(no subject)
Date: Backdated to Sunday, February the 25th
Time: Early evening, twilight
Location: The British Malone estate
Characters Involved: Ciarán Malone and Hermione Granger
Rating: Let's say PG-13 for innuendo of multiple sorts
Cooking, Ciarán had decided, was very, very fun.
At one time, he would have turned up his nose at the idea of pulling out the crockery and gathering the ingredients together to prepare an appropriately formal feast such as the one upon which he was currently doting. Recently, however, he had discovered (yet again) the joys of DIY.
Additionally, Ciarán had realized that there was a certain base attraction to the idea of doing things manually. He'd always favored the edge of a blade both for shaving and above the torturing curse: there was more fun to both when there was a bit of artistry involved [Of course, it was more of a secret love--and the flashes of emerald were so pretty and powerful]. The days when he could be alone and carve little bits of poetry and reproduce the intricate folds of his cerebral cortex on some forgiving flesh-canvas were his favorite. With the Death Eaters, there'd been calls for efficiency above skill, quantity above quality. Brutish, really.
He liked blotting the dripping scarlet with flower petals.
Granted, he was currently using more than a few shards of magic to stitch the entire delicate operation before him together. Adjusting the timing, heat, and angle of ministration of the roasting pine nuts, the boiling pasta, and the lightly simmering gorgonzola and fontina sauce was no simple task, after all. And he wasn't about to stuff every miniature pocket of each piece of ravioli with pear and ricotta by hand.
Normally, for a private fitting of this variety, he would have had something prepared that was lighter-than-air (whipped yogurt and fruit, perhaps drizzled with caramelized creme). It never worked to stuff his models before shrinking a gown to their birdlike proportions; everything got all bloated and bunchy when they weren't glowing with the lightheadedness of hunger.
Besides, everyone knew that girls starved themselves all day before events like this.
However, tonight was a special occasion. Hermione Granger was not unknown to him, in the way the abstract heroes of the Order were at least vaguely known to the entire Wizarding population. She was so very good, so very trusting, that he could hardly help himself. It was so rare that one encountered such a strong combination of simultaneous intelligence and naiveté, after all, that it seemed more than appropriate to play up the brain's own heat with the night's delicacies. Thus, in addition to the heavily sensual array of almost overpowering foods, he'd brought up a bottle of white wine--not too full-bodied, so as to avoid distracting from the main course, but heady nonetheless.
He thought they might eat in the kitchen's annex. It was quite as large as an ordinary dining room after all, and the full dining hall was just a touch too intimidating for most. Ciarán giggled as he flipped the pine nuts out of the pan and suspended them like a three-dimensional constellation in midair with a flick of his wand. He would behave tonight, he promised.
Time: Early evening, twilight
Location: The British Malone estate
Characters Involved: Ciarán Malone and Hermione Granger
Rating: Let's say PG-13 for innuendo of multiple sorts
Cooking, Ciarán had decided, was very, very fun.
At one time, he would have turned up his nose at the idea of pulling out the crockery and gathering the ingredients together to prepare an appropriately formal feast such as the one upon which he was currently doting. Recently, however, he had discovered (yet again) the joys of DIY.
Additionally, Ciarán had realized that there was a certain base attraction to the idea of doing things manually. He'd always favored the edge of a blade both for shaving and above the torturing curse: there was more fun to both when there was a bit of artistry involved [Of course, it was more of a secret love--and the flashes of emerald were so pretty and powerful]. The days when he could be alone and carve little bits of poetry and reproduce the intricate folds of his cerebral cortex on some forgiving flesh-canvas were his favorite. With the Death Eaters, there'd been calls for efficiency above skill, quantity above quality. Brutish, really.
He liked blotting the dripping scarlet with flower petals.
Granted, he was currently using more than a few shards of magic to stitch the entire delicate operation before him together. Adjusting the timing, heat, and angle of ministration of the roasting pine nuts, the boiling pasta, and the lightly simmering gorgonzola and fontina sauce was no simple task, after all. And he wasn't about to stuff every miniature pocket of each piece of ravioli with pear and ricotta by hand.
Normally, for a private fitting of this variety, he would have had something prepared that was lighter-than-air (whipped yogurt and fruit, perhaps drizzled with caramelized creme). It never worked to stuff his models before shrinking a gown to their birdlike proportions; everything got all bloated and bunchy when they weren't glowing with the lightheadedness of hunger.
Besides, everyone knew that girls starved themselves all day before events like this.
However, tonight was a special occasion. Hermione Granger was not unknown to him, in the way the abstract heroes of the Order were at least vaguely known to the entire Wizarding population. She was so very good, so very trusting, that he could hardly help himself. It was so rare that one encountered such a strong combination of simultaneous intelligence and naiveté, after all, that it seemed more than appropriate to play up the brain's own heat with the night's delicacies. Thus, in addition to the heavily sensual array of almost overpowering foods, he'd brought up a bottle of white wine--not too full-bodied, so as to avoid distracting from the main course, but heady nonetheless.
He thought they might eat in the kitchen's annex. It was quite as large as an ordinary dining room after all, and the full dining hall was just a touch too intimidating for most. Ciarán giggled as he flipped the pine nuts out of the pan and suspended them like a three-dimensional constellation in midair with a flick of his wand. He would behave tonight, he promised.