Chapter 3 at your service. In case you all haven't figured it out this story is completed and I have a goal of adding a chapter a day. All my love and admiration to my beta team. You ladies ROCK!
The HP universe is not mine, but I do so love playing with the characters.
Please tell me what you think.
At two o'clock the next afternoon, Hermione rapped sharply on the door.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" Severus shouted as she breezed past him.
"Whati is /iall of this?" he further asked when he had caught up with her in the kitchen.
Looking up from her unpacking, Hermione held an aubergine in one hand and a bag of potatoes in the other. "iThis/i is an aubergine, and these," she said, gesturing with her right hand before raising her left, "are potatoes."
"I know very well what aubergine and potatoes look like," Ms. Granger. "What are they—and you—doing in my kitchen?"
Hermione sighed. "They're a portion of the ingredients for the Wake Dinner that must be prepared for tomorrow."
"iWake dinner?/i We never discussed this! There is to be no wake —I told you—no one else is to know!"
"Yes, yes I know—no one else must know the great and terrible Potions Master was actually a loving husband and father…" Severus flinched. She continued, "I get it, and I respect it… but Professor, I ami not/i burying your family without the proper observations, even if it is only the two of us present."
"Why?" he asked, sounding more defeated than angry.
"Why?" she repeated. "Because they wereipeople/i, people that lived, breathed, loved, died, and mattered. They deserve this, and … and so do you."
Hermione ducked her head, avoiding his eyes as she continued to unpack the grocery bags.
She finished her unpacking, noticing that Severus hadn't left the room in a huff, instead choosing to perch himself on a high-backed stool at the breakfast bar. At first it was unsettling—as unsettling as it had been when she was his student, to have him watching and tracking her movements—but soon she relaxed. Cooking and preparing food always had a calming effect on her.
As Hermione fell into the repetitious movement of peeling, she again spoke, "I'm making moussaka. Given the heritage you and Helena shared, I think a Greek Ceremony is the best way to proceed. And moussaka is one of my favorite dishes."
"You are familiar with Greek cuisine?"
She chuckled. "Oh, yes!"
He gave her a quizzical look, then gestured for her to continue.
"My maternal grandmother was Greek, the child of immigrants. Moussaka is a dish she taught my Mum, who later taught it to me. I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with Mum before I came to Hogwarts, and when I went home the first few summers, after that—Mum felt it important I learn the old ways, and that included the food of my heritage."
Hermione deftly began slicing the now-peeled aubergine, then layered it into a colander, pausing only to sprinkle the surface with kosher salt after each layer. As she worked, she continued her monologue—chattering about her Yiayia's cooking—before topping the colander with a weighted plate and moving to prepare the potatoes. Once she had them simmering, she looked over at Severus.
She smiled when she saw he had actually unbent enough to rest his chin in one hand as he watched her work—it was the most relaxed she'd ever seen him.
Feeling her eyes on him, he looked up from the colander in the sink and its slowly gathering drips of moisture that had seemingly entranced him.
His confusion was in his eyes, if not in his voice. "Why are you doing this, Ms. Granger?"
She sighed. "Do I need a reason?" This was always the hardest part of the career she had chosen, and it was made all the harder when she knew the families. Her former professor was not likely to appreciate her actions—she hoped she would escape with only minor hex wounds.
He hadn't answered her question—not that she'd expected him to.
She quietly explained, "You need to grieve—you need to let go of Helena and Melissa. What I do is give people a way to do so by honoring the deceased, their heritage, and their memory. You're of Greek ancestry, and it just so happens I am, as well. So, tonight I'm making moussaka—at least as far as the Béchamel sauce—tzsiki, and baklava, tomorrow morning we'll bury your wife and child in a private Greek Orthodox Ceremony in the family plot I located yesterday, and tomorrow evening we will eat in their honor."
"How dare you assume I have not already grieved for them!" he spat, his relaxed state evaporated in the wake of her words.
Hermione kept her eyes trained on the onions she was chopping as she answered calmly, "If you have, then all you need to do is toss some dirt and enjoy a good meal."
He gave no reply.
Hermione moved on to mincing the garlic, and soon the uncomfortable silence was filled with the sound of the crackling of fat as she fried off the lamb. The scents that filled the kitchen were a comforting mixture of the heavy, meaty smell of lamb mixed with aromatics (and just a hint of cinnamon), their calming familiarity keeping Hermione on-task under the unrelenting gaze that continued to study her every movement.
She was placing the second layer of aubergine on the moussaka when he finally spoke. "You seem quite comfortable in the kitchen, Ms. Granger."
She jumped at his remark—she'd allowed her mind to wander, fondly remembering the advice of her grandmother and mother to let the shape of the food work for her rather than against her... advice she put into practice in her career, as well.
"I am," she agreed, with a sad smile. "I feel closer to my family when I cook—especially when it's something Greek."
"Helena wasn't," he stated, flatly.
Hermione paused, waiting for him to continue.
"During the school year, she and Melissa subsisted on package meals, but during the holidays iI /icooked." He smiled faintly. "I didn't mind—cooking is somewhat similar to potions."
She had an idea.
"Why don't you open the bottle of wine next to you; then you can help me get the tsziki prepared before I tackle the real challenge for the evening." Hermione held her breath, waiting to see if he would comply or shout her down for giving him orders in his own house.
It was only after she inhaled the bouquet of the Greek white she'd brought from her own kitchen that she breathed a sigh of relief.
Once Severus fell to dicing cucumbers—while simultaneously observing Hermione carefully measuring and combining sour cream, Greek yogurt, garlic, and dill—he hazarded a question. "Ms. Granger… I've noticed that you refer to your mother in the past tense. Do you no longer see your parents?"
Hermione's shoulders stiffened at the question. "I haven't seen my parents since the summer before what would have been my seventh year," she answered, her voice nearly a whisper.
"Surely after all this time, it would be safe for you to visit... all of the known Death Eaters have been captured."
"Yes, I am sure it would be. But, you see, my parents no longer know they have a daughter." She could feel tears threatening to fall, but continued, "Before I set off with Harry and Ron on Dumbledore's mission, I placed a strong memory charm on my parents and sent them to Australia—it was the only thing I could think of to ensure their safety." Hermione chose to believe it was the onion she was mincing causing the tears flowing down her cheeks, not the overwhelming sadness and guilt that still plagued her.
Severus stared at her in surprise. "And you never returned to retrieve them?"
She looked up, the bleakness in her eyes something he recognized only too well from his own reflection. "Oh I did, a few months after the final battle—Kingsley even offered to accompany me. But the memory charm had become permanent, you see... not even the Unspeakable Kingsley summoned to help was able to reverse it. So I left them there, where at least I know they're happy." Hermione forced a wobbly smile as she swiped at her cheeks with the backs of her hands.
"Few know. Harry, Ron, the Weasleys, Kingsley… oh, and the Unspeakable. He offered me a job as an Obliviator." She finished with a harsh laugh. "As if I would ever want to meddle with anyone's mind again."
"I… I'm sorry. I had no idea," Severus whispered.
Hermione met his eyes briefly before turning to the refrigerator to store the tsziki and pull out a cellophane package.
"This is the one thing I consider using magic to make, but every time the thought crosses my mind I hear my Yiayia telling me it only takes patience."
"And what would that be?"
"Baklava, of course. I may be a fair hand in the kitchen when it comes to cooking—and truly better at it in the Muggle way—but baking is not my strong suit."
"Ms. Granger, surely all this fuss is not necessary..." Severus protested.
"Nonsense. It's no fuss, and you can't have an authentic Greek meal without Baklava for dessert," Hermione countered, not noticing how Severus had paled.
He silently watched as she continued chopping first almonds, then walnuts, in the food processor before adding sugar, cinnamon, and cloves. Hermione then squared her shoulders, as though preparing for battle—it was a small gesture, but enough to draw Severus' attention.
"This is the part I hate—I don't know what I always do wrong, but the phyllo never comes out flaky enough."
Severus eyed her workspace with the critical eye of a Potions Master. "Where is the butter?"
"Butter?" Hermione asked, puzzled, as she consulted her recipe.
"Yes, butter," Severus reiterated crisply.
"The recipe doesn't call for butter—see for yourself." She offered him the printed page she had been working from.
"Did you learn nothing from your years as my student? A recipe is a guide, not a series of rules set in stone." His remonstration reminded her of the impatience he had displayed in the classroom. "But of course, iyou/i were always adept at parroting answers from a book. Have youi never/i learned to take any risks? How are you ever to become your own person if you are constantly relying on iothers/i to do your thinking for you? Now—get me some butter, before you turn this Baklava into a gummy mess with that water."
Hermione was stunned into silence by his outburst and reacted as she had in her school days—she quickly retrieved the butter from the refrigerator, no questions asked, and watched him as he precisely cut the phyllo into two stacks, then began layering them in the pan. He carefully brushed each layer with melted butter.
"You bake as well?" It was inane, but she felt compelled to break the awkward silence.
"No."
"But…"
"Lena… Helena was never much of a cook, but…" he paused, looking up at her and sadly shrugging his shoulders before adding the filling and covering it with another layer of phyllo.
In that moment—that simple, revealing movement—he'd looked just like any other man who had lost his wife and didn't know what he was going to do without her. He wasn't an invincible and infamous double spy, the stern Potions Master of her school days, or even the implacable man that had entered her office less than a month ago—he was a man lost, alone, and set adrift in a world he no longer knew, in which he was unsure of his place.
Distracted by her moment of discovery, Hermione nearly missed a crucial step. "Wait!" She quickly cast a cooling charm over the pan as he reached for the serrated knife to score the top. "There."
He gave her a quizzical look.
"Yiayia always chilled it first to make it easier to score—using that bit of magic won't change the taste like preparing it entirely with magic would have done," she explained.
He simply nodded his head and finished this final task before sliding the pan into the oven.