She Cooks

I stretched, arcing my back against the chair, leaning it until the spring creaked. Tense muscles relaxed and I mm'ed in relief. The week's parchmentwork for the Lily Evans Trust was finished, and I was getting hungry. I hadn't noticed while concentrating on the work, but now I could feel the emptiness in my stomach.

As I descended the stairs past the ground floor to the kitchen, I heard the sounds of utensils and pans. I stopped in the doorway. Hermione, my Hermione, stood at the cooker, stirring the contents of a pot. Her shoulders were tense in the kind of concentration she normally reserved for research marathons.

Next to the door, Kreature leaned against the wall, arms crossed, gimlet eyes staring intensely at the woman. The elf explained in an undertone. "She insisted. It's not like I can throw the Mistress out of my kitchen." He shot his eyes toward me and with hope suggested, "Unless the Master orders me to."

I gave Kreature a look that communicated my thoughts on that: Do you think I'm stupid?

The elf shrugged.

The butcher block table was set with flatware and glasses, along with two bottles of stout glistening with condensation that ran down the sides and soaked into the coasters. Of course she remembered the coasters.

Hermione moved the pot off the flame and gave whatever was in the pot a couple more stirs.

With a 'fumtp' the toaster popped out two slices of bread, thick slices of the coarse whole-wheat from Mama's Magical Bakery. Hermione carefully pulled one piece partway up. It was a perfect light golden brown. She smiled and exclaimed, "Yes!" She took each piece out and quickly dropped it on one of the large plates sitting in front of the toaster, shaking her hand after each.

She noticed me in the doorway. "Harry, hi." She tilted her head toward the table. "Sit. Lunch is almost ready."

Trying not to appear nervous, I moved to the table and pulled out one of the stools. Hermione's sporadic attempts at cooking were... variable. I glanced at Kreature, who made a vague gesture toward Hermione as if to say, Don't blame me. You're the one who married her.

Hermione took a ladle and dipped it into the pot. She poured a thick, golden sauce over the bread, a ladle and a half on each serving. The scent was tangy and smooth-if that makes sense. She sprinkled a bit of something red on each and added a half slice of freshly picked tomato.

Using kitchen tongs, she placed a portion of salad on each plate, the green and red leaves glistening with herbed vinaigrette.

"Et voila!" she said, setting the plates on the table. "Welsh rarebit with wild-greens salad."

She sat and watched me. I cut into the toast. I lifted it making sure there was plenty of sauce, and blew on it lightly to cool, and took it into my mouth. It was almost too hot, but not enough to burn, and the heat brought out the flavor.

She looked worried as I took the first bite, but as the taste filled my mouth, my expression must have changed. Her mouth widened into a huge smile, and she released a sigh.

"Like it?" she asked.

I swallowed. "I love it." She nodded once and took up her knife and fork.

"Almost," I continued, "as much as I love you."