(A/n: I would like to point out that if I owned the world of Harry Potter I would be off in Scotland with a husband and a knack for writing brilliant things.
The personality of the All Purpose Box is not mine either-if you can guess which brilliantly hilarious British story it belongs to, then I might just send you a lemonsicle-they are really good.)
I AM A FISH, DAMMIT
I stabbed the carrots violently, knocking over the bag of potatoes near my elbow, and sending the spuds rolling across the kitchen floor. HE was coming in ten minutes. Ten minutes. And one of the thirteen house elves I'd adopted had taken my wand in some fit of rebellion to clean-(they had had been threatening they would do this for weeks, for I had strictly forbidden them to even dust so much as a my Chudley Cannons quill-holder, which, coincidently, was given to me by HIM on my 17th birthday).
The elves were going into fits of cleaning withdrawal, I was wandless and I had six minutes left to cook the chicken-salad-casserole before HE arrived.
Let me just tell you right now, cooking is…well, it's not my thing. Mum tried to teach me a few years ago, saying "How can you be the top witch in your potions class, and yet manage to scorch a simple chocolate cake into a crisp? Hmmm...?"
In another attempt I found out the little spoon with the T on it does not, in fact, mean 'teaspoon.' Adding entirely too much yeast + 300 degrees Fahrenheit equals one colossal mess.
Although I managed to clean up all the bits of cake mix that had been lobbed all over the kitchen, I'm afraid the poor stove didn't have a chance. It blew up.
I shoved the carrots into Mrs. Pintong's Box For All Purposes. "COOK THE DAMN CARROTS!" I bellowed. If objects with no distinguishable features could throw reproachful looks, this one would take the cake.
"PLEASE" I added. I did not have time to deal with incompetent boxes right now. I had other colossal fish to fry.
Speaking of frying...
"MY POTATOES!"-the few that I had managed to salvage from the more cleaner areas of the kitchen floor and throw into a frying pan were on fire.
And that is when the doorbell rang.
House elves stampeded to the front door, fighting each other to be the one to open it. I used this time to grab the flaming pan of potatoes off the stove and fling them into the sink.
I had to fling them because that is when the searing pain that comes from grabbing something that is on fire finally reached my hands (that pause between the time your skin touches something incredibly painfully and the moment that incredible pain finally shoots into your finger is not very long I found. Not very long at all...).
"OWWWWWWWWWWWW!" I dropped the frying pan, ran to the sink, and stuck my hands under the faucet that had been conveniently running throughout this whole fiasco.
The flaming pan clanged loudly as it hit the floor. Meanwhile Twonke and Fibbs were fist-fighting over the doorknob, and HIS voice wafted over the whole ruckus to my poor ears-"Hermione? Are you in there? I came a bit early, is that alright?"
I hated to do it, really I did. All those months trying to teach them free will was about to go down the tubes. But I had no choice.
Wincing, I brought my burnt fingers up to my lips and blew.
All thirteen of the squabbling elves snapped identically into a stiff-backed obedient stance. The poor souls.
"Look-er-I'm really sorry, but could you please stay in your cupboards tonight? I promise I'll make it up to you in the morning. How do waffles sound?" Before I even got the last endearing offer in, the elves vanished from the room as quick as lightning.
"Hermione?"
"Er-hold on a second Ron, I-"
HE opened the door.
I sat on the floor surrounded by dirty potatoes.
"Er-hello, Hermione-bad time?"
"..."
Damn potatoes.
"Do you want these carrots or not, they're getting rather cold," interrupted the moody all-purpose box.
"I'll get them" said Ron quickly. He crossed over to the morose box, pausing on the way to put out the smoking pan.
Meanwhile I pushed myself up. "Well there goes a perfectly rom-"I stopped myself just in time and cleared my throat. "Perfectly good meal.
"I lost my wand" I explained.
He turned around and had one of those adorable smirks on his face. "They took it, didn't they?"
"What?" I said, distracted as the stove started beeping.
"They were threatening to do it for weeks-Hermione they want to clean and do things for you. Why don't you let them? They could even cook for you...I mean...not that...you know...just if you wanted them to..." he drabbled off lamely.
"Just what are you trying to say Ron?" That was it. He had touched an already worn-out nerve. I knew I couldn't cook for the life of me, even if the little blighters hadn't stolen my wand all of my dishes would still taste awful. But still. He did not have to mention it.
"Nothing!" he said quickly. "I mean-"
"I have been trying to make this meal for over two hours, without magic, and I would really appreciate it if you would step into the other room!"
"Herm-"
"MOVE!"
He sheepishly shuffled into the living room.
I went over to the stove and threw open the door, gagging on the profuse amount of dark smoke that was coming out, and singing my eyes. I bravely stuck my hands in and pulled out the casserole. It wasn't as burnt as it could be.
I put the smoldering dish on the burner to cool and leaned against a nearby cabinet to think.
By now I was feeling a bit bad about yelling at Ron. He probably didn't mean it...
I'll admit he can be a tactless idiot-at times. But, over the years, I've learned that you've got to give him the benefit of the doubt. Otherwise you'd never get anywhere.
A soft thunk...thunk...thunk was coming from the direction of the elves' sleeping cupboards. I suspected they were going into convulsions, as I had a guest, a meal to mangle, and they haven't held an iron in weeks.
"Ron-it's ready!" I yelled as I dumped all of the spices in the pantry on the smoky black casserole and transferred the charred potatoes into a bowl.
I turned to call him again when I bumped straight into him.
"Er- sorry." he said.
For a second we just looked at each other, and I noticed how intensely blue his eyes were and realized, suddenly, how warm the room was.
The All Purpose box sighed. "I suppose I should just turn myself off, then, if you don't want these carrots." And the box turned itself off.
Ron blinked and looked away. Whoever gave Mrs. Pintong's All Purpose Box the ability to talk ought to be locked in a crate and dropped into the murky depths of the Atlantic Ocean with a Blast Ended Skewrt as a travel mate.
"Well-it's ready," I said.
5 minutes later
Ron was sawing through the smoky block that vaguely resembled a casserole. I was picking at my soggy carrots.
Alright Hermione, you can do this-you've known him for ten years for merlin's sake.
He didn't look like that ten years ago, said the nasty little voice inside my head.
Concentrate!
But look at him-
Yes,alright,he does look-wait-what's he doing?
Choking, by the looks of it
"OH MY GOD-RON!"
(A/n -REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW REVIEW! (please))
PS. There WILL be a twist coming up-the title is a big hint.