When I walk with Viggo back into the kitchens, through the wall window, I can see that I've missed the breakfast patrons. Which is too bad, as I was curious as to who'd show up—especially now that I know it could be anyone, really.

"Greta! Is it true? Professor Snape is to be your tutor?" Annette appears from the corner, startling me, which I hide well.

"I guess so," I say, shifting Viggo to my other hip. "You need help with anything?"

"Oh, well. Let me think. Perhaps you could sweep up the dining hall?"

"Sure." She transfigures Viggo's blue ball to a small, wooden carriage that rolls all around him. I grab the broom she hands me and get to it.

There's a young woman tapping her foot near the double doors as I walk out. She looks so irritated, I ask, "Need something?"

"Brian," she says. "Who are you?"

"I'm nobody," I say and walk around her to the corner of the room, angling the broom out.

"Sounds about right," she mutters.

I give her a look between sweeps. She's cute. Honey blonde hair cut into a choppy bob. Tan and really pretty large brown eyes. And little, barely over five feet. Though, as soon as Brian pushes through the doors, her voice is so sharp, she seems about three feet taller instantly.

"Eggs and tiny pieces of meat. Again. What's that, the sixth morning in a row?"

"Jesus Christ, Rune. I'm on a budget, here. What do you want?"

"Variety. Vegetables! Legitimate slices of bacon. Is that too much to bloody ask?!"

Brian waves her off, but she shakes her head violently. "I'm this close to writing up another grievance, Brian. Can you afford that?"

He freezes, his thin mouth moving to an even thinner, tight line.

"That's what I thought. Do. Better." She stalks off, and even though she must weigh eighty pounds, her boots seem to shake the floor.

"Christ," Brian says. "Can't please these gluten-free fools. They act like I need to prepare them their own bloody meal, like I haven't got anything better to do."

I look up from my sweeping, frozen.

"And of course," he continues, "One thinks they're gluten-intolerant, they all do. I'm up to five now that Weasley's joined the ignoramus bandwagon."

"I can do it," I say.

"What?" He winces. "No, no. I only meant for you to just listen to my babble."

"No," I say. "I mean it. I have celiac. I can't eat gluten. And for, like three years I worked as a sous chef at my favorite gluten-free restaurant in the city. I mean, in New York City."

"Sous chef, huh?" He eyes me warily. "Then what the fuck were you doing homeless?"

"Well," I retort with just as much attitude, "I got pregnant. And as it turns out, vomiting every thirty minutes isn't a desirable trait in the kitchen. Or any job, for that matter."

He pauses, licking his lips. Finally, he barks, "Follow me."

I grab Viggo and we push through the double doors. He leads me down a hallway and we enter a room. It has a wall window with a glass door that displays a lovely collection of Christmas-like trees with ferns and moss growing at their roots. There's even a bench just outside where I can envision peacefully drinking tea. I set Viggo down with his little carriage.

"Here," Brian says, pointing to what appears to be a gas range. "You know how to work this?"

"Sure," I say. I put my hands between the burners, where it gives off a little heat. "The pilot light's on, so yeah. Easy enough."

"And this thing?" He points to a large fridge. I open it and am hit with musky, warm air. "Uh—we gotta plug it in." I search the walls and find an outlet. After pushing the plug in, the fridge chokes to life.

"You get electricity here?" I say, pushing myself back up.

He shrugs. "Some of the muggleborns like putting their light-up-screens on while they eat." He puts his hands on his hips. "You'll need some pans. All I have is cast-iron."

"Wouldn't dream of asking for anything else."

"Good. You've tomorrow. If you can manage breakfast and lunch and a dessert for five with no complaints from those arseholes—you got yourself a gig."

I swallow. "I'll need supplies."

"Annette's going shopping tonight. You tag along, then. Think you can stick to a budget?"

I snort. "My son and I've been spending the last three years counting pennies. I can stick to a budget."

"Good. Now get to work cleaning this dung hole."

x

I insist on eating before cleaning the 'muggle kitchen,' since it's nearing lunchtime and Viggo howls when he sees the ham sandwiches Annette's preparing. After that, I spend all of the lunch hour scrubbing crud off the range and inside the oven, and then wiping down every surface in and outside the fridge. I open the cabinets and thank the Lord that they're relatively clean, save for an old bottle of Xtra-Strength Sparkly Cake Dust, whatever the hell that is. I toss it in the trash and grab the little rug in front of the sliding door. "You stay in this room," I say to Viggo. "I'll be right here. You can see me right through the glass, okay?" He doesn't even look up from his carriage toy, which has now been charmed to do somersaults.

I drape the rug on the bench and grab the largest stick I can find within a few feet. I grip it like it's a baseball bat and start hitting it. I don't know how old this rug is, but layers of dried mud and filth fly off of it in chunks and smoke.

God. For the second time today, I ask myself, what the fuck am I doing. "What," I mutter with a hit. "The fuck." Smack. "Am." Smack. "I." Smack. "Doing." I hit it as hard as I can, and the stick breaks right in half, sending a piece flying into the trees.

"Scourgify."

I turn and see that redheaded beefcake that kept my kid up half the night with his homicidal laughter.

"Come again?" I glare.

"Scourgify. You know." He mimes like he's waving a wand. "It'll get the job done quite a bit more quickly. And less…" He grins. "Violently."

"Dude," I say. "Fuck off." His mouth drops open as I turn and whip open the door, snatching the rug on my way in. Before I shut it, I hear him cackling. Idiot.

x

Grocery shopping isn't half bad. I have to stop myself from gawking at the magical produce and spells around, but Viggo, slung to me by another one of Annette's wonderspells, is so engrossed by it all, he fights through his naptime. By the time we return to our cabin at the end of the day, we're both exhausted. He falls asleep as soon as I feed him leftovers from the kitchen for dinner. I adjust him in the bed, piling pillows all around so he doesn't fall off.

"Greta?" Anja's soft voice drifts down from the fireplace.

"Hey," I say, walking in as she brushes off the floo powder.

"Hi, there. I just spoke with the Professor."

I collapse onto the sofa. "Snape, you mean?"

"Yes. He seems to think you may be in some mild danger. Nothing to worry about, really. But he reiterated to me that no one else can know your, ah, circumstances."

I nod glumly as she glances around the room. She gives me a small smile. "You're not going to ask why he thinks you're in danger?"

I give a half shrug. "Yeah. I'm just tired." And, we're in a freakin' fanfic, lady, so, I don't care half as much as I would if I were given this ominous news in the real world.

"You heard about the Azkaban break a couple weeks back, right?"

I mean, I saw the paper's headline. So I nod.

"It appears these Death Eaters are looking for someone. Now, the Professor doesn't think that you are necessarily this someone, but he does think that at least one of the Death Eaters thinks you are. Which is enough for me to ask you to please, do not wander anywhere except here and the kitchens, unless you are accompanied by me, Brian, Annette or the Professor."

"Sure," I say.

"Right," Anja says. "Let me show you how to cook with just a bit of floo powder. You just—" she grabs about a teaspoon of the powder. "And flick it over the pit, here, in the kitchen." Flames appear instantly as she walks over and does it. "Don't worry about putting it out—it will all on its own."

"Thanks," I say, eyeing the flames warily.

"I better get going," she says, grabbing her stuff. "This is for you." She hands me a shopping bag. "I'll be back this weekend to check in, okay? If you need anything, let Annette or the Professor know."

"Yeah," I say. She grabs some floo powder, but before she tosses it, I say, "Anja?"

She pauses, glancing back at me.

"What's his name?"

"Name…"

"The name of the Death Eater who thinks I'm someone I'm not?"

"Oh." She inhales. "That one's name is Barty Crouch. Junior."

"Really?" I widen my eyes. "But I thought… didn't he get the Dementor's kiss, like, ages ago?"

"Yeah," she says, nodding. "We all thought that."

Well, that plot development is little unusual, for a fanfic. But rather than ponder it too long, I just nod and we say our goodbyes.

After she leaves, I manage to make some eggs with a bit of effort, since floo flames are a bit unpredictable. As I eat, I glance in the bag she left me and nearly scream with relief. I pull out the products, one by one. Shampoo, conditioner, lotion. Soap! And, thank all the gods in all religions—hair product. I basically sprint into the shower without even a thought on the dirty dishes I leave behind.

I wrap my hair in a towel and am just about to get into bed when I hear a weird cry outside somewhere.

"Shit," I say, thinking of Top Hat Man's crazy bug eyes. I edge to the window, where I slide a finger over the curtain, pulling it just a touch.

A shriek comes next. I look around, holding my breath, until I see the redhead beefcake, sitting on the porch of the neighbor's cabin, a long brunette wrapped around him like a corn husk over a tamale. They're both staring towards the walkway, so I look over and see… is that Rune? Yes, it sure as fuck is. She's got her hands on her hips and she's yelling something. Seems like her M.O.

I crack the window.

"And now you're getting ready to fuck her on your porch? Like you don't even have the decency to take these bints inside anymore? Knowing I live right across the bloody path?"

Oh, man. Like I needed another reason to hate this guy. As I'm closing the window, Lanky Brunette gives Beefcake a loud slap across the face. I chuckle and get to sleep in an unusually good mood.

x

I get in the kitchen early the next morning, even before Annette or Brian arive. From experience, I know things take way longer than they should the first time in any new job. And, despite this entire endeavor being fictional, I don't want to fuck up and one of few things I'm good at.

Viggo's snoring in my arms, so I lay him on a pillow near the window—as far as possible away from the range and oven. And I get to work.

After getting some black beans on a simmer, I chop up tomatoes, onions, jalapenos and a handful of cilantro leaves. I gather the whole mess into a bowl, squeezing in some lime with a grind of salt and pepper.

I heat up one of Brian's cast-iron pans with oil until it's shy of smoking and drop a cut of flank steak in it, searing each side for two minutes. After the its skin caramelizes, I drop it in a bowl, covering it. I toss in some spinach and red peppers in the beef fat, adding the eggs as soon as the spinach wilts. I scramble very carefully, with the heat as low as it can go. Overcooked eggs are one of the worst things on the planet.

"Mama?"

"Shit," I say, dropping a hot iron lid on my wrist. "Yes, baby?"

"Hungy."

I hand him a cereal bar and a couple little car toys, praying to God that's enough for ten minutes of peace. He seems sleepy enough to be happy with that, so I dress the plates as fast as I can. Beans, eggs, about a palm's size of steak. Pico de gallo. Sliced avocado, sour cream, shredded cheese on the side. I roll three tortillas together, placing them seam-down next to the meat. And finally, I cut cilantro over the whole spectacle, dotting it with the pretty curled leaves.

I take just a moment to breathe when Annette runs in. "Greta! You're a just little bit late and Brian's—"

She's cut off by his gruff barks. "Where the hell—" he stops, staring at my plates, breathing heavily. "Steak?! How the fuck did you get steak on the budget?"

"Look," I say. "If you have a variety of foods, some expensive—" I gesture to the steak, "and some not, like the beans, you can do this on a budget. There's no big portions of any one thing, but together, it's a lot of food."

"Hmph," he says grumpily. "What's this called, anyway?"

I smile. "Breakfast tacos."

"Well, let's get this out there. Get the two dragon tamers' plates, will you?"

"But my son is—"

"You're getting paid by the hour, Riverstone."

"Here," Annette says, waving her wand over Viggo. "Protective barrier. And—" she transfigures his cars until they've got enormous, monster-truck wheels. When they spin by themselves, Viggo shrieks in joy. "He can't leave the room," she promises.

"Fine," I sigh. "Let's get this over with, then."

I want to ask Brian why he can't levitate the two plates like he does with the other three, but he seems so invested in hating me, I decide to not give him any more motivation. "Those are for Rune and Weasley," he grunts. "They're over there." Before I can say anything, he's off to the other side of the dining hall.

Weasley. I scan my brain, straining to remember Potter plot points from the book. Did Ron have a brother who worked with dragons? Yes, I want to say. Which book was it, again? Fuck. I wonder if I could get wifi out here and look this shit up. It's been way too long.

I look over to where Brian had pointed and spot the Beefhead table immediately. Namely, because all the men are all enormous. Their biceps bulge out of their t-shirts. There's one, two, three women, too, including Rune, who are also lean and cut. Guess keeping dragons must require Navy SEAL training or some shit like that.

As soon as I approach, several of the mens' heads whip my way, their faces lighting up. "Hey, it's you," Redhead says.

I ignore him. "Rune," I say, handing her the plate.

She grimaces at me until she looks down at her food. "Holy shit."

"Weasley?"

"Ah, that'd be me." Red—Weasley, which I should've guessed, really—reaches his giant, long arm across the table. I hand off the plate.

"Hey!" a blonde man gapes at their food. "Why the fuck do you two get a special meal?"

"It's gluten-free, you dolt," Rune says before taking a large bite of steak and moaning. "Fuck, this is good. Did you make this?" She looks at me and I give a noncommittal humming noise.

"Well, I think I'm gluten-free now," the man response, and there's a great deal of grunting and laughing after that.

I turn to leave, but a brunette beefcake grabs my arm. "Hold on there, love. We haven't been properly introduced."

I shrug his hand away. "I'm busy."

"Too busy to give us a name?"

Before he's finished speaking, I've walked away. I roll my eyes and scoff as the others slap his back and cackling like shrieking bats.

x

After getting food in me and Viggo, I get to work immediately on lunch's dessert option. It's not the fanciest thing, but I figured cookies would do the trick. I mix the sugar, almond butter, vanilla extract and eggs, then get them on the oven sheet. While they're baking, I prepare the salad for lunch.

As I chop baby kale and spinach, Brian appears, announcing his presence with a grunt. "The tacos were an all-around hit."

"Good," I say, not looking up.

"Look," he says. "I wasn't gonna mention anything before, but now that you're actually doing valuable work…" He cracks his knuckles.

I snort. Well, he's not wrong.

"Heard you swore at Weasley yesterday."

Now I look up. "Yeah?"

He's got his arms crossed with a raised eyebrow. "I just wanted to tell you…" he sighs, leaning back on the edge of the counter. "Good job. Keep that shite up."

I furrow my brow. "Really?"

"Those dragon keepers are veritable pains in my arse. I've hired a half dozen witches to help me and Annette in the last two years, and they're all gone. The lot of them. Damned keepers are fucking lady killers."

"Lady killers?"

"Indeed, Riverstone. They're whores. Just 'cause they're ripped to high heaven, they think they can fuck anything with legs. Which, apparently, is all they do in their free time. And afterward, I'm just left with weeping witches, leaving for home long before their two weeks' notice is up."

"Why don't you hire men, then?"

He snorts. "I did. They were worse than the women."

I grab a handful of strawberries. "Well, Brian. If you want me to treat the dragon tamers like shit, I can say with full confidence that I will not hold back."

"Good girl."

Annette's got Viggo "helping" her clean spoons in the 'wizard kitchen,' so I can fry up lunch even quicker. I'm plating when who should show up but Exhibit A of Beefcake Whoredom, Dragon Tamer Weasley.

"Hey," he says, sauntering in. I barely glance up, but I keep him in the edge of my vision.

"Need something?" I finally ask.

He's ogling the salad I'm spreading out. "So you are the new cook."

I don't respond.

He puts his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to say, breakfast was bloody brilliant. Rune and I haven't eaten anything half as tasty here in quite a while. We were beginning to think we'd have to cancel our food plan."

I make a noise halfway between a hum and a clearing of the throat, mixing up my homemade sriracha chipotle dipping sauce in a bowl.

After a bit, he keeps talking. "So, what's for lunch today?"

"Fish and chips."

"Fish and chips?! Are you fucking kidding?" I glance up at him as he puts his hands on his heart. "Marry me. Seriously. I need a woman in my kitchen that can do this, you know. Gluten-free."

Jesus Christ. Brian didn't need to warn me away from these assholes. Turns out, they seem to do a great job of it all on their own.

I grab the pan of fish and spoon the filets to the plates.

"My mum knows quite a lot of kitchen spells," he says, watching me. "I could ask her, you know, about serving ones. Make it easier on—" He stops suddenly. "Wait, are you a squib?"

He sounds so incredulous, I jerk my head up. His eyes are widened and he's looking at me up and down like I've sprouted fur and claws.

"What the hell does it matter?" I grab the salad bowl.

"It doesn't," he says quickly, but the tone in his voice suggests otherwise. I give him a glare as I spoon the dipping sauce in the center of the plate. "It's just— I never thought a squib, could, you know…"

When I look up from distributing the chips, his face is bright red. "What?"

"Be so pretty," he blurts.

"Really," I say. "Is that what they taught you at Hogwarts? That all squibs are as attractive as trolls?"

Now even his ears are red. "No, no. I've only known squibs that are… rather…"

I shove two plates in his hands. "These are for you and Rune, alright?" I grab the other three, positioning them on my arm like an expert server and walk out toward the dining hall.

After serving two dragonologists' and a potioneer their meals, I glance over at the Mesa de Beefcakes. Weasley's face is still pink and I can tell he's trying not to look at me. Good. Maybe he'll leave me alone now.