Go by Your Own Taste – Chapter 3

“Go by Your Own Taste – A Comedy of Great Appetite” by JunoMagic

Chapter 3: And Eating at it

For a moment Hermione stood motionless next to her car. Her fingers curled so tightly around the two scrolls that the parchment crinkled and cracked.

“At least Luna seems to have learnt a lesson,” Hermione muttered. Five years ago, she would have expected Luna to promptly add the search for a dead man to her list of lunatic obsessions, right along with Nargles, Blibbering Humdingers and Crumple-horned Snorkacks. Idly, Hermione wondered if Luna alphabetised her lists. She herself preferred arranging the items on her lists according to priority.

Suddenly Hermione’s throat constricted at the bitter twist of pain as she tried to imagine where Snape would rank among Luna’s priorities. If finding Fargles and Nargles would be more important to the strange genius of the young Ravenclaw than…

Hermione shook herself. “Stop that, you foolish—Just fwooping, fucking stop that, Hermione,” she growled at herself. With a quick flick of her wand, she vanished the parchments and slid back on the driver’s seat.

“Vamos muchachos, Bums. We’ve got miles to go, things to do. Meals to taste. Kitchens to inspect. Chefs to torture.”

Luscious legionnaires to relish. Hopefully. Filled with determination, Hermione steered her imagination once more to the idea of tanned, fit, muscular bodies. When she noticed that her fantasy men sprouted straggly black hair, that they eyes blazed black and that their build was rather on the scrawny side, she wanted to smack her head against the steering wheel.

“Bums,” she ordered once more, “let’s get roarin’.”

She flicked on the radio.

But the car didn’t move. And the radio produced nothing but static noises.

Hermione slumped back in her seat and closed her eyes. Bums in a snit. And the day had started out so nice.

“I’m not going back, Bums. Didn’t you get what that letter said? Harry wants to get me committed! They want to lock me up and throw away the key. The story about the quill and Snape is just another trick. Nothing but a trick. Or Luna is right and the quill is kaputt.” She slapped the steering wheel with her flat palm. “And even if it’s not and Luna’s wrong …”

Which would be quite poetic, really, if Luna turned out to be wrong not only about beings that didn’t exist, but as well as about Potions master that did exist …

“Even if he’s still alive somewhere, that doesn’t change anything,” Hermione insisted. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyebrows. “If he were, I’d wish him a long life wherever he is. And a happy one,” she whispered. “And that’s that.”

Bumblebee didn’t stir. Instead the white noise pouring out of the speakers was replaced with music.

Bumblebee might not be able to speak. But he could control the radio. And that, Hermione contemplated, was infinitely worse than a talking car could ever be. Because Bumblebee being the vintage car he was, liked oldies.

Right now the loudspeakers thundered and the car vibrated with the rhythm of the drums and the strumming of guitars. Passionate words curled around Hermione’s throat and squeezed.

“And I would do anything for love, I’d run right into hell and back …”

Hermione balled her hands into fists.

“It. Was. Not. Love,” she snarled. “It was a silly crush.”

Promptly a new song started.

“Sixteen candles make a lovely light
But not as bright as your eyes tonight
Blow out the candles, make your wish come true
For I’ll be wishing that you love me, too.”

“Damn right, I was sixteen, you heap of deaf junk. It. Was. A. Crush. Girls develop crushes at sixteen. I had a crush on Lockhart when I was thirteen. Do you think I should return to Britain and live with the dork at St. Mungo’s, playing they-adore-me, they-adore-me-not with daisy petals for the rest of my days because of that? No? See! There’s nothing to it. Nothing at all.” Hermione exhaled noisily through her nose. “Trust me, Bums. If he’s played dead for so many years, he wants to stay dead. He would NOT appreciate being found. Least of all by a bushy haired, Gryffindor know-it-all.”

She stared at her fingers. They curled so tightly around the steering wheel that the knuckles stood out thin and white. Could it be? Could he possibly still be alive somewhere?

“He hated me,” she muttered, almost as if that were a reassurance.

The radio crackled and rustled with static noises again.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Okay, so maybe he did not hate me. He had a part to play. And I was just a kid. Fine. That doesn’t change anything.”

She let go off the steering wheel and rubbed the knuckles of her fist over her forehead, up and down. So hard that it almost hurt. “Maybe Harry’s right after all,” she whispered. “And I should be committed. It’s not healthy to be so obsessed with silly little sweet sixteen crushes all of nine years later. It’s unnatural.”

Hermione rolled her head back as if it was possible to dislodge unwanted thoughts that way.

“I really have no reason to remember him at all.”

Bumblebee audibly disagreed.

“Summertime
And the livin’ is easy
—”

Hermione closed her eyes. No. Not that. She should never have told that meddlesome motorcar about that evening.

“It wasn’t easy,” she whispered. “Not easy at all.”

Still, it had been—

Summer. The summer after her Fifth Year. After her parents had been murdered.

All that hot, horrid summer long she’d lived in London, at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

The summer of 96, when adventures were no longer exciting and magical, but scary and deadly. When Harry had started turning into a different person, into an angry young man, sullen and stubborn—and someone she didn’t like very much. When Ron flushed whenever he looked at her and stuttered like an idiot when he tried to talk to her. Because he couldn’t handle her grief or his hormones.

“—Fish are jumpin’
And the cotton is high
—”

Hormones. Heat suffused her face. That had also been the summer when she’d learnt how to masturbate satisfactorily, lying naked on the lumpy mattress in a former dressing room. Just off the main guestroom, too, where the object of her night-time fantasies sometimes slept in his faded grey nightshirt and his thick black dressing gown.

A chamber of her own had been the one small mercy that her parents’ deaths had provided for her at Grimmauld Place. Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore had decided that she would need some privacy. Though probably not for thereason she enjoyed that privacy for. She smirked, reminiscing.

“—Oh yo’ daddy’s rich
An’ yo’ ma is good lookin’
—”

Her smirk faded into a sad smile. As dentists, her parents had been rich. And even then, she’d known that being rich was overrated. She would have preferred her parents poor as dirt, but alive.

Now, nine years later, she’d added Orders of Merlin to that list overrated status symbols. Along with careers. And connections. Friends. And men.

Looks even more so. But she’d always wanted to look like her mother. Hermione sighed and shook her head, finally giving in and allowing the memories to wash over her.

Another thing that Professor McGonagall and Professor Dumbledore had decided upon that summer was that she needed a Task To Keep Her Mind Off Things. A task that went beyond the scope of her homework (complete and immaculate a mere week into the summer hols).

So she found herself recruited as Professor Snape’s new assistant.

While that scheme successfully diverted her attention from some things, it was perfectly useless when it came to keeping her mind off other things, such as Professor Snape himself for example.

Namely, because assisting Snape in the narrow confines of his make-shift impromptu laboratory in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place made it rather hard to ignore him.

At thirteen, Hermione Granger had been ill-equipped to rationalise the emotional turmoil that the blonde beauty of Professor Lockhart elicited within her.

At sixteen, Hermione Granger knew exactly what was happening when butterflies soared in her stomach as soon as she looked at the black-clad, scowling Potions master. And she was determined to methodically rip away the wings of those irritating insects one by one and then crush them under the cruel heels of adulthood.

“—So hush, little baby,
Don’t you cry
—”

Only the best laid plans of mice and Hermiones never seemed to work. In retrospect she rather thought she spotted a trend there, even then.

At first brewing with Snape had been perfectly horrible. Not that she’d done any brewing.

She’d scrubbed cauldrons.

And chopping boards.

And mortars.

And pestles.

And tables.

And sinks.

She’d brushed bottles and bowls.

She’d washed vials, ampoules and flasks.

And whatever she’d done, she’d done it wrong. According to Snape anyway.

It was, Hermione mused, nothing short of a miracle that she’d survived the first week. And that she had made it, was not due to her skills or her talents or her intelligence, but merely due to circumstance.

“That’s what you call a scrubbed table?” Snape’s silky voice slithered through her reminiscences. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Now I see why you so easily dismissed the services of house-elves in your Fourth Year, Miss Granger. Clearly having the services of a Muggle cleaning lady at your beck and call has clouded your mind for the appreciation of manual labour.”

Under normal circumstances that would have been the end of it.

She’d have thrown a temper tantrum.

He’d have refused to endure her a moment longer.

But that summer, temper tantrums didn’t come easily to Hermione. Worse, at that point in time, her professor’s soft voice—no matter what menacing things he uttered—only served to elicit the fluttering of more butterfly wings in her stomach. And she was much too busy to exhort herself deep within her mind not to chance a look at his beautiful eyes to even contemplate arguing with him.

(”Legilimency, you might as well kill yourself right away. If he’d let you near a knife … Think of what Harry would think. No. Think of the noises Ron would make if he knew about the feelings you get for the greasy git of all people.” Oh. Good. That worked. A deep, internal sigh.)

Therefore, keeping her eyes on the scrub brush, she just asked evenly: “In that case, would you be so kind and show me the proper way of scrubbing a table, Professor?”

For a moment the kitchen was deadly quiet. Then a black-clothed arm reached around her, and long, strong fingers curled around her hand and the scrub brush. With vigorous, rhythmic strokes, her professor demonstrated just how a table ought to be scrubbed in his opinion.

Later that night, alone on her lumpy mattress, Hermione experienced the first climax of her life.

Afterwards she contemplated that it was probably not a good idea to keep working with Professor Snape. But for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to act upon that conclusion.

And three weeks later, he trusted her with his knives.

Cleaning them, that was. Not actually using them.

Until the one evening that thrice dratted summer song reminded her of, as that interfering dragster of a car knew perfectly well.

Hermione’s mouth turned dry at the memory.

London in the grip of a heat-wave.

Hot to the point that she had discarded all propriety and wore a tight tank-top and shorts even in the laboratory. After an afternoon in the kitchen her clothes would cling to her body anyway. It was easier to start out with clothes that were already tight fitting.

Humid in that terrible way that made her curls frizz and writhe like Medusa’s snakes. But the atmosphere in the kitchen was worse. The fumes of cauldrons and the steam of hot water for cleaning left everything—Hermione included—damp and dank. Moist. She swallowed hard. There was one embarrassing spot of moisture on her body that had nothing to do with the heat and humidity, and everything with her body’s reaction to her professor’s proximity. Hermione inhaled with a shudder and slicked her hair back. With almost detached amusement, she realised that the atmosphere of the day in connection with the exhaust of brewing had effectively uncurled her hair. It hang limp, lank and heavy down her back, as slick and straggly as her professor’s.

There, the last stirring rod lay clean and sparkling in the cupboard. Professor Snape was polishing the last knife to be put away for the day.

They were done.

And she was done in.

Hot and bothered as she was, Hermione was supremely grateful that this was one of the rare evenings when Grimmauld Place would be empty of all occupants. Save for her—and Professor Snape, she supposed, trying to ignore the delicious tightening low in her body at that thought. She’d planned spending a quiet evening reading in the library. Now she contemplated spending a quiet evening in her room. Not reading.

“…you planned for dinner?” Her professor’s soft voice startled her out of her private musings. Hermione jumped, flushing. For a second, their eyes met.

His extraordinary black eyes burnt into her very ordinary brown ones. With a gasp, Hermione turned away. His piercing gaze made the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck stand on end and chased shivers up and down her spine. He was staring at her, as if he could see straight through her. Her heart started pounding—that was quite within the realm of possibility, too.

Dear Lord, no. Please. He must not have seen—

“Dinner, Miss Granger. Mrs. Weasley charged me with ensuring that you, Miss Granger, actually consume sustenance tonight. And Professor McGonagall was quite insistent that I see to it that her precious teacher’s pet remain…well fed.”

Minutely, Hermione relaxed. He probably hadn’t seen anything. He was merely annoyed because the women had nagged him into taking care of a grieving Gryffindor. She sighed. It was true, she hadn’t had much of an appetite lately. But that was due as much to the heat as to other factors. She certainly didn’t plan on acting out emotional upheavals in an eating disorder.

“Miss Granger. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Hermione raised her head. Snape leant against the sink, arms crossed in front of his chest, his robes obscuring his figure (and how did he survive wearing a frock coat and robes in this heat?) She focused her gaze on the uppermost button of his frock coat, which was just visible between the folds of his robes.

“I am aware that you may have not much appetite,” Snape added softly. “But you must eat. Starving yourself is no solution. For anything.”

Her stomach tightened at the sound of his voice. Desire, or at least foolish, teenaged attraction curled up inside her.

Dear Merlin. He has seen something! Or maybe he just knows? Her father used to have young dental nurses and teenaged patients fall in love with him every now and again. He’d always known, and sometimes he’d talked about those situations at home. At dinner. How he’d had to gently dissuade young girls from fabricating tooth aches to come and see him every week. —Or sometimes not so gently. She winced mentally at her Dad’s threatening gesture of wielding his drill.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. But if Snape knew something, she reasoned, he’d never be gentle about it. Never. He’d put her father’s worst drill to shame. Of that, at least, she was sure.

She opened her eyes again. “I just—everything seems to taste like papier-mâché these days. And it’s really too hot for—” She bit down on her lower lip. “Not that I mean to complain about Mrs. Weasley’s cooking. Or about the lunches the Hogwarts elves send to us. She, they can cook really—”

It was quite absurd how much she missed her mother’s cuisine all of a sudden. Celery stalks and pieces of carrots with low-fat dips. Crisp salads. Tofu stir fry.

“Ahh,” Professor Snape smirked. “Certainly. Yes. Anyone can cook. That doesn’t mean that anyone should. And that includes Hogwarts house-elves and rotund, red-haired witches.” His smirk softened into surprisingly wicked smile. “Well, if only for tonight,” he purred, “I believe I may be able to assuage that problem at least.”

Her breath hitched. For a second Hermione entertained the bizarre suspicion that Snape might use words such as ‘assuage’ on purpose. Just to see her squirm. Then the meaning of what he’d said registered with her and she looked up—just in time to realise that he’d been looking not at her face, but at a part of her body a few inches lower than that.

Their gaze met again.

This time, Hermione was much too stunned to look away.

Her cheeks were on fire. And to her surprise she could see that Professor Snape was blushing, too. Up to the roots of his slick black hair.

Her heart thudded.

Then Professor Snape cleared his throat. “I shall show you how to prepare ratatouille,” he announced. “Ratatouille is a rural French summer dish made out of—”

“—diced and tossed stewed vegetables; courgettes, onions, tomatoes, green and red peppers, and nowadays also aubergines,” Hermione interrupted. “It’s delicious! I’ve had it before! When my parents—” She stopped, mortified at the tears that were suddenly burning in her eyes. At that time she hadn’t realised that Snape hadn’t chastised her for interrupting him, but was simply listening to her. “—when my parents took me to France for the hols.” She pressed her lips together. Her parents would never go on holiday with her again. Her parents would never do anything ever again.

“I have observed your cutting techniques in class,” Snape went on, when it was clear that she wouldn’t say anything else. “They are…almost promising. However, there is room for much improvement, and I won’t have precious potions ingredients suffer the consequences of your feeble efforts. Bell peppers, onions, garlic and the like are much more suitable victims for such endeavours.” He walked to the pantry and produced a large basket that appeared to contain all the ingredients necessary for the concoction of ratatouille. With swift, certain movements he laid them out on the table before Hermione. “Now, Miss Granger, you may tell me which knife you will choose for which vegetable.

“Think carefully,” he encouraged her, enunciating each syllable clearly.

“—One of these mornin’s,
You’s gonna rise up singin’
Then you’ll spread yo’ wings
An’ you’ll take to the sky…”

Staring at him in awe—had that been a compliment? had he really just paid her a compliment?—Hermione completely forgot to be afraid of what he would see in her eyes. She only remembered when she grew aware of the spots of colour forming high on his cheekbones. Her stomach somersaulted. Her heart soared.

At least he did notice that she was not a girl anymore.

For all the good that would do.

Ruthlessly she turned her attention to the fresh produce arrayed on the table and the selection of fine knives laid out next to the food…

Hermione came back to herself out of that revelry and shook herself.

“Stop that Bums,” she grumbled. “That’s so long ago that it isn’t even true anymore.” She grimaced. “Merlin. I am talking to my car. Why am I talking to you? That can’t be healthy. —Oh, right. I’ve lost my family. I’ve lost my friends. I’m so lonely I’m getting looney. Clearly, I really do need to rethink my life.”

Bumblebee snorted, a crackling of static noises that drowned out the rest of the song. Then the irksome jalopy decided to twist the knife a little further in that wound of painful memories.

“Strangers in the night exchanging glances
Wond’ring in the night—”

Hermione was close to clapping her hands to her ears and singing ‘Lalalala’ as loud and off-key as possible, just to get that song and all the connected memories out of her head.

Feeding ‘Beedle the Bard’ to that car may well have been the biggest mistake of her life. Which she should have realised the moment she’d found the first package of lemon sherbets in the glove compartment.

But Hermione hadn’t been sorted into Gryffindor for nothing. Resolutely, bravely, she face the memories of a precious, painful evening nine years ago.

First Professor Snape had ascertained that she knew just which knife to use for what purpose—and not merely in the sense of how the saw-toothed blade of a tomato knife is better suited to cutting their smooth red skin and soft, juicy flesh—but in terms of potions ingredients, from harmless herbs to viscera of dangerous creatures.

With something like shocked astonishment, Hermione realised that Snape, given half a chance could be a brilliant teacher. Demanding, but patient. Strict, but fair.

After she had chosen her weapons, he had showed her how to handle each knife. How to hold them for cutting, chopping, dicing, mincing, cleaving. His fingers curled gently around hers, and his closeness, as he guided her movements at first, before he allowed her to wield the blades on her own.

Even more surprising was the fact that in between his lectures, they actually conversed.

She talked about the holidays she had spent in France. About her parents. About school, of course. A topic to which he reacted to with a sneer and a raised eyebrow, but curiously enough no scathing remarks. Even mentioning Harry and Ron elicited no more than a short thinning of already thin lips.

Hermione knew that she was positively glowing with happiness as she looked up at him about half-way through their preparations. “Listen, sir, I just wanted you to know how honoured I am to be studying under such a—”

He shushed her with a sneer. “Such a greasy git? Such a bitter old man?”

When she gaped at him, he nodded curtly. “Miss Granger, I am very much aware of the endearing epithets all of you heap upon my head on any given day. And I assure you, I could match them each and everyone of them with a truth about my person that is infinitely worse than anything those lazy dunces could ever dream up. Spare me the insult of false praise. And should you be serious, you foolish girl, then I exhort you to find an object more deserving of your admiration than I—”

Hermione closed her suddenly dry mouth. For the first time, she wondered how it would feel to be called all those names. And…she could sense that he really believed that he deserved being called all that, and worse. She frowned, but didn’t flinch under his scowl. Then she shook herself, straightened her shoulders and recklessly thrust out her chin. “Actually, sir, you are not at all old. Professor McGonagall, maybe. Professor Flitwick and Headmaster Dumbledore, certainly. Why, you could easily be my brother.”

“What?” Professor Snape stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

And maybe she had. It was so hot, and she felt oddly light-headed. “Well, yes. You can’t be forty. And—”

“Thirty-six.”

“What?”

“I am thirty-six years old,” he repeated through clenched yellow teeth.

“See!” Hermione beamed and tried to ignore how bizarre their conversation was turning out. “And my—my father, he’d— he’d have turned fifty-seven this year, and my Mum was fifty-five. They had me late, you see. They would have been a little young for you to be my brother, but not too terribly young. So you see, you can’t be old.”

“The heat must be getting to your head,” the Professor stated flatly.

Hermione could only nod. She couldn’t believe that she’d just explained how her dread Potions professor was actually young enough to be her brother. Especially since she entertained not one sisterly thought where his person was concerned. Her face started burning again with an embarrassing blush.

But since he wasn’t turning back to the vegetables, she found that she couldn’t move either.

“By the same logic you just employed, Miss Granger, we could also come to the conclusion that I could be your father. I would have been a little young for you to be my daughter,” he said and matched the tone of her voice exactly, “but not too terribly young.”

“So you see,” he ground out. “I can be too—I can be old, too.”

“And I’m definitely bitter,” he muttered.

Hermione nodded. “For good reason, I guess.—Sir, I may not know much about you. I dare say, I know almost nothing. And I’d never presume—” She faltered, realising that she was doing just that. But since he didn’t interrupt her, but continued to just stare at her in a somewhat dazed fashion, she hurried on. “But one thing I do know. In many ways, we—we—those who call you those names, or speak bad about you, or any other teacher for that matter—have it easy.

“We risk very little. Safely ensconced at Hogwarts, the worst we suffer is a bad grade in an essay or a detention for tardiness. From that enjoyable position we thrive on negative criticism. How easy it is there to criticise the teachers who offer up their work and time to allow us to learn magic, and who, in the closed environment of Hogwarts, even expose their selves and lives to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, because it seems fun to make it, and to rant. But the bitter truth we must face in these times is that we are all wrong about our petty grievances. In the grand scheme of things, especially the way things are now, even an average or bad lesson is probably more meaningful than our criticism of the teacher administering it.” Hermione took a deep breath. Snape’s disbelieving look prompted her to go on, picking her way through a jungle of words and meanings that suddenly seemed impenetrable. She barely remembered what she had actually set out to tell him. “Really, sir. I mean it, when I say ‘thank you’.”

“Well,” Professor Snape said at last. His frown faltered. “That is a—surprisingly mature sentiment, Miss Granger.” He turned his gaze to the finely prepared ingredients on the table and cleared his throat. “I think it is time to move on to the next stage of the process of preparing this particular dish,” he added softly.

“Strangers in the night, two lonely people
We were strangers in the night
Up to the moment
When we said our first hello.
Little did we know
Love was just a glance away,
A warm embracing dance away and—”

“We did NOT dance. We did NOT make love. We did NOT fall in love. It. Was. A. Silly. Little. Crush. And besides, he’s dead!” Hermione shouted at the car, slaps of her palm on the steering wheel punctuating each syllable. “I won’t go back. You’re just a car. You can’t make me. He’s dead. And if he is alive, he doesn’t want me. So you can just STUFF that, you moron of a motorcar.”

But it was too late: she couldn’t prevent herself from remembering the rest of the evening.

When Snape had set her to stirring the ratatouille in a regular rhythm, she thought she’d die.

His presence at her back. His arm stretched alongside hers. His hand resting on hers. His breath blowing soft on the heated skin of her neck.

And the stirring rod, circling rhythmically. Those slick sounds. The humid heat that enveloped her.

Then Snape produced a spoon. His thin, sensual lips pursed, he blew softly on a spoonful, tasted, nodded to himself. After a quick Scourgify, he dipped the spoon back into the pot. His eyes on hers, he blew on the spoon once more, than held it to her lips.

“Taste,” he whispered. “Take your time. Tell me what’s missing.”

She noticed that his pupils were so wide that she couldn’t tell where their blackness faded into the softer darkness of his iris. Another gentle exhalation. She shivered.

Closing her eyes, Hermione opened her mouth.

The spoon slipped inside. Her lips glided over the warm metal. Slowly, almost like a caress, it slid out of her mouth again.

Along with the ratatouille, she could taste her heartbeat in her mouth.

A stream of sour fruitiness: the tomatoes. Underneath it flowed the juicy, earthy tang of aubergines. Soft and mushy, just like her knees, damn him. But she could feel only a remnant of the perfect dices they had created out of the gleaming oblong shapes. To her surprise the courgettes had retained their shape and texture. Now, drenched in tomato and olive oil, their subtle green flavour flared, refreshing and soothing at the same time. The wicked, spicy taste of garlic tickled her tongue. The bell peppers were still tart and gave her something to chew on. Their taste was strong at the back of her mouth. A touch of bitterness. Reticence. Almost stern. Like Snape, she thought. But not quite. Not yet perfect.

Her eyes flew open. “Still a little too sweet, I think,” she surprised herself by saying.

The corners of the professor’s mouth curled slightly. “Excellent, Miss Granger,” he said in a silky voice, before he expertly removed the pot from the hearth. “I agree. Still too fruity, and a little too sweet.” He snatched a small bottle from the basket that had contained the vegetables. “It is not quite traditional, but I find that adding a dash of aceto balsamico rounds out the aroma perfectly.” Snape allowed a little almost viscous dark liquid to slide over the ratatouille. He smirked at Hermione. “And that, Miss Granger, is the secret why magic potions are more similar to Muggle cooking than to Muggle chemistry. Recipes and perfect accuracy are not everything. You also need instinct, intuition and imagination to excel in the subtle science I have the pleasure to teach.”

But he was wrong. It was not the wonderful aceto balsamico di Modena (aged 12 years) that made the meal perfect. Or the fresh baguette, still warm out of the oven. Or the crisp, cold Chardonnay with its hint of vanilla and lemon that complemented the earthiness of the vegetable stew and enhanced the acidity of tomatoes and vinegar.

No. What made the meal perfect for Hermione had been the man she’d shared it with.

The sour, dour, evil, greasy git of her Potions professor. The hero of her nightly naughty fantasies.

And being Hermione, she said so. (Well, not exactly that. Even at sixteen one glass of wine was not enough to make her drunk enough to lose it quite that badly. But she did manage to say too much and insert her foot into her mouth rather firmly.)

She smiled at Snape over her glass of Chardonnay. “I think what I wanted to say just then is … I know that I cannot possibly assess how much you risk for us, sir. But I do know that these are times in which all of us have to truly risk something. If we want to defend our world, and perhaps create a new one, a better one.”

Hermione studied his face. At the very least, the alcohol made her forget to worry about what he would read in her eyes. And so she took her time to drink in his features as she sipped on her Chardonnay. Yes, he did look bitter. But not so much evil, or nasty, but stressed. Full of worry. Tense. And no one in her right mind would ever call him handsome with those deep frown lines and that hooked nose. But to her he suddenly seemed beautiful, especially when he almost smiled at her across the table like that

“Sir,” she said earnestly. “The world is often unkind. All of us need friends.” Hermione took a deep breath, and, steadied by another gulp of white wine, she went on: “I—tonight, here, I’m experiencing something new. An extraordinary lesson and meal,” she smiled shakily, “from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. Sir—”

Hermione knew at once that she had gone too far, said too much. His face darkened. Still she found that she couldn’t turn away from his eyes. A vague throbbing in her temples turned into full-blown headache. She couldn’t understand why he looked so sad and weary all of a sudden.

“Should I be concerned about this?” he whispered softly. He averted his eyes so suddenly, that she almost gasped. “About you?” he added.

Her throat constricted, and suddenly she felt deeply ashamed. She had only wanted to offer her gratitude, and her friendship. But because of her stupid infatuation, she had only added to his burden. She was only grateful that he kept his disgust at her foolishness hidden.

How was she to save the situation now? She had no idea. In the end she did what Gryffindors do best. She was brave.

Hermione stared at Snape for a moment longer.

Then she nodded slowly.

And then she shook her head vigorously, trying to keep her eyes from overflowing with silly tears that would serve to make her embarrassment complete.

She bolted from the room.

“Young girl, get out of my mind
My love for you is way out of line
Better run, girl
You’re much too young, girl—”

Hermione came to herself with a start. For a second she stared at the radio, before the words and the song really registered with her. Then she found herself suddenly at the end of her tether.

“I’ve had enough of this,” she hissed at her car. “It wasn’t like that. We were no strangers in the night. I was never sweet, not even at sixteen. I definitely wore no perfume or make-up at that age. And he—he—just had me cooking that night because McGonagall and Molly had nagged him about it. There never was anything. And besides, I’m over it. He’s dead, so he’s over it, too. Over everything. Over and out. I’m not going back. There IS no going back, you fucking, fwooping DUNG HEAP OF SCRAP METAL!”

Hermione jumped out of her Déesse and slammed the door shut.

She never noticed how the radio shut off with a huff at her last barrage of insults and how the locks clicked decisively when she turned her back on the car, kicking crap out of the nearest garbage bin.

oooOooo


A/N: Again, everything you recognise is not mine. Namely, this chapter contains textual allusions to the movie “Ratatouille” and quotes of lyrics within the percentage of what is generally accepted as Fair Use.


10 Responses to Go by Your Own Taste – Chapter 3

  1. CLK says:

    Where is the rest of this? I love it – most especially the “fuck…lock my mother in law in”… it is not FAIR to only have 3 chapters posted!

  2. Maggy says:

    I love the story. You mentioned that you plan to post the rest of the story soon (that was in 09/2008). But we now have 04/2009 and I couldn’t find it on your page. Will you finish this story sometimes? I really hope so!

    • JunoMagic says:

      Yes, I did indeed plan that … *sigh* And I STILL plan on finishing the story, and my other WIPs. But unfortunately I’m also very busy offline. Jobs, husbands, original work (art and writing) … not much time left for fanfic! I HOPE that I’ll have a bit more time for fanfic in June, though.

      And thank you very much for reading and for taking the time to leave a comment. I’m sorry I have no better news for you!

  3. Clare M says:

    This story is incredible. Is there a way to sign up for updates to email on this website… or do you also publish on ff.net by any chance??

    I would LOVE to read the rest of this. That dinner scene you just described…

    THUD. Just… OMG that is so sweet and realistic and beautiful. Now I’m dying to know what Snape thought and where he IS.

    Please, please more!! This is so wonderful.

    Clare *in awe*

    • JunoMagic says:

      I want to write the rest of this, too, I absolutely do! Especially since it’s all plotted out and everything. Just give me some time to get this damn offline life sorted out … GAH!

  4. Chaer says:

    I see the last time you had a comment on this piece was over two years ago, but I thought I’d let you know I like it as much, maybe even more than, The Apprentice and the Necromancer. I love this Hermione chatting with herself and her car, and Luna’s warning was brilliant.

    I do hope you still intend to add more even if it has been a long time.

    • JunoMagic says:

      I’m thrilled to hear that you enjoyed what there is of this story. And yes, I still intend to continue working on this story, possibly with a friend. But when and how this might happen I cannot tell. The days are just too packed …

  5. Peragar says:

    Is there still hope for this and other stories of yours to be finished? I know, not enough time, but please, please, please, … 🙂 I love them and actually live them through. :-)) I´ve noticed one of your stories on ff.net a couple of weeks ago and now I am working my way through all of them from the top to the bottom. OK, not all of them, for I cannot read spanish and latin. 😉

    • JunoMagic says:

      There’s always hope. 🙂 2011 was a really bad year, and I didn’t get any writing done. I’m busy with work in January, but who knows what will happen later this year? I’m glad you enjoy my writing, and thank you for taking the time to leave a comment.

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