime flowers in vases. Wrought-iron chandeliers cast a cheery light over all.

"Just gorgeous, Marcie," she said. "They did a fantastic job on the floor as well." Burnished, dark-colored floor tiles glowed with sunlight from tall windows.

"I'm over the moon!" replied Marcie Jones, arms outstretched as if to embrace the whole building. "All the customers have remarked on it. Everything's done, thanks to you, and just in time for our grand opening."

"How can you have a grand opening if you've already been open a month?" asked Hermione teasingly.

"Oh, that was just the soft opening," replied Marcie with a shrug. "You know. The vagaries of a free market and all that."

"Well, soft or grand, I'm so glad I was able to make it back in time. I hope tonight goes well."

"It will, thanks to you, dearest. If not for you, Gallivant's would not be a reality today." Marcie gave Hermione a warm hug. "Well now, we only have an hour before we open. Would you like to see the kitchen?"

"Lead on, my dear."

"The walk-in has finally been repaired. No more schlepping in food every afternoon! The rolling shelves fit perfectly. There's still some last-minute prep before the dinner crowd turns up, so …"

The two women threaded their way around the white-suited tables to the double doors which led to the kitchen. Here was Marcie's pride and joy—a realm fit for the creator of delicious Italian specialties.

They peeked into a tiny office, which was cluttered with recipe cards and regional Italian cookbooks, as well as toys, movie disks and video games that had been scattered about by Marcie's young children. Then they walked the length of an industrial workstation with its caddies, knife blocks and shelves. Under the gleaming countertop was open space for pots and pans of all sizes. Two middle-aged women in maroon uniforms were chatting while donning starched white aprons. One was plump with dark hair pulled back in a messy bun. Her companion was rail-thin and had short, spiky grey hair.

Marcie proudly opened the door to the newly-repaired walk-in refrigerator, a generously-proportioned appliance already loaded with racks of food. A little man in chef's whites stood inside, stacking shelves with boxes of cheese and eggs.

Marcie beckoned everyone over. "Barb, Doris, Arnie? I'd like you to meet our angel investor, the mysterious Hermione Granger."

Hermione laughed. "She always introduces me that way. Pay no mind! I'm never a mystery to my friends."

"You are positively an enigma," replied Marcie as Hermione shook hands with the staff. "You left me when we were eleven— cruelly left me!—to go off to some boarding school nobody ever heard of, and when you came back around in the summers, you refused to tell me anything about your life and loves in the wild north."

"Nothing to tell—most particularly with regards to love. I mean, have you seen Scotland?"

The staff easily fell into conversation, taking turns showing their boss's investor around the kitchen as they chatted. Barb, the grey-haired waitress, slid open a small panel to reveal a window to the dining room beyond. "Two-way glass," she explained. "Lets you just take a peek. Oh, hell's bells." She frowned. "I could've sworn I locked the front door."

"Who is it? Is it the Times?" asked Marcie.

Doris joined Barb at the window and they peered out together. "No, it's our mysterious stranger," reported the larger woman with a surprisingly girlish giggle.

"Oh, well. Let me know if that Times fellow turns up tonight, yeah? I would absolutely kill to see Gallivant's written up in tomorrow's paper."

"Another mysterious person?" asked Hermione. "Let me see. Who is it?"

Arnie, the little assistant, groaned loudly as he chopped tomatoes at his station. Barb ignored him. "That's just it," she whispered. "Unlike you, Hermione, this bloke really is mysterious. He's our most regular customer. He comes in every night." She peered out the window and sighed dramatically, fogging the glass for a moment. "He speaks in a posh voice that makes you weak at the knees. Long black hair, always dresses in black, bib to boots, no matter the weather…"

"Maybe he's in mourning," replied Hermione. "Let me see."

"Budge over." Marcie nudged Doris and Barb to one side. "Oh, him. I've talked to him a few times. Lives here in the neighborhood. He's tried every dish on the menu, you know."

"He has?"

"Go on, then!"

"Not what you'd call handsome, is he."

"But still, there's something about him. Dignity …"

"Gravitas ..."

"Let… me… see." At last, Hermione managed to edge an eyeball over the sill. "Ha! I was right. I guessed who it was just from your description."

The other women bumped heads in their surprise. "Ow! You mean you know him?"

"Yes," she laughed. "He's my… he used to be my professor at school."

"Oh, posh voice and a brain," sighed Doris.

"So is he in mourning?" asked Barb.

"No." Hermione shrugged. "Black is just part of his overall charm."

Marcie rubbed her head as she returned to her work station. "Well, now, that's interesting. That man works at the school that took you away from me? And he lives around here? What an odd coincidence."

Hermione looked away. "Yes, isn't it?" she remarked casually.

Doris was busy collecting a tray and a menu to serve their one customer. "Bet he has a tragic past," she said with a dreamy air. "A mysterious, romantic, tragic past."

"You have no idea," replied Hermione. Her eyes lit up. "Wait, Doris, do me a favor. May I wait on him? I haven't seen him in so long."

"Oh, darling, no," laughed Marcie. "You'd be a terrible waitress. I mean, I love you, but you know this."

Still, Marcie needed little persuasion. Barb helped Hermione into another long white apron and set a water glass on her tray. "And we'll want the full story on this romantically tragic past when you get back," she whispered.

"Well, no, I really shouldn't—"

Doris gave a mighty shove and Hermione burst out the swinging door, nearly spilling her tray.

He had seated himself at a corner table, his back to the wall. There was a book open on the tablecloth, and as he read, his long fingers idly played with a fork. Hermione carefully set down the water glass and laid a menu next to his hand. "Good aft—"

"I'll have the chicken tetrazzini and the spinach gnocci," he replied without glancing up. "Wine to start. Coffee after, no dessert."

She smirked. "A man who knows what he wants." He raised his head at the sound of her voice. "Hello, Mr. Snape."

His eyes widened as he came to his feet. "Hello, Mrs. Snape," he replied.

-o0o-

"Well, the mystery is solved," she said cheerfully.

"The mystery?"

"Yes. Now I know where a Potions master goes for dinner."

"Well, one does need to eat." He sat down, seemed to remember she was still standing, stood up again and offered her a seat.

"No, thank you," she said, waving him off. "I'm working."

"Do you work here?" he asked as he settled into his seat once more. "I never noticed you before."

"Er, yes!" She impulsively decided to see how far she could take the farce of being his server. "This is my first day. White or red?"

"Oh, the wine? What do you recommend?" he asked.

"Generally, white wine complements chicken. What do you do for the other two?"

"Other two what?"

"Meals. I hear you eat dinner here every night. What do you do for breakfast and lunch now that you have to fend for yourself at home?"

"Oh, I make do," he replied evenly. "I broke down and bought a microwave last month. Frozen meals are marginally appetizing. And the grocer delivers, which is a bonus." He leaned back in his chair with a casual air, yet his eye missed nothing as it took in her complexion, her hair in its hasty bun, and her decidedly non-standard uniform of a flowery skirt and blouse. "You're looking well," he remarked at last. "How are you, Hermione?"

"I am well, Severus, thank you. Keeping busy. Delighted I finally found a flat that doesn't smell of curry."

"Good call. Italian is much better. Speaking of which, I'll order now, if you don't mind," he said politely.

"Right. The tetrazzini. Do you want to see a wine list?"

He waved a negligent hand. "Surprise me."

"Right. I'll be back in a moment." She retreated to the kitchen.

Inside, the waitresses pounced. "What did he say when he saw you?" "Did he recognize you right away?" "Why does he come here every night?" "Did he mention me?"

"Tab, please," called Marcie, cutting through the chatter.

Hermione gave Marcie the order and asked her to select a nice white. "He said he comes here every night because the food's so good," she offered lamely, ignoring the other questions. It was really too embarrassing to tell strangers—or even Marcie—she was temporarily married to Mr. Posh Voice.

She stepped into Marcie's back office, seeking a few moments to collect her thoughts, but the clutter of toys and books was too disturbing to tolerate.

Soon Hermione's tray was loaded with a wine bottle and glass. At the table, she humiliated herself when she tried to open the wine the Muggle way and broke the cork into the bottle. "Allow me," said Severus. He removed the bottle from her hand, poured himself a glass, and then silently hovered his index finger above the liquid, causing the little pieces of cork to disappear.

Hermione forced a laugh. "Subtle. I'll probably need to remember that charm tonight during the dinner rush."

"Or you could just use a charm to remove the cork intact."

"I could try that too, I guess, except for all the Muggles who'll be watching. The Ministry tends to frown on such behavior. So! How goes the contract work?"

"Very well," replied Severus. "Parkinson's firm demands too much, as always."

"I remember. You used to work twenty hours a day when we were together."

"More like fourteen," he replied pedantically. "It's a big contract. Potions must be monitored. If they spoil, there are cost overruns."

"You're still such a slave to those never-ending orders. Why haven't you told off Parkinson and quit yet?"

"Well, maybe it's because when all the other... careers in my life could finally be dropped, it turned out I liked brewing. Parkinson pays adequately. And you and I need the funds to start our domestic life together. Or we used to." He raised his glass and sipped. "My compliments to the sommelier."

She fixed him with a knowing look. "Don't give me that. You didn't sign that ridiculous contract for my sake, or for the sake of our domestic life. I was there, remember? I begged you to reconsider the production schedule, or at least hire help, but you were so stubborn—" She pursed her lips. Fighting was for couples, which they no longer were. She was above such petty behavior now that she had achieved some distance.

Instead, she laid a hand on his arm. "Listen, Severus, I've had time to figure this whole thing out. And the truth is, you brew twenty hours a day—"

"Fourteen."

"—because you like it, that's all. You like being your own man, setting your own hours, beholden to absolutely no one. For the first time in your life, you get to do exactly what you want. And why should you not?" She shrugged. "There's nothing wrong with it."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Thank you for the special dispensation."

"I've had time to work this out since I left," she assured him. "It's just, the life you like wasn't the life I could lead. We were married but living apart, do you see?"

"'Flatmates,' I believe, is how you referred to us at Christmas. Except you screamed the word then, as I recall."

"Well, I'm sorry for screaming, but it was true! We were nothing but flatmates. Getting on each other's nerves, not doing each other a bit of good. Now that I'm out of your hair, I'm sure you're getting much more work done."

"Oh, I am, I really am," he drawled. "You're so right. One of us had to be the logical one and put the thing out of its misery."

She picked up the tray, missing the gleam in his eye. "Thank you, Severus," she said modestly. "I'm sure you would have come to the same conclusion, in time. Sometimes relationships are just not meant to be." She hitched up a bright smile. "I'll see to your chicken now."

She escaped to the back office again, where she compulsively dug up all the loose movie disks, put them back in their cases and arranged them on a shelf next to the portable DVD player until she felt settled.

When the main course was ready, Hermione placed Severus' plate in front of him carefully so as not to slosh anything on his front and embarrass herself further. She turned to go, but he put a quick hand on her arm.

"Stay, please, won't you?" he asked. "Irreconcilable differences aside, I really would like to hear how you're doing these days."

"Well, alright. But only for a moment." She sank into a chair and fidgeted with the bow on the front of her apron.

"Now, whatever happened with the Ministry? You were going to look into a job there, as I recall. Did you ever apply for an internship?" He placed his napkin in his lap, picked up utensils and gestured for her to talk while he ate.

"No, the Ministry didn't suit me. Oh, I did interview here and there, but it turns out I don't like taking orders from people who ignore me unless they want something," she said pointedly. He rolled his eyes and she grinned. "That should come as no surprise to you."

"No, indeed. You always were particular about how you were treated in school. And after."

"Especially after! By the way, is it true you've tried every dish in this restaurant?"

"Hmm? I believe so. Some of them twice. So, what do you do now?" he asked.

"I'm a waitress," she reminded him.

"How extraordinary," he replied. "Not much to recommend in the way of a career track. Still, what a good fit for you. It gets you out, making money to feed all those friends you used to tell me one just had to socialize with, et cetera. Where do you work?"

"Severus!"

"Am I supposed to read your mind?"

"I work here."

"Do you really? Well, one never knows. You might have borrowed that apron just for an excuse to visit with me." She looked away, hoping he did not spy her sudden blush. "When did you start? I haven't seen you here before."

"Haven't we been over all this? I started today. It's Gallivant's grand opening. Tonight will be my first dinner rush."

"And am I your very first customer? Extraordinary. Do you always serve just one customer at a time?"

"Severus, really! Are you testing me? In case you hadn't noticed, there's no one else here." She gestured to indicate the empty restaurant. "In fact, Gallivant's doesn't open until later. They were surprised to see you in here. They said they could have sworn the door was locked."

"How odd."

"Yes, very odd." They shared a smirk. "Well, if there's nothing else, I should get back," she said.

"Your exquisite attention to my every need will not go unnoticed when it comes time for the gratuity," replied Severus with a mocking air.

She stood abruptly and frowned. "Give us a shout when you remember me again. I won't be holding my breath."

In the back office, she attacked Marcie's cookbooks, arranging them by height, then by regional specialty, and finally in alphabetical order by author.

At five o'clock, it was time to unlock the glass-fronted doors and open for business. Severus had finished his meal, settled his bill and was laying a few Muggle coins on the table. Hermione found herself offended at the prospect of accepting a tip from him. "Please keep it, Mr. Snape," she snapped. "I'm sure I don't need your money,"

"You're entitled to more of my money than this, Mrs. Snape."

Her eyes widened. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Just, have you ... started proceedings?" he asked diffidently.

"No!" she replied hastily. "I mean, I should, I suppose it's time, but I've been traveling. Yes. Traveling quite a bit. You?"

"Oh, no," he replied. "If the deed is to be done, it shall not be done by me. But reassure me, please. Are you able to see to your needs?"

She looked out a window, unable to meet his eyes for the moment. Outside, a spring rain had begun in earnest but the umbrella stand near the door was empty. Making sure she could not be observed from the kitchen window, she conjured a red plaid umbrella for his use. She handed it to him with an innocent smile. He took it in two fingers, frowning in distaste. The umbrella hastily turned black.

Hermione laughed, suddenly cheerful again. "I'm fine, Severus. More than fine." She patted his lapel. "Your attention is unusual, shall we say, but lovely. Take care and stay dry."

He favored her with a lingering look. "It was a pleasure seeing you." He bowed over her hand. "Take care, Hermione, and good luck tonight."

He turned and exited without a backward glance. Hermione watched him pause outside under the wide green awning as if contemplating where to go next. She wondered why she had chosen not to tell him the truth about Gallivant's—that she was the investor, not a waitress. Perhaps she just wanted to keep some part of her new life to herself.

She still remembered the first time he had favored her with that smoldering look and that courtly gesture. It was in St. Mungo's while they were each convalescing after near-fatal injuries. A ghastly snakebite to the throat had knocked out his voice for weeks—not that he had needed a voice to convey his feelings for her. Those were heady days following the war against Voldemort; so much so that Severus and Hermione had succumbed to folly and surprised all their acquaintances by marrying each other right there in the hospital.

Nearly two years later, the bloom was decidedly off the rose. They had wed before truly getting to know each other. 'Marry in haste, repent in leisure,' her grandmother used to say. Of course, Hermione still cared for him. But Severus Snape had turned out to be completely impossible to live with, with his workaholic schedule and his ridiculous need to keep secret the details of his convoluted plans. But they had been apart for months now, and there was no sense in fretting. It was all in the past. Hermione was determined to chalk up the whole failed relationship to experience, that was all.

Unconsciously, she reached up and rubbed a spot just above her heart. Would he go straight home now? Would he forget this was not an Apparition point and disappear right in front of everybody? She wondered how much sleep he was getting. Clearly, he was eating at least one decent meal per day. But Italian food every night was really much too rich for his blood. His arteries would soon turn hard as rock. He really ought to vary his diet a little, she thought, at least few nights a week …

He turned slightly, as if to look at something. She shook herself from her reverie and hastily stepped away before he could see her.

-o0o-

The door swung shut behind Severus Snape, and he paused beneath the restaurant's green striped awning, staring without seeing at the rainy street. He had been coming here every night for a month, wondering when she would finally turn up at the little ristorante she had bought, and here she was, as feisty as ever. And just in time. Unconsciously, he reached up and rubbed a spot just above his heart. Italian food gave him horrible indigestion.

She had been born and raised in this neighborhood before an invitation at age eleven from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry spirited her away. And she remembered it so fondly that they had decided to settle down here after their whirlwind courtship. Each of them felt the Wizarding world had used them rather ill; moving out of the mainstream and into a Muggle community suited them both very well. Severus had resigned from Hogwarts and purchased a modest townhouse two streets over, using the sale of his childhood home on Spinner's End as a down payment.

Unfortunately, Hermione had never taken to the lifestyle he had always dreamed of. She kept complaining she did not see him enough, he did not talk to her enough, they did not get out often enough as a couple, they did not entertain her friends at home. Friends—those infernal friends who seemed to require constant rescue, Floo calls and tea. Most of them were his former students. Weren't these people adults now? Why did they still need all this attention?

She could never be made to understand that he was working toward their future. No matter how reasonably he explained that she should leave the details to him, she refused to appreciate the value of his long-range plans. So she gotten fed up with him and left.

And now Severus was decidedly unhappy. Long-range plans meant nothing without his beautiful young wife to plan them for. He found life apart from Hermione absolutely intolerable, and he suspected she felt the same way about him, deep down under the thick layer of denial she had going.

He wondered how to get her to own up to the truth and come back to him.

As patrons began to arrive, converging at the restaurant door and chattering happily, he opened his umbrella and stepped into the rain. Setting off around the corner, he made his way down a narrow alleyway to the back door of Gallivant's.

What would he say to her when he saw her again? He had no idea. But Severus knew when their eyes met, he would think of the perfect thing to win her back.

-o0o-

"Hermione, if you really want to pitch in, grab a tray and follow me." Marcie picked up a long tray of pastries and threaded her way to the back of the kitchen. She began to slide it on a rolling rack that already held fragrant loaves of bread. Hermione turned to pick up the next one and follow.

There came a mighty crash, a man's voice and a cry of pain. Hurrying to the back door, she saw Severus, his hand on the doorknob and a look of surprise on his face. Marcie was leaning against a countertop, grasping her upper arm tightly.

"What happened?" Hermione asked.

Severus looked at Hermione with dismay. "Oops," he replied.

-o0o-

Hermione quickly moved to the injured woman's good side and put an arm about her waist, helping her to stand. "Are you alright, Marcie?" she asked.

"Surprised ... lost my footing," said Marcie. "Slipped and came down on this counter ... at just the wrong angle, I guess ... God, it really hurts ..."

"Let me see," said Severus, coming closer.

"I think you've done enough, Mr. Snape," snapped Hermione.

"Don't be ridiculous," he replied with asperity. "Mrs. Jones, may I?" Marcie reluctantly pulled her hand away, letting Severus examine the arm with the lightest of touches. "The bone is fractured or broken," he informed her. "It will have to be seen to right away."

"Oh, it can't be!"

"I'm afraid so. Is there someone who can take you to the hospital?" he asked gently. "By all rights, it should be me, but I'm afraid I don't know how to drive."

Marcie sighed. "My husband Dave can take me. He's on his way here anyhow."

"I'm one step ahead of you, luv." Barb held up her mobile. "He says he'll meet us round back in five minutes."

"How did it happened?" asked Arnie. He brought a stool and Marcie sunk down gratefully.

"I don't know," she said. "I don't understand. This door is always kept locked from the inside! How did you manage to come in, Mr. Snape?"

"Oh—How odd. It wasn't locked when I tried it," he replied evasively. Hermione narrowed her eyes. "I'm so terribly sorry about this, Mrs. Jones."

"I know. It was just an accident." Marcie's face was twisted with pain. "Oh, it's good and busted. I'm done here." She turned to Hermione, tears in her eyes. "There's no choice but to close tonight."

"I can take over for you, Marcie," Arnie told her.

"Oh, Arnie, you're getting to be a good assistant, but I don't know ..."

"Never mind, darling, I'll see to the place," Hermione assured Marcie. "Don't worry about a thing." Soon a horn beeped in the alleyway, and everyone had their hands full getting in Hermione's way as she helped Marcie into the car.

As the car sped away, the staff stepped back into the kitchen. Arnie huffed. "I could have done it," he muttered. "Why doesn't she believe in me?" He pulled down a few plastic food bins and began stowing vegetables with jerky motions.

Doris sighed. "Well, guess I'll go and tell 'em we're closed for the evening."

"No!" Hermione resolutely moved to face them all. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "we've had a setback tonight, but there's no reason to close. Tonight's our grand opening! Marcie's big night! With our resources, we are more than capable of rising to the challenge and running this place for one evening."

"You can't be saying what I think you're saying," said Arnie, his hands full of zucchini.

Hermione took a chef's hat from a hook and covered her head with a determined air. "I'm saying, we will remain open. It will be business as usual."

Severus found his voice at last. "What?"

"What?" echoed Doris. "Who's going to cook, then? You?"

"Well, we have Arnie for that. He's a sous chef!"

"Sous chef? He's just an assistant!"

"I can do it," he replied defensively.

"He can do it," affirmed Hermione. "And I can help him. And you ladies can handle anything else." She fixed each of them in turn with a zealous glare. "It will work. It has to. For Marcie's sake."

Severus recognized the fanatical gleam in her eye. She had worn that look from time to time, beginning in her student days when she had single-handedly fought for the rights of house-elves. It had usually preceded disaster.

But all at once he saw the perfect means to spend some quality time with his wife. It was mad, but if running Gallivant's for one night would make Hermione Snape happy, then he, Severus Snape, would see to it.

Clearly, though, the wait staff would have to be dealt with decisively before they could hope to succeed. Severus donned a second chef's cap.

"What gives you the right to order us about, eh?" demanded Doris.

"This little hat does," he replied, pointing to his head. "Here, look closely. Don't you think it suits?"

She fixed him with a glare, her hands on ample hips. "I don't know what you're playing at, but this you're not going to just waltz in here, with your posh voice, and take over ... not if I have anything to say about ... I don't care if ... if you are ... her favorite ... customer ..."

Doris's tirade slid to a halt and her eyes took on a faraway look. "What were you saying?" asked Severus politely. She shook her head slowly, a dreamy expression suffusing her face. "Then let's be about our business. Please go to the dining room and refill water glasses. Don't let on that Mrs. Jones is not here! Tell anyone who asks there was a regrettable delay but we're back on schedule now. Hermione, go and help."

He turned to the eager assistant chef to discuss the menu, but Hermione grabbed Severus by the sleeve and hauled him to the first private room at hand—an exceptionally large refrigerator.

Inside, Hermione snapped on the overhead light. "Mother of God, Severus," she hissed. "Did you just use an Obliviate on a Muggle? You know how I feel about that."

"Certainly not. Just a mild Confundus. Really, Hermione. We need amenable waitresses, not puppets."

"What's this we business?" she demanded.

"You need all the help you can get," he countered blandly, "if you're going to—"

"The Ipart of we thinks the you part of we has done quite enough for one evening," she snapped. "Why are you even back here? I covered for you and your convenient Alohomoras once; I should not have done it again. After all, it weren't for you, we wouldn't be in this mess!"

Severus ignored the question of why he had barged in. He was not entirely sure why except he had needed to see her. Instead, he took the defensive. "She was lurking much too close to a door. It's not my fault she startles so easily." Hermione's eyes narrowed. He raised his hands in supplication. "But I realize the position this puts you in. As a waitress, I mean. On your first night on the job. I do assume some small responsibility for the mishap. And I wish to make amends. That is why I fully support you. Your determination to keep this place going on such an important night is admirable, and I want to help. It's the least I can do after all this inconvenience. I am your biggest supporter, my dear," he added, placing a hand on her shoulder.

She blinked, trying to sort out the myriad sentiments. "Well, you most certainly owe me a favor. And we could use another set of hands tonight. There's just one little problem."

"You think I can't cook."

"I know you can't cook!"

"You're wrong," he replied archly. "I can cook. I simply choose not to." She pinned him with a glare. "I am capable of cooking." She shook her head. "Well, I brew potions for a living. How much different could it be? You read the recipe, you use the correct ingredients, you boil everything, and voila, dinner."

"Said the man who lives on microwave meals."

"Besides, we have this Arnie fellow to help."

"To help? Oh, no. Arnie will be the chef; you will be his assistant. You've had a lifetime of practice chopping small things to size. And no Obliviates, I mean it! These are nice people who don't deserve their memories wiped."

He carefully hid his triumph. "It seems I have no choice, then. I'll do whatever you say."

"Ha!" She patted his cheek with one cold hand. "Severus, my dear, you won't last twenty minutes."