“Go by Your Own Taste – A Comedy of Great Appetite” by JunoMagic
Chapter 2: Setting the Table
Hermione opened her eyes, just to check where she was.
Oh, great. They had just passed Orleans. Bumblebee was really in a splendid mood today, speeding away like the Knight Bus on crack, but with much more style. She was on her way to Collioure, an artsy town at the Mediterranean Ocean, not too far away from the Spanish border. She was supposed to critique an extravagant seafood restaurant there. And if that wasn’t casting pearls before the swine, she didn’t know what was. Collioure might have been chic and romantic when her parents were young. Nowadays cheap and ratty were adjectives that she’d call the more suitable descriptives. And why the Enrichi of the coast and the package-tourists needed a really good restaurant, when they wouldn’t know what a taste bud was if it bit them in the arse, escaped her as well. Of course that was not what she was being paid for. Which was just as well, because she really needed at least some money.
If only to pay for food and petrol.
Living in her car the way she did, she’d go as far as to call her life-style ‘financially optimised’. With no rent to pay, she didn’t need much money. Additionally, she’d figured out that it was either eighty quid for a nice pair of jeans that still didn’t fit perfectly or four quid for a small towel plus an afternoon of spell-work plus a headache for nice pair of jeans that did fit perfectly. Thus, with a roof over her head and transfigured towels snugly wrapped around her body, petrol actually figured as the largest factor in her cash budget.
Not that she hadn’t tried to get rid of that factor as well.
Of course, Hermione mused, she’d probably gone about that problem the wrong way. Her experiment to convince Bumblebee to eat something that wasn’t essence super had backfired badly. But seriously, if that had worked … It had been worth a try. Though, on the other hand … Hermione shuddered. Who knew what his tastes would have turned to? DADA manuals? Playwitch? Or worse: Playboy?
For – living up to her bookworm nature – that was what she had tried to feed to her car: books.
This promising experiment had certainly started off with BANG, when she poked the book she hated above all others into Bumblebee’s tank. In retrospect, she contemplated that she likely should have tried a newspaper first, or other light reading. Maybe the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Or even ‘Hogwarts, A History’ .
All of those options might have been better than ‘Beadle the Bard’.
At least she had managed to get rid of it that way.
However, the experiment had been less than successful. Bumblebee still swigged essence super like a drunkard swilled firewhisky.
And Hermione had discovered just how much magic you can pour into a car without unforeseen effects. In this particular case the unforeseen effect was that Bumblebee had crossed the threshold from a heap of magicked metal to sentient junk. Sentient junk on wheels with delusions of grandeur, a sense of humour as wacky as Albus Dumbledore’s had ever been, and snarls and smirks no less magnificent than those of Severus Snape himself.
Also, Hermione grumbled (but only in her mind – she really wasn’t in the mood for yet another argument with her car), we mustn’t forget his hobbies.
Her car’s favourite pastimes included mollycoddling (Molly Weasley could take lessons from Bumblebee), matchmaking (which didn’t work any better with wizards than with Muggles – you try and explain why your car just bumped into you so you ended up in someone’s arms, or on your arse, depending on Bumblebee’s verdict on the man in question) and acting as the voice of reason, her better nature, her conscience or her superego as the mood struck him … or just plainly annoying the hell out of her.
Still, she loved her car.
But – and here her thoughts finally returned to the decision that had begun to ripen in her mind when she set out on this journey – sometimes a car simply wasn’t enough.
There was only so much a car could do for a person.
Especially a car as prim and proper about how the vibes of its engine were applied as Bumblebee. For the first time in her life, Hermione came to consider the possibilities of a broomstick.
A second later, she shuddered and shook herself. “Urgh! That’s gross.”
Of course that idea would explain some strange observations involving Quidditch teams during her years at Hogwarts rather neatly. “Thank God I never touched a broom after I finished lessons with Madame Hooch,” Hermione muttered and shuddered once more.
“Right. I said I need to rethink my life, and I meant that. Yes, I think I do. After living for years with just books, a cat and a car for company, do you know what I’m craving? A little … perspective. That’s it. I’d like some fresh, clear, well-seasoned perspective. No, really.”
She imagined just which perspective she’d like to enjoy and swallowed dryly.
“What I need, sweet Bumblebee, is a man. Preferably someone who’s neither dead nor a prat.”
Bumblebee purred encouragingly and smoothly increased his speed. Hermione sighed happily, and decided that she wouldn’t tell him that what she was thinking of did not include marriage, two children and a tidy front yard. No, not at all. She was thinking of frolicking, fucking, and having a damn good time. But since she really didn’t need a sulking car when she was still half a country away from Collioure, she decided to keep quiet about that. And honest, who besides her car would blame her for such thoughts? She wasn’t at all certain if she hadn’t already atrophied to the state of dried-up old spinster as it was.
Hermione sighed deeply. At least a dried-up old spinster with a really cool car, she comforted herself.
And Collioure … hadn’t she read in one of the guides that the Foreign Legion had a training area nearby? Suddenly images of muscular men hanging from cliff rocks and flashing her dazzling smiles while they lifted toned, tanned bodies back up into safety with their little fingers flashed through her mind.
Hermione closed her mouth before she could start drooling, and glanced perfunctorily into the rear-view mirror.
“Bloody hell, fucking shit!” she snarled, as she glimpsed two specks hurtling closer in the bright blue summer sky behind her.
But she knew from experience that no matter how fast Bumblebee was, the owls would be faster, defying every law of nature on the way, and not sparing a feather over whether this was at all possible or not.
Then Bumblebee noticed the owls, too, and promptly slowed down. As an old-timer, Bumblebee was big on things like proper behaviour, propriety and politeness. Also, he’d taken a shine on Roswitha, Harry’s new white owl. A magical car in love with a wizarding owl. She grimaced. “Careful there, Hermione,” she said to herself. “Such thoughts are dangerous. They can permanently damage your brain.”
Aloud she muttered: “Bums, please. I am really not interested in the newest strategy of how the prat of all prats thinks he can lure me back to Britain and into the clutches of the Weasley clan. Also, please finally take note of the fact that Ron hasn’t written to me in four years. If he’s pining away for me, dreaming of marriage to me and only to me, wouldn’t you think he’d write occasionally? While I hesitate to call his own scribbling writing, he is quite able to use a Dictaquill, you know.” She shook her head. “For the life of me I cannot imagine why Harry still thinks I should marry him.”
But Bumblebee wasn’t listening. Instead, no matter how forcefully she stepped on the accelerator, the car slowed down, signalled, and left the autoroute for the nearest aire. Great view of the Loire river, a sign promised. Another sign boasted the outlines of several chateaux that could be visited in the area.
Bumblebee flicked the door of the driver’s seat open.
For a moment Hermione considered remaining where she was and simply refusing to take the hint or to accept the owl post. She absolutely hated it when Bumblebee was trying to micro-manage her life. Only knowledge she had gained from painful experience (that no amount of magic got all the stains of owl crap out of the beautiful upholstery of her dear Bumblebee), finally made her climb out of the car and stretch her stiff arms and legs.
One look around assured her that hers was the only car in the parking space right now. Still, better safe than sorry. Deftly, she cast a few “Do-not-notice-me”, “Look-the-other-way”, “Fuck-I-think-I-forgot-to-switch-off-the-iron-the-hearth-the-washing-machine-the-coffee-maker-and-did-I-lock-in-my-mother-in-law” Charms. Then she leant against the warm flanks of her car, and waited.
Sure enough, five minutes later the white speck solidified into a beautiful owl. It dropped a parchment into her arms, circled three times overhead and then settled down on a fence post nearby. Roswitha smoothed her feathers and fluttered her lashes at Bumblebee. The car’s radio switched to chansons.
“I don’t want to see that,” Hermione muttered. “I don’t want to think of that.”
To distract herself, she unrolled the parchment.
Dearest Hermione …
… we miss you so much …
… great employment opportunity …
… for real, this time …
… besides, the anniversary …
Fuck, Harry, did you miss the fact that I’m supposed the cleverest witch of my age? I don’t need to brush Veritaserum over this pap to know that you’re lying through your teeth again!
… you really must come home …
… we are worried about you …
… working for Muggles, that just doesn’t sound like you at all …
No shit, Harry. And what, pray-tell does sound like me? Lying at your feet and pretending to be a bushy haired doormat that serves as a stepping stone for your career in the Wizengamot?
… also, we really need your help …
Oh. Of course. Wonderboy has come across a problem he can’t solve, and what does he do? Call for little gullible Hermione to come running home to rescue him. Aren’t there supposed to be experts for that sort of thing at the Ministry? Like … Aurors, for example?
And wait, Hermione thought. Aren’t you supposed to be an Auror nowadays? How about you rescue yourself for a change?
… Ron really misses you. He would never say that, but you know that he has his pride, too. He’s working so hard. I think he’s really depressed from missing you so much. Please, Hermione. You must come home …
Disgusted, Hermione was about to throw the parchment into the nearest rubbish bin, when Bumblebee growled.
“What?” Hermione asked. “Please tell me you don’t believe that rubbish!”
A rumble.
“He’s still my friend? Are you mental?”
A purr.
“Mental. Not metal.”
A cloud of something at the rear-end. Hermione coughed.
“Besides, I have it on good authority that he’s shacking up with Lavender Brown again.”
… and then there’s something really mysterious come up. It actually ties in with the project you were so concerned with when you worked at the Ministry. We did a routine check-up on the Magical Registry Office. And either their Quill is broken, or the posthumous exoneration of Snape you were so keen on wouldn’t be quite as posthumous as all of us assumed. Anyway, his name is not on the list of the wizards and witches deceased during the last 20 years. So you see, you really have to come home …
“What?” she shrieked. For a moment her heart thudded in her chest and her stomach somersaulted. Her eyes stung with sudden tears. Her fists balled around the parchment, crumpling it at the edges.
“You bastard,” she whispered. “Harry. You bastard. You know that he wouldn’t be registered anymore. Not after he’d gone back to Voldemort as a spy.”
For a moment she wondered if she was still in that registry. She rather thought not. Not after leaving the wizarding world. A minor fact that some people just didn’t seem to be able to grasp. Not even after five years.
But what if she was wrong? What if the Quill didn’t care for legal implications, and just recorded the facts of life. Birth. Death.
Suddenly she felt quite breathless.
But it couldn’t be! It couldn’t possibly be.
He had died!
She’d tried to save him, and he’d fucking bled to death on her bleeding robe.
Bumblebee blinked at her.
“What?” she asked again. “You believe that, too?” She shook her head. “I should never ever have fed you fairy tales. Life doesn’t work that way,” she added bitterly.
The blinking stopped.
By now the other owl was close enough to recognise her colour. Hermione rubbed her eyes. The owl was … very, brightly, pink.
Hermione stared at the bird. “You do realise there will be hell to pay if a Muggle notices you, right?”
The owl ruffled her feathers at Hermione, turned around, crapped on Bumblebee’s bonnet and took off again. Bumblebee roared.
Hermione smirked, ignored her car’s fit of temper and proceeded to unroll the second missive. When she recognised Luna Lovegood’s loopy handwriting, she frowned.
Hello Hermione,
I bet you are surprised that I am writing to you.
No, why would I? I mean, we haven’t seen each other or heard from each other in five years, why should I be surprised?
I hope you are well. France is such a fascinating country. You must enjoy it very much. Especially since there are no Nargles in France. By the way, did you happen to come across Fargles? I’d be ever so thrilled if you were able to send me a specimen.
Nargles? Fargles? Fardles. Luna would never change. Hermione rolled her eyes.
I recently visited Lavender Brown. She’s working at St. Mungo’s now, you know? And I was really shocked to hear that you aren’t well.
I am not well? Hermione frowned. Really? Since when?
I hope you don’t mind, and of course it was strictly confidential, and I shan’t share what I know with anyone. But Lavender showed me your medical records. I never knew that you were suffering from long term effects from Bellatrix’ Crucio. I am so sorry to hear that. I really haven’t been as good a friend to you as I ought to have been.
Huh? Apart from a twinge in her scar when the weather was about to change, Hermione was not aware of any such effects.
It must be quite terrible for you that you don’t know what you are doing anymore. I mean, you of all people using Imperius on unsuspecting Muggles! Please, don’t blame yourself. At least Lavender has assured me that Ron and Harry are on your case. Now that Harry has claimed guardianship over you, at least there won’t be any nasty legal consequences if you do it again. And as soon as you are home in Britain, you can live with him and his family, and everything will be all right.
Hermione gaped at the letter. She was so taken aback that she wasn’t even able to come up with appropriate colourful curses. Suspension marks blossomed in her brain, dropped and proceeded to rattle around like marbles in an empty tin.
What the FUCKING hell was going on here? Or rather, there.
And when would they finally start giving her some credit? She was supposed to be the smartest witch of her age, Merlin’s blustering bollocks. Using Imperius – which just happened to be an Unforgivable and thus a crime that could be prosecuted across national borders, in every wizarding community of the world – was not exactly what she would call ‘smart’.
I used ‘Suggestio’, you idiots.
Which is sort of like a post-hypnotic command, which just happens to strengthen an idea or an inclination already extant in a person’s mind. It is not exactly Imperius.
A nasty little voice at the back of her mind whispered: “But it’s not exactly, completely unlike Imperius either.”
She ignored the voice.
Also – she couldn’t suppress a certain sense of accomplishment – I made up the damn spell myself. So I am most certain that there is no law in existence forbidding its use.
She ground her teeth.
Guardianship? Harry? Over her? Oh, the fucking do-gooder, just you wait until she – but no, of course, she couldn’t give him a piece of her mind on that matter, because as soon as she stepped foot on British soil, she’d be …
She couldn’t prevent a small gagging noise from emerging from her throat.
… she’d have Harry Potter as her legal guardian in the wizarding world.
‘Bloody fucking hell’ didn’t even begin to cover it.
And why was Luna sodding Lovegood suddenly writing her letters practically warning her not to even think of coming back to Britain?
Oh.
Luna Lovegood was warning her not to return to Britain.
Hermione blinked.
Looney, old girl, she thought, that’s really quite decent of you.
Then she lowered her gaze to the last paragraph of the parchment.
Lavender also had the most outrageous story. You know that I’m always on the look-out for news for the Quibbler. But really. We have to keep up a certain standard of quality. We can’t just print anything. I don’t know what Lav-Lav has been (scratched out: smoking) thinking. Apparently Harry and Ron are all of a sudden convinced that Severus Snape is not dead at all. Can you believe that? And just because the Quill in the Ministry of Magic failed to register his death. Really. It’s plain to see that it’s just a bad case of quill mites. Can you imagine that Lavender had the gall to ask me for 199,999 Galleons 13 Sickles and 17 Knuts if she gave me the details? Of course I refused.
oooOooo
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