Market Day

Hermione Potter was not used to being second-best at anything. All of her life, she had struggled, worked hard, and generally mopped the floor with anyone who tried to challenge her rightful place as the best of her peers. One hundred percent was never enough, one hundred and nineteen percent was better, and she strove to make sure that she always exceeded by far the high expectations her parents, professors, and peers set for her.

While she did have time to get used to her husband being better at some things, Defence Against the Dark Arts class for one, she never truly accepted the fact that Harry might just be better at cooking than she was. He never really did well during Potions; following the directions seemed to be something of which he was just not capable. Hermione was always able to follow those directions, and her results were nearly always textbook-perfect. Only once was Harry able to outstrip her Potions marks, and that was when he had the help of the Half-Blood Prince's old textbook. She never thought that was fair and said so quite frequently during their sixth year at Hogwarts.

Still, there had to be some translation between abilities at Potions and ability at cooking. She just couldn't lay her finger on it. Whenever they would invite Ginny and Colin over for dinner, their guests always seemed to prefer the dish prepared by Harry over what Hermione had cooked. She always picked the most elegant recipes, shopped carefully for the ingredients, and followed the recipe precisely. Harry just scoured through the cooler, looking for whatever ingredients where available. Who mixed peach preserves with ground pork, anyway? Hermione decided that the next dinner party would be the last time that she would try to show up Harry.

The opportunity presented itself several weeks later. Ron had been recuperating from a nasty incident with a Bludger at St. Mungo's for the past week and was able to be released the next day. In celebration of his full recovery from an imbedded Bludger, Hermione decided that they should prepare dinner in his honour. Ron had a notoriously strong stomach, having earned the reputation after eating twelve of Hagrid's Rock Cakes in one sitting, on a bet during their seventh year. His wife, Luna, had a more delicate sensibility, and between the two of them, they could decide once and for all who the more adept chef was.

No dinner party can even be attempted without a quick trip to the market. Since the Potters lived on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, the best chance of finding the supplies they needed was on Saturday morning, when wizarding farmers from all over Britain Apparated with their goods to Hogsmeade Square.

Market days were always festive, and the Square was filled with gossiping witches, running children, and wizards gathering at the Three Broomsticks for an early pint. Armed with their respective lists of ingredients, Hermione and Harry walked hand in hand down the many stalls and stands scattered along the street.

"I still can't believe that you wanted to do this again, Hermione. It's always the same result. Your dish ends up as Monday's lunch, and my dish is practically licked clean," said Harry as they examined the herbs on display at Parsley Patterson's booth.

Hermione scoffed. "I still don't understand why that is. I always have this perfectly lovely recipe to follow, use all of the latest techniques, why shouldn't I have the best dish?"

Harry tickled her nose with the sprig of coriander he was holding. "It's because you do things by the book, love. You don't know how to utilise your imagination when cooking."

"There's a right way to do things, Harry," she responded haughtily. "You've been lucky, that's all. Ron doesn't exactly have the best sense of taste in the world, it's been ruined by that Acid Pop Fred and George slipped him when he was a kid." She spotted Mavis Weatherby putting fresh breasts of chicken out on display at her stand. "Oh, look! Six sickles per pound, Harry. Chicken Madeira tonight, I think." She hurried over to Mavis's Meats, where several other witches were gathering, hoping for a bargain.

"Hermione," Harry began, but she was quickly out of earshot. He paid for his coriander, chives, and parsley, then rushed to join her over at the stand. He whispered, "Don't bother, you don't want to buy from her. There's another stand further down the street that has better chicken."

"Oh, pish, I can't pass up a deal like this one," Hermione snapped. "She wouldn't sell it if wasn't good."

"Oh yes, she would," muttered Harry, under his breath. He knew better than to let his wife hear him criticize any of her decisions. He would never hear the end of it; it was easier just to keep it to himself. In any case, he would be vindicated with the results of tonight's competition.

Harry and Hermione continued down the row of stands. Hermione purchased some wine, mushrooms, and cream, while Harry decided on a small piece of haddock, lemons marked as imported from Italy, and a small sack of potatoes. "At least there will be something here to fill up Ron's bottomless stomach. There's enough here for a giant pot of mashed potatoes," Harry commented to Hermione.

She snickered at the mention of Ron's appetite. "Yes, and there will be plenty of potatoes for when our guests eat all of my Chicken Madeira."

All of their ingredients secured, Harry and Hermione strolled along the High Street until they reached their small, neatly kept cottage. Harry stopped just inside the surrounding fence, looking for a few additional ingredients: squash and beans planted by Neville the previous spring. He called to Hermione, who had continued on into the house, "Hermione, what time is it?"

"Half past three, dear," she responded. "Everyone will be here in about two hours, so you had better get to work." He smiled fondly; only Hermione would think that dinner should take two or more hours to prepare.

Harry spent the rest of the afternoon tinkering in the garden, watching the gnomes attempt to harvest and carry away one of Neville's giant squashes, only to be chased away repeatedly by Crookshanks. Every so often, he would catch a glimpse of Hermione's curly hair in the kitchen window. She was obviously working hard, but in the end, he knew what the result would be: their friends would just eat a small sampling of her cooking to appease her and then proceed to devour whatever Harry decided to make.

At a quarter after five, Harry decided it might be a good idea for him to get to work, himself. Ron, Luna, Ginny, and Colin were expected to arrive very soon, and he also expected that Neville would find his way to their table from his flat above his nursery. Hermione looked like she was finished - a covered dish was already placed on the table, being kept hot by a Warming Charm. He walked over to give her a quick kiss on her sweaty brow, gave her a perfunctory, "All done then, love?" then set to work.

Fish, lemon, coriander, and onions from the garden, along with the squash rescued from the gnomes, were all chopped up and thrown into the hot sauté pan pell-mell, and soon a delicious smell filled the kitchen. Hermione perked up at the aroma, and the argument started just as their guests were arriving.

"You always have to do this, Harry!" she fumed at him. "All of my hard work and energy gets shown up by your last minute cookery."

Harry tried to calm her down as Ginny and Colin waited on the stoop, unsure if they should dare to enter when Hermione was obviously very angry. "Hermione, it doesn't really matter to me, you know that, don't you?"

"Well, it matters to me! Why should you get all of the attention from something thrown together at the last minute, I've worked my tail off this afternoon. It's just like it was at school, you know. I work hard, you get the glory." Hermione paused by the window, hair bristling, arms crossed. She continued sullenly, "I know that I'm being silly here. But it means a lot to me."

Harry looked at her closely for a minute, thinking fast. There had to be an easy way out of this. He didn't care, after all. Ron wouldn't notice, and Luna probably wouldn't make a big deal of it. Ginny and Colin would be very understanding; they knew that Harry just wanted to make Hermione happy. Suddenly, Harry noticed that he smelled something burning. "Oh, bloody hell!" he exclaimed, running towards the stovetop.

His wonderful haddock was stuck to the pan, charred black around the edges. The vegetables didn't fare any better, the squash overcooked and mushy, the onions burned, as well. He could see Hermione beaming out of the corner of his eye as he surveyed the damage. Finally, he turned to face her. "Well, love. It seems you've won." He grinned. "Congratulations," he said, walking over to her and planting a kiss on her cheek.

"Now wait a minute, that doesn't seem fair," Hermione objected. "How could our guests possibly make a fair judgment about who is the better cook here, with your meal all scorched like that?" She frowned, examining the contents of his pan.

"Hermione," Harry began, dropping the pan into the sink and flicking his wand to start it washing. "You already know that this doesn't really matter. You won fair and square. I wasn't paying attention, and this is the result," he said, indicating the mess of bubbles in the sink. "Now, let's invite our guests in and enjoy your wonderful Chicken Madeira."

Hermione blushed, and then nodded in agreement. "All right then, Harry," she said, "If you insist. But the next time that we have decide to have dinner guests over, you're doing the cooking." Harry smiled at his wife, and together, they went to go greet their guests.