Culinary Arts

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I do not own, nor do I claim to own, any part of the Harry Potter Universe or anything else cooked up in the mind of J. K. Rowling. And the bits that I did come up with, well I can only hope they fit in seamlessly.

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Like the Muggles Do

Chapter 6

Culinary Arts

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The first thing Hermione had noticed was the smell.

In quick succession, she had also become aware of the multi-colored mess covering the walls and the counter of the bar area that separated the kitchen from the living room, at least a dozen books – half of them laid open – on the dining room table, and another colorful mess of puddles, smears, and handprints covering the books, table, and chairs.

Next, her eyes took in the kitchen, which was in such a state that she almost walked out the front door to verify that she was in the correct flat. She grudgingly admitted to herself that there was no doubt about whether or not she was in the right place, but at the moment the thought of breaking and entering was much more enticing than facing the frightful mess before her.

Only after taking in the disaster area that had been her flat that morning, and experiencing a queasy feeling from the odor assaulting her sense of smell, did she see him.

He was surrounded by a light cloud of white, with even more mess covering his clothes than had been on the table and bar area. His hair had clumps of something sticky in it, and was slightly greyer than usual, the white powder in the air settling onto the lanky strands, condensing on the sticky-looking substance. When he turned around, she saw that his shirt and trousers were as covered in mess in the front as in the back. And he had a somewhat endearing streak crossing his cheek and ending on the bridge of his large nose, something a pink-ish tint that he apparently wasn't aware of.

She stared at him with a mix of shock, amusement, and horror, setting her packages on the floor. Her eyes did not change focus as she put her purse on a shelf with a thud and took off her coat, putting it where the coat rack was supposed to be and not really noticing it fall to the floor in a heap next to her purse.

==

He interrupted her quiet ranting about the mess with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"It is inconsequential," he said, uninterested in the Armageddon around him, while Hermione slowed her advance toward him. "You, of all people, should know the inevitability of the occasional mess. While brewing potions, it is to be expected. Certainly, certain sensitive potions need their surroundings to be immaculate. And when trying to teach a group of thick, ignorant children, it is best to over-emphasize the importance of order and neatness. But one cannot properly work without causing a bit of disarray. Especially when one is experimenting. After all, you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs."

"What are you talking about?" she screamed. "You don't even know how to make an omelette. The analogy of eggs is completely inappropriate! Whatever you've done to destroy this kitchen has nothing to do with coooooo-"

Comprehension dawned on her before she finished the word.

"Oh no. Tell me you're not cooking." Her brain spun a bit, a mix of the odor, the atmosphere in the room around her, and horror making her sit down.

She instantly regretted that decision as she discovered that the chair she had chosen was not immune from Severus' devastatingly gooey influence.

==

"Severus. Let me put this as simply as possible..." she began, with a tone of voice that suggested she was talking to either a rowdy child or a man with a bomb strapped to his chest standing in the middle of a bank, "how do you plan to clean this all up?"

"Really, Miss Granger, even the densest of second years knows that spell."

She did not respond to his pomposity, choosing to study him instead while waiting for the realization that was sure to come any moment now. She watched his face closely, knowing that under usual circumstances, even her several years of friendship and partnership with the former spy would not help her much when trying to read his reactions. His usual mask of indifference had slipped since they set foot in their new Muggle flat. Somehow being a 'Muggle' allowed him to let his guard down.

In rapid succession, she saw his face go from condescending superiority, to realization, to hesitation, which quickly changed to confidence, finally fixing her with a smirk similar to that of condescending superiority.

"Muggles make messes and clean them up everyday. Surely it is not much of a challenge. Seeing as how the spell is as simple as it is, surely the Muggles have discovered something to try to equal it."

She rolled her eyes and stood, landing her hand in a sticky puddle as she pushed herself up from the table. She joined Severus in the kitchen, deftly sidestepping something dark brown on the floor as she walked past him. She crouched down at the sink, carefully opening the cabinet door beneath it.

She found a bottle of dish soap and a sponge. Desperately pushing them aside and all but climbing into the cabinet herself, she called out loudly enough for Severus to hear her and her unmistakably annoyed tone, "What do you do when you give a detention?" She did not wait for an answer. "You make them clean cauldrons without magic." As she backed out of the empty cupboard below the sink, she continued, "And why do you make them clean things without magic? Why do you view cleaning cauldrons without magic to be an appropriate punishment?" Once again she paused, pulling herself to her feet but still not letting Severus answer. "Because it's a pain in the arse. And you enjoy being a pain in the arse." She took a few deep breaths and looked around the room. "So, what about this do you think is going to be simple?" She gestured around her at the devastated rooms, spying a thin door just inside the dining area, next to the archway separating the two disastrous rooms.

Walking with determination to her last hope, she barely paused to take a breath. "Imagine yourself having to clean a cauldron without magic. A cauldron the size of this room!" She threw open the thin door to find a cleaning supplies cabinet, just like she'd hoped. "Do you know what that would be like?" Unfortunately the closet was empty, save for a fuzzy yellow feather duster and a pile of rags that looked like Muggle t-shirts, shredded. "I'll tell you what it's like, you pain in the arse. It's going to be a... a pain in the arse!" She slammed the closet door shut. "Well I can assure you, buster, I'll not be doing it all by myself. Oh no." She looked around the room, desperately searching for another cupboard or cabinet or closet that might hold her salvation; there was nothing. "You'll be putting in an equal amount of elbow grease. Understand me?"

She turned to him then, glaring daggers. When he remained silent, her 'I'm not a mother' resolve broke. "Do you understand? Well? Answer me when I ask you a question!"

Severus had not finished saying "I-" before Hermione cut him off again.

"Don't you dare say a word, Severus Snape. I don't want to hear it."

Severus stared at her blankly, unsure whether to apologize, yell back, just stand there, or flee. Luckily (depending on how one defines luck), Hermione didn't keep quiet or still long enough for him to be forced into a decision.

She hastily picked up her coat from the rumpled heap on the ground, righting the purse next to it and refilling it with its spilled contents.

"I am going to Tesco's, and when I get back you will clean, perhaps with my assistance, every bit of this apartment that you have touched."

She was standing in the doorway, the setting sun streaming into the room and framing her with the silhouette of an Amazonian Warrior Princess.

"Don't. You. Move."

About five minutes after the door slammed shut, Severus Snape slumped to the floor, leaning against a cabinet. He meekly called out at her, "What is elbow grease?"

==

Hermione's hair must have grown two sizes.

When she had left her mum and sister and returned home, her hair was perfectly moussed, spritzed, and styled. Her companions that afternoon had appointments at a local salon, and Hermione couldn't muster the courage or the excuses to deny her mum when she insisted that Hermione accompany them. Her mother had challenged the two stylists without clients, saying that she wasn't sure if either of them could 'do something with this mess,' and the two had jumped at the task to prove their worth on Hermione's seemingly un-manageable hair. Muggle hairstylists were a frivolity that Hermione had never felt the need to indulge, but she had not been disappointed when the bush atop her head had been transformed into concise corkscrew curls, left slightly crispy by the mass of hair products added to it. Hermione had walked up the front steps to her apartment, primping herself in an unnatural bit of confidence, feeling beautiful and wondering what, if anything, Severus would have to say about her highly stylized mane. She was sure she'd be satisfied with his reaction as long as he didn't say anything along the lines of 'Blimey, Hermione. You're a girl!'

When she stormed from the flat less than ten minutes later, bitterly making her way to the store while dusk set onto London, her tight perfect curls had begun to frizz.

The next Severus saw her, she resembled a lion; a poof of curly hair thickly surrounding her features. Her eyes flashed from behind the many strands that had fallen in front of her face, and she scowled at him in a manner that would have been much more threatening if had she not looked like she'd been electrocuted. She was sweating just a bit and nearing the point of breathlessness. Parts of the back of her hair were still settling, no longer affected by the wind of her trip. She said nothing, with great difficulty, while she set down three canvas bags in front of the door to the closet she had been unable to find supplies in earlier. She choked back the admonition Severus so rightly deserved for moving from his place standing in the middle of the kitchen to a position leaning against what had been the only clean cabinet. The cabinet door now showed the sticky imprint of a man's shoulder blades and a head-shaped stain lightly dusted with white powder.

Severus was sure she would have cast an Unforgivable right then and there, Order Games be damned, had she not been followed by a young gentleman. A spotty boy, probably around the age of a sixth year, was following Hermione with his eyes set fixedly on her bum. He carried over his right shoulder three mops and two brooms, looking for all the world like a soldier carrying a rifle during formation. In his left hand, the Muggle teenager carried two buckets, one inside the other, filled with various sponges and brushes.

Only after the boy had unceremoniously dropped his cargo onto the floor next to the wall separating the kitchen and the dining room did he take his attention off of the thoroughly brassed-off witch's rear end. His eyes grew wide and his mouth hung open. The kid appeared to be teetering between horrified and impressed, taking in the carnage around him. Rather than leaving right away the little sod stood and gawked around him, questions forming on his face.

Hermione had shoved him back out the front door before he completed the second syllable of 'happened', shoving his tip into his hand while trying to close the door in his face.

"Oi, Miss!" the boy called, catching her attention before the door was completely shut. "This is real pretty, Miss. But t'aint worth nothin'. I got bills to pay--"

Hermione offered a murmured apology as she traded the kid a 5-pound note for the gold coin, then promptly shut the door before the boy could say thank you. She turned her attention back to Severus, the annoyance gone from her countenance. She had on her face a look that could only be described as cruelly gleeful, reminiscent of the special expression that Severus reserved only for giving out detentions to innocent Gryffindors. She rubbed her hands together and advanced on him, ready to teach him his lesson about mussing up her kitchen.

==

Hermione's sponge landed with a satisfying 'splash' in the bucket of lukewarm soapy water. When Severus' wooden-backed brush followed it, splashing a bit of water over the side, Hermione sighed contentedly, in time with the moan coming from the sink. She looked around, finally satisfied; the flat was clean again. Except for that little puddle of dirty water newly formed next to the bucket.

Hermione stood up, arching her back and rolling her head from side to side, trying to oust the crick. Severus pushed himself up from under the sink, another moan emanating from his throat, but this time not of satisfaction. Hermione could hear the ominous cracking noise of his joints straightening. The life of a Potions Master apparently didn't involve a lot of crouching or scrubbing.

Hermione led the way out of the kitchen, Severus staggering behind her a few paces back. They both wandered in the general direction of the hallway. Passing the TV, Hermione turned her head, with only minimal muscle resistance, to see the digital clock proclaiming it to be 2 am. Her bed was calling her. Her entire body was functioning, currently, only because of the prospect of lying down. Even the protesting of her skin, which was begging for a shower, could not deter her from her beeline towards her room.

Passing through the archway into the hall, she took a sharp turn to her right and was able to see her goal, fluffy pillows and all. She turned in the doorway, placing her right hand a little higher than her head as she held onto the door. Being mad at the dolt was no reason to not say goodnight, and she waited for Severus to enter the hallway as well so that she could wish him pleasant dreams. She let herself lean against the door, putting a bit more weight onto her right side, letting her hip land against the door, shortly followed by her head, curls dripping with sweat and who-knows-what else. Her hands were raw and sensitive, and she could feel the rough edge of the wooden door on her palm. She shifted a bit, worried that if he took much longer she would lose her balance or her grip on the door and topple to the ground.

She never did get the chance to say goodnight to him.

Severus turned the corner into the hallway and walked straight into his closed door. There was a loud 'thud' as his forehead made contact with the wooden obstacle. His hand automatically came up to his pained face, cupping his large nose, as he staggered backwards. His toppling was stopped by her doorjamb, and he leaned against it, still holding his face. He was close to her, close enough for her to hear him swear in the guise of an exhalation. He smelled of masculine sweat, sandalwood, and... lemon. Yes, the potions master was definitely lemon scented.

She wasn't positive that she had managed to keep the small bit of mirth out of her voice when she asked if he was alright. After he nodded, barely, she couldn't refuse her natural tendencies and had to ask what had just happened.

"The doors to my chambers at Hogwarts are charmed to open for me."

While pity and hilarity warred within Hermione, her instincts kicked in and she raised her hand, moving to give his arm a comforting pat. Centimeters away, she stayed her hand. Her palm was close enough to the exposed skin of his right forearm that the hairs there stood up, as if reaching out for the contact her bare hand promised. She could feel sparks prickling against her skin, so unusually close to his. Her hand froze where it was, despite the heat radiating off of both of them.

As her hand hovered above his arm, she internally panicked. Why had she stopped? Was she afraid of how he might react to her unassuming gesture? Did she suddenly remember the salesclerk from the day before, and Tonks, and all the other people who had been foolhardy enough to think themselves on an okay-to-touch basis with the fearsome Slytherin? Perhaps it was the faint scar staining the pure, pale skin of his forearm, no longer a burden but remaining as a reminder to him and everyone who looked at it of a time passed and a person he no longer was, no longer wanted to be. Was she still afraid of the faded tattoo, or just the man standing next to her?

Whatever the cause of her hesitation, it was too late to either overcome it or to act on it. She had consciously kept herself from touching him, and he was aware of it.

The look he turned to her was ambiguous but unsettling. Angry, annoyed, embarrassed? It could have been a look of disgust at the thought of her touching him. It could have been a glare of warning that if Potter and Weasley ever mentioned this, she would regret it. It might have been apologizing, aware of how hard she had worked to clean up his mess. Or of gratitude, knowing that she must be as exhausted as he was. Or perhaps he had been hurt -- hurt that she had stopped her hand, hurt that she was hesitant to physically touch him.

His door slammed behind him, and she slowly extricated herself from her door and quietly pushed it closed, now contemplating what emotion her friend and partner had just conveyed. What was he feeling? Did it have something to do with her refusal to touch him? Had he actually wanted her physical contact? Did it bother him that she had acted in such a seemingly rejecting way? Did he...?

He probably had a concussion.

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Author's Notes

See, I told you that it wasn't that interesting a cliffie!

Because if I'm going to admit to being an author, I'll damn well insist that I've no idea what I'm doing, and admit that I'm scared as hell.