The Pizzera 6/10 (R/D, PG-13)
Title: The Pizzeria (a Sordid Tale of Destiny, Evil, and Garlic) 6/10
Author: mad_maudlin
Length: 36,584
Pairing: Ron/Draco (more preslash than slash)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ron bites off more than he can chew when he agrees to help Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini open an Italian restaurant. Can anything make it worth the headaches?
6.
Ron forced himself out of bed early the next day, stared at his desk for only a moment, and headed to the pizzeria. He had a vague idea that he could somehow start cooking ahead of time, and have all the pizzas made early, so they'd just need to pop them in the oven as they needed them. Perhaps if he had all that under control, Malfoy wouldn't scream too terribly much to discover that their headand onlychef was, at the moment, sleeping off some sort of quarter-life crisis, one with no end clearly in sight.
That carefully-constructed contingency plan was blown all to shit when Ron entered the shop through the front, and was almost bowled over by something very small, high-pitched, and wrapped in a tablecloth. Reflexes were reflexes, and he knocked the little thing across the room with a well-placed jinx before he tried to think of what, precisely, it was. "Come out where I can see you," he said loudly, wand trained on the bundle of red-and-white checkered fabric.
The tablecloth shivered a moment, and then a pair of enormous blue eyes became visible in the folds. The eyes were followed by a thin nose, and by the time the big bat-ears cleared the edge of the cloth, Ron had realized what he was looking at. "Please to not be angry with me?" the house-elf whimpered. "I is only coming to see if you is customer, and I trips and falls and rolls and hits you."
Ron scrubbed his face and crouched next to the elf. "Sorry," he said, "but, er, who are you? And how'd you get in here?"
"I is Tiffer!" the elf said. "Master Malfoy is rescuing me and telling me to live here!"
"Merlin on a fucking waffle," Ron muttered. "Malfoy brought you here?"
Tiffer nodded ferociously. "He is saying that here Tiffer can have life of dignity and respect, and a little bed by the oven, and all the scraps I can be eating!"
"That's...fabulous for you, Tiffer," Ron said. "I don’t suppose he's paying you, is he?"
Tiffer drew...himself? Herself? Ron wasn't exactly an expert on sexing elvesTiffer drew Tiffer's self up and stuck out Tiffer's chin indignantly. "Certainly not! Tiffer is not that kind of elf!"
"Of course not," Ron said quickly. "I didn't mean to imply. Er, you want some help wrapping that up?"
Tiffer moved, but Ron couldn't tell if he-she-it was standing under all the folds of tablecloth. "Tiffer is not needing help from you! I ought to be giving you help! Does you want a pizza?"
"No, no, Tiffer, mate, I work here," Ron said, and stuck out his hand. "Ron Weasley." Tiffer looked at his hand suspiciously. "C'mon, I'm serious, I work with Malfoy too. And he's not paying me either, so that's two things we've got in common, isn't it?"
Tiffer hesitantly grasped the first two fingers of Ron's hand and shook. "Tiffer is happy to help Master Weasley."
"Excellent," Ron said, "'cause I'm going to need it."
He helped Tiffer trim down the excess tablecloth, though it still went all around his (her?) body like a burka. Tiffer, in return, showed Ron the promised bed by the ovenit was inside a small cabinet and seemed to consist mainly of flour sacks in a lasagna pan. Their friendship thus solidified, Ron turned to the crisis at hand, namely the lack of Blaise. He gingerly approached Nona Zabini's cookbook, which Blaise had bound to the wall with a heavy chain, and opened it.
Or, rather, tried to open it.
As he sucked on the burnt ends of his fingers, Tiffer squeaked and dove into the pantry. Ron grabbed a wooden spoon and tried to lift the cover from a distance; it burned like a torch, and he had to thrust it into the sink to put it out. He prodded it with his wand a few times, producing blue and purple sparks and occasionally small plumes of smoke, but not actually unsealing the cover. After a moment, he retreated to the other side of the room and grabbed a baking sheet and held it up in front of himself. He'd destroyed Horcruxeswell, helpedat the very least he'd watched. This should be easy.
"Finite incantatum!"
When Malfoy stormed into the kitchen a half-hour later, he waved aside the smoke and looked at the clutter on the floor, and the scorch marks on the counter, and the perfect circle of smooth tile surrounding the recipe book. The last thing he looked at was Ron, who was still trying to get the saucepan off his head. "Weasley," Malfoy said slowly, "do I even want to ask what in Merlin's name is going on here?"
The saucepan came off, taking quite a bit of hair with it, and Ron pulled himself to his feet. "Well," he said, "where would like me to start?"
"To begin with, what exactly is the point of laying siege to Blaise's precious family heirloom?" Malfoy glanced under some of the counters. "And have you seen a house-elf around here?"
"I want to talk about the elf," Ron said, "but first, see, about Blaise..."
There was, as Ron had predicted, some shouting. There was also a frantic search for Tiffer, who turned up shivering inside an upended stock pot and had to be coaxed out with the prospect of all the washing-up there was to do. And then Malfoy headed for the fireplace, and Ron raced after him, shouting, "Malfoy, don't you dare!"
"Dare what?" he snapped. He reached for the Floo powder, and clutched it close to his chest to keep Ron from taking it. "Dare call my dear old friend to ask what the hell he thinks he's doing to me? Dare punish my most crucial employee for absenteeism? Hmm?"
"He's your partner, not your employee," Ron said, reaching around to grope for the Floo powder, "and I told you, he needs a day off or he's going to go right round the twist!"
"I don't care!" Malfoy said, trying to squirm away. "As long as he can still cook, I don't care if he wears witches' underwear and thinks he's a fern! Get off me!"
"No!" Ron said. "Look, I've been helping him in the kitchen for weeks, I have a pretty good idea what to do"
"Which is why you were trying to blast your way into the cookbook!"
"We'll figure something out!"
"No!" Malfoy said, almost doubled over around the Floo powder. "Not we! There is no we! You're the one who sent him home, you figure out how we are supposed to run a restaurant with no bloody chef!"
"You're the one who worked him to the bone!" Ron snapped back. "He thinks you're going to bury his corpse in the cellar!"
"That's not my fault!"
"Is so!"
"Is not!"
Ron used his greater weight to throw Malfoy against a wall. "It is so, and if you call him I swear I'll walk out that door right now!"
"After causing all this trouble?" Malfoy squirmed, and tried to stomp on Ron's toes. "You wouldn't dare."
"I'll walk," Ron said, groping for the Floo powder again. "I'll walk away like I should've done ages ago, you little ferret, and let you and your elf try to run a restaurant with a head chef who thinks he's a fern! Now give me the jar!"
"Make me!"
"Give it to me!"
"No!"
"Give it to me!"
"No!"
"Is this a bad time?" Dennis Creevey asked, and Ron was so shocked that he let Malfoy slip away and toss almost the whole jar of Floo powder into the grate.
Malfoy threw himself on his belly and thrust his head into the fire almost before he'd shouted his destination. "Blaise!" Ron heard him shout. "Blaise Giuseppe Zabini, you get your black Italian arse out of bed and get over here this instant, or so help me, I will come over there and"
He never got to say what he was going to do, because Ron grabbed him by the ankles and hauled him bodily out of the grate. "Malfoy," Ron said, "leave him the hell alone or I'll bury you in the cellar!"
"Let me go, I wasn't finished threatening him yet!" Malfoy clawed at the floor, trying to get back in to the fire; Ron tried to drag him further backwards, but Malfoy got one hand on the hearth and clung like a limpet. "Let go of me, Weasley! Tiffer, help me!"
"Keep the elf out of it!" Ron said, pulling hard. "Dennis, go ahead and open the till. Mr. Zabini is sick, so Mr. Malfoy and I will be cooking today."
"Mr. Malfoy will not!" Malfoy bellowed as the Floo connection closed with a whoosh. "Mr. Malfoy refuses to cook! Mr. Weasley is delusional and violent and must be stopped!"
Ron dug his feet in and pulled, and Malfoy's fingers slipped off the stone. He used his momentum to drag Malfoy into the battle-scarred kitchen, where Tiffer had retreated to cower inside the mop bucket. "I'm going to let your legs go now," Ron called over Malfoy's inarticulate swearing. "Are you going to try to escape?"
"No," Malfoy said. The moment Ron released him, he scrambled to his feet and ran for the kitchen door. Ron expected that, and hit him with a Leg-Locker Jinx. "Damn you and your entire ginger horde!" Malfoy shrieked as he toppled over.
Ron crouched over his head and took a deep breath. "Malfoy, listen to me."
"No."
"I could gag you, if you want."
"You wouldn't dare," Malfoy said. "You need my help to run the restaurant without Blaise."
"Can I remind you," Ron said, "That it's your restaurant? Which you really, really don't want me to try to run with an elf and a teenager, while you're bound and gagged in the cellar?"
Malfoy was quiet for a moment, then said, "You are an evil, evil man who will come to a bad end."
"Says the ex-Death Eater spy."
"Exactly. Which means you are especially wicked."
Ron stood up, and offered Malfoy his hand. Malfoy instead hauled himself to his feet on the edge of a counter. "So here's what we're going to do," Ron said, but Malfoy waved a finger in his face to shush him.
"As you so graciously point out, Weasley, this is my restaurant," he said. "So I shall be making the decisions here, thank you very much."
"As long as it doesn't involve kidnapping Blaise or burying his corpse in the cellar," Ron said.
"Don't be ridiculous," Malfoy said. He brushed down his front and walked around the chaotic kitchen, frowning deeply. He examined the cookbook without touching it, nosed around the pantry and the cold cupboard, and picked up a slightly dented baking sheet, only to put it back down.
Ron watched all this with his arms crossed, one eye on the time.
Finally, Malfoy sighed enormously and said, "Where does he keep the aprons in this place?"
"He brings his own," Ron said. "But I'm sure Tiffer can set you up with some tablecloth scraps."
If eyes were wands, Malfoy would've glared an Unforgivable.
They set out trying to do a normal day at the restaurant, with only Ron's memory for reference. He knew the measurements for the pizza dough well enough, or at least well enough to set several tight balls of dough rising on a counter right away; the sauce was problematic, though, and Malfoy argued fervently every step of the way that Ron was doing it wrong, wrong, my god, how can one man be so wrong?
"You make it, then," Ron said. "Just don't add any salt."
"Part of the problem is that it needs salt," Malfoy said. "Also, your mincing is abominable."
"I mince just fine," Ron said. "This isn't a potion, after all, it's sauce. Any idiot can make sauce."
"Funny, that idiot seemed to be having trouble." He tasted the sauce, then added salt (of course) and oregano. "Bring me the sausage."
"Get your own sausage."
"I don't want my own sausage, I want your sausage." Ron stared at him, and Malfoy turned a delicate shade of pink. "In an entirely culinary sense, of course."
"Of course." Ron sank the knife into a ripe tomato. "So get your own."
The toppings were another difficulty, of course, and led to endless arguments about quantity and proportion and combinations. Zabini had also left behind some ingredients that Ron simply didn't comprehendhe had eaten the pineapple and ham, of course, but what were they supposed to do with a head of fennel? Four pounds of hazelnuts? Chopped octopus marinated in wine? And did Blaise really use this much garlic, or was some of that just for snacking?
They got pizzas out of the oven just in time for the first lunch customers. Malfoy declared victory, and tried to go down to the cellar, resulting in another tussle. "We finished lunch!" Malfoy shoutedalmost whined, really. "I deserve a nap!"
"No, you don't," Ron said, "because we didn't finish lunch, unless by finish you mean start."
"We must've made fifty pizzas!"
"Try five."
"That's still a lot of pizza," Malfoy pouted.
"Do you even pay attention to your own receipts?" Ron asked. "'We can sell that in an hour, if it's busy."
"Still." Malfoy tried to squirm away. "Can't I get a nap? Just a little one?"
"Do you let Blaise get naps?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Nice try, Weasley, but I refuse to learn from this experience."
This charming exchange was interrupted by a shriek from the counter. Ron rushed forward, vaulting over the rubbish bin, and discovered that the cash register had closed its drawer on Dennis's wrist. A customer was beating the register with a cane, though it didn't seem to be helping. Ron quickly pushed him out of the way and used a Freezing Charm to immobilize the register. "Get me something to pry with," he called into the kitchen.
"Like what?" Malfoy shouted.
"Like a...prying thing!"
"Oh, you are so very heroic, Weasley."
Malfoy came charging out with the offset spatula. "Not that thing!" Ron said. "It's the only one we have!"
"This is the only competent employee we have!" Malfoy shouted. "Do you want to keep him or not?"
Dennis whimpered.
They eventually settled on the combination of a wicked-looking bread knife and a fork. Ron wedged the bread knife into the drawer, and when Malfoy released the Freezing Charm he forced the drawer open and propped it with the fork. Dennis freed his hand and clutched it to his chest while Ron scooped as much gold as possible out of the register and into the fold of his apron before the fork gave way. When it did, the drawer snapped shut, and the register gave a menacing growl.
"I reckon I ought to take that to my dad's office," Ron said, watching its keys ripple menacingly.
Malfoy grabbed an empty flour sack out of the bin. "No, no, I'll get it sortedjust don't make any sudden movements."
"What about the customer?" Dennis whimpered.
Ron and Malfoy looked up as one, and Ron noticed for the first time the elderly wizard holding a slice of pizza wrapped in paper. He was staring at them, shell-shocked, and the fork had speared through the point of his hat.
"Hello," Malfoy said, rustling the sack. "We'll be with you momentarily."
"Keep the change," the wizard said weakly, backing away. So, unfortunately, did a few other customers in the room.
"Er, don't worry!" Ron called out. "Everything's under control! We'll just...we need a moment to put our, um, accounts in order, and we'll be right with you."
Malfoy circled around the back of the register with the sack, and suddenly leapt forward. He and the register both went over the edge of the counter and rolled, struggling, into the kitchen corridor. Ron tried not to watch as he sorted Galleons and Sickles into the first container he could findthe small, empty plastic buckets from the imported cheese. They still smelled a bit like old milk, but (from the sounds of struggle he was definitely not looking at) they weren't exactly going to have any alternatives soon.
Dennis suddenly stepped up to the counter, still clutching his wrist (which was coming out in a spectacular bruise). "Mr. Weasley?" he said in a strangled voice. "Erm, Mr. Weasley?"
"Just a minute, Dennis," Ron called from his crouching place on the floor.
"Mr. Weasley?"
"I'm busy down here, Dennis!"
"Ron?"
Ron blinked. In the corridor, the register dinged aggressively, and Malfoy said "Ha!"
"Ron, I know you're down there."
Slowly, still conscious of the coins in his lap, Ron peeked over the edge of the counter. Harry and Ginny were standing on the other side, looking at him as if he were insane.
"Hi," Ron said. "Be right with you."
Ginny pushed past Harry. "Ron, what is"
"Ha!" Malfoy came staggering out with one fist pumping over his head. He was covered in a fine layer of flour, except for where he'd split his lip, but he still had a manically triumphant grin on his face and the flour sack of sadly rattling register under his arm. That is, he was grinning until he noticed Harry and Ginny. Then his face sort of slumped into abject horror for a moment, before settling into a deep and twisted scowl. "Out," he snarled. "Out, out, out!"
"Malfoy, leave off," Ron said, pushing back from the counter. "Go unhex the register."
"No," he said. "Get that...that...person out of my restaurant!"
"Good to see you too, Malfoy," Harry said stiffly.
Ginny banged on the counter. "Ron, what are you doing here? And why are you wearing an apron?"
"Out!" Malfoy barked.
Ron took a deep breath. "Malfoy, shut up. Dennis, mind the, er, buckets. Harry, Ginny...can we talk later? Possibly much later?" He tried smiling at them.
"I'd like to talk now, actually," Ginny said.
Malfoy's eyes were looking a bit glassy. "Get out of my restaurant! I will not have you in my restaurant!"
Tiffer suddenly ran out of the kitchen. "Mr. Weasley, your pizzas is burning!"
"Right," Ron said. An eerie and total calm settled over him such as he hadn't felt since the last time he was running for his life. He thrust three cheese buckets full of coin at Dennis, kicked the register out of the way, grabbed Malfoy by the collar and hauled him into the kitchen. With his free hand, he charmed open the over doors, letting the smoke of four lightly scorched pizzas (margherita, pepperoni, pineapple and ham, and octopus) billow into the air, and then turned down the heat on a pot of sauce that was gleefully boiling over. "Malfoy," he said, "please shut up, before I kill you."
"You can't kill me, I hired you."
"No, you didn't." He banished the ruined pizzas and grabbed the next set of gently rising dough balls. "And if you go out there and harass Harry or my sister any more, I will kill you. And bury you in the bloody cellar. Understand?"
"He tried to kill me," Malfoy hissed, "he's more than half the reason my family's name is mud"
"He got you the pardon that saved your life!"
"I never asked for his help!" Spit flew from Malfoy's lips, and his eyes were bulging alarmingly.
Ron found he didn't care. "He's also a paying customer, so you can't kick him out," he said, frantically rolling out dough. "Go insult his hair color if it'll make you feel better."
"I won't have him in here"
"Why?" Ron shouted. "Because he wounded your bloody pride?"
Malfoy's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, and then he groped under his tablecloth-cum-apron until he found his List. "You're going to pay," he muttered feverishly, "you're all going to bloody pay, some day, I'm going to make every one of you pay"
"Oh, shut up," Ron said, and snatched the List out of Malfoy's hands.
"Give that back!" Malfoy shrieked.
"Certainly," Ron said, and dunked it into the simmering sauce.
Malfoy's eyes were wide, but his pupils were blown to the limit of the gray iris. All the skin of his face seemed to pull backwards, and his lips stretched out to reveal his tightly-clenched teeth. With an inarticulate cry of rage, he leapt forward, wand forgotten, and reached for Ron's throat.
Ron got his arms up in time to avoid a choking, but Malfoy's forward momentum knocked them both to the floor, and for a moment they rolled there, Malfoy punching and clawing insanely, Ron trying to wrestle him into stillness. There seemed to be shouting everywhere, most of it indiscernible over Malfoy's screeching and swearing. Ron was pretty certain Malfoy bit him. He managed to get the upper hand for a moment and pinned Malfoy across the throat, hoping the lack of air would bring him to his senses, but Malfoy slipped under his arm and pounded their heads together so hard Ron saw stars.
"Locomotor mortis!" somebody shouted over the noise.
Ron rolled away just in time to avoid being caught in the hex; Draco went stiff and flopped to the floor, though his eyes still rolled malevolently in his head. Harry and Ginny stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking simultaneously gobsmacked and angry. "Ron," Harry said slowly, "for the last time, what the hell is going on here?"
Ron stood and wiped his suddenly-sweaty hands on his apron. "Can I explain later?" he asked. "Only, it's the lunch rush."
Chapter One
Chapter Five
Chapter Seven
Author: mad_maudlin
Length: 36,584
Pairing: Ron/Draco (more preslash than slash)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ron bites off more than he can chew when he agrees to help Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini open an Italian restaurant. Can anything make it worth the headaches?
6.
Ron forced himself out of bed early the next day, stared at his desk for only a moment, and headed to the pizzeria. He had a vague idea that he could somehow start cooking ahead of time, and have all the pizzas made early, so they'd just need to pop them in the oven as they needed them. Perhaps if he had all that under control, Malfoy wouldn't scream too terribly much to discover that their headand onlychef was, at the moment, sleeping off some sort of quarter-life crisis, one with no end clearly in sight.
That carefully-constructed contingency plan was blown all to shit when Ron entered the shop through the front, and was almost bowled over by something very small, high-pitched, and wrapped in a tablecloth. Reflexes were reflexes, and he knocked the little thing across the room with a well-placed jinx before he tried to think of what, precisely, it was. "Come out where I can see you," he said loudly, wand trained on the bundle of red-and-white checkered fabric.
The tablecloth shivered a moment, and then a pair of enormous blue eyes became visible in the folds. The eyes were followed by a thin nose, and by the time the big bat-ears cleared the edge of the cloth, Ron had realized what he was looking at. "Please to not be angry with me?" the house-elf whimpered. "I is only coming to see if you is customer, and I trips and falls and rolls and hits you."
Ron scrubbed his face and crouched next to the elf. "Sorry," he said, "but, er, who are you? And how'd you get in here?"
"I is Tiffer!" the elf said. "Master Malfoy is rescuing me and telling me to live here!"
"Merlin on a fucking waffle," Ron muttered. "Malfoy brought you here?"
Tiffer nodded ferociously. "He is saying that here Tiffer can have life of dignity and respect, and a little bed by the oven, and all the scraps I can be eating!"
"That's...fabulous for you, Tiffer," Ron said. "I don’t suppose he's paying you, is he?"
Tiffer drew...himself? Herself? Ron wasn't exactly an expert on sexing elvesTiffer drew Tiffer's self up and stuck out Tiffer's chin indignantly. "Certainly not! Tiffer is not that kind of elf!"
"Of course not," Ron said quickly. "I didn't mean to imply. Er, you want some help wrapping that up?"
Tiffer moved, but Ron couldn't tell if he-she-it was standing under all the folds of tablecloth. "Tiffer is not needing help from you! I ought to be giving you help! Does you want a pizza?"
"No, no, Tiffer, mate, I work here," Ron said, and stuck out his hand. "Ron Weasley." Tiffer looked at his hand suspiciously. "C'mon, I'm serious, I work with Malfoy too. And he's not paying me either, so that's two things we've got in common, isn't it?"
Tiffer hesitantly grasped the first two fingers of Ron's hand and shook. "Tiffer is happy to help Master Weasley."
"Excellent," Ron said, "'cause I'm going to need it."
He helped Tiffer trim down the excess tablecloth, though it still went all around his (her?) body like a burka. Tiffer, in return, showed Ron the promised bed by the ovenit was inside a small cabinet and seemed to consist mainly of flour sacks in a lasagna pan. Their friendship thus solidified, Ron turned to the crisis at hand, namely the lack of Blaise. He gingerly approached Nona Zabini's cookbook, which Blaise had bound to the wall with a heavy chain, and opened it.
Or, rather, tried to open it.
As he sucked on the burnt ends of his fingers, Tiffer squeaked and dove into the pantry. Ron grabbed a wooden spoon and tried to lift the cover from a distance; it burned like a torch, and he had to thrust it into the sink to put it out. He prodded it with his wand a few times, producing blue and purple sparks and occasionally small plumes of smoke, but not actually unsealing the cover. After a moment, he retreated to the other side of the room and grabbed a baking sheet and held it up in front of himself. He'd destroyed Horcruxeswell, helpedat the very least he'd watched. This should be easy.
"Finite incantatum!"
When Malfoy stormed into the kitchen a half-hour later, he waved aside the smoke and looked at the clutter on the floor, and the scorch marks on the counter, and the perfect circle of smooth tile surrounding the recipe book. The last thing he looked at was Ron, who was still trying to get the saucepan off his head. "Weasley," Malfoy said slowly, "do I even want to ask what in Merlin's name is going on here?"
The saucepan came off, taking quite a bit of hair with it, and Ron pulled himself to his feet. "Well," he said, "where would like me to start?"
"To begin with, what exactly is the point of laying siege to Blaise's precious family heirloom?" Malfoy glanced under some of the counters. "And have you seen a house-elf around here?"
"I want to talk about the elf," Ron said, "but first, see, about Blaise..."
There was, as Ron had predicted, some shouting. There was also a frantic search for Tiffer, who turned up shivering inside an upended stock pot and had to be coaxed out with the prospect of all the washing-up there was to do. And then Malfoy headed for the fireplace, and Ron raced after him, shouting, "Malfoy, don't you dare!"
"Dare what?" he snapped. He reached for the Floo powder, and clutched it close to his chest to keep Ron from taking it. "Dare call my dear old friend to ask what the hell he thinks he's doing to me? Dare punish my most crucial employee for absenteeism? Hmm?"
"He's your partner, not your employee," Ron said, reaching around to grope for the Floo powder, "and I told you, he needs a day off or he's going to go right round the twist!"
"I don't care!" Malfoy said, trying to squirm away. "As long as he can still cook, I don't care if he wears witches' underwear and thinks he's a fern! Get off me!"
"No!" Ron said. "Look, I've been helping him in the kitchen for weeks, I have a pretty good idea what to do"
"Which is why you were trying to blast your way into the cookbook!"
"We'll figure something out!"
"No!" Malfoy said, almost doubled over around the Floo powder. "Not we! There is no we! You're the one who sent him home, you figure out how we are supposed to run a restaurant with no bloody chef!"
"You're the one who worked him to the bone!" Ron snapped back. "He thinks you're going to bury his corpse in the cellar!"
"That's not my fault!"
"Is so!"
"Is not!"
Ron used his greater weight to throw Malfoy against a wall. "It is so, and if you call him I swear I'll walk out that door right now!"
"After causing all this trouble?" Malfoy squirmed, and tried to stomp on Ron's toes. "You wouldn't dare."
"I'll walk," Ron said, groping for the Floo powder again. "I'll walk away like I should've done ages ago, you little ferret, and let you and your elf try to run a restaurant with a head chef who thinks he's a fern! Now give me the jar!"
"Make me!"
"Give it to me!"
"No!"
"Give it to me!"
"No!"
"Is this a bad time?" Dennis Creevey asked, and Ron was so shocked that he let Malfoy slip away and toss almost the whole jar of Floo powder into the grate.
Malfoy threw himself on his belly and thrust his head into the fire almost before he'd shouted his destination. "Blaise!" Ron heard him shout. "Blaise Giuseppe Zabini, you get your black Italian arse out of bed and get over here this instant, or so help me, I will come over there and"
He never got to say what he was going to do, because Ron grabbed him by the ankles and hauled him bodily out of the grate. "Malfoy," Ron said, "leave him the hell alone or I'll bury you in the cellar!"
"Let me go, I wasn't finished threatening him yet!" Malfoy clawed at the floor, trying to get back in to the fire; Ron tried to drag him further backwards, but Malfoy got one hand on the hearth and clung like a limpet. "Let go of me, Weasley! Tiffer, help me!"
"Keep the elf out of it!" Ron said, pulling hard. "Dennis, go ahead and open the till. Mr. Zabini is sick, so Mr. Malfoy and I will be cooking today."
"Mr. Malfoy will not!" Malfoy bellowed as the Floo connection closed with a whoosh. "Mr. Malfoy refuses to cook! Mr. Weasley is delusional and violent and must be stopped!"
Ron dug his feet in and pulled, and Malfoy's fingers slipped off the stone. He used his momentum to drag Malfoy into the battle-scarred kitchen, where Tiffer had retreated to cower inside the mop bucket. "I'm going to let your legs go now," Ron called over Malfoy's inarticulate swearing. "Are you going to try to escape?"
"No," Malfoy said. The moment Ron released him, he scrambled to his feet and ran for the kitchen door. Ron expected that, and hit him with a Leg-Locker Jinx. "Damn you and your entire ginger horde!" Malfoy shrieked as he toppled over.
Ron crouched over his head and took a deep breath. "Malfoy, listen to me."
"No."
"I could gag you, if you want."
"You wouldn't dare," Malfoy said. "You need my help to run the restaurant without Blaise."
"Can I remind you," Ron said, "That it's your restaurant? Which you really, really don't want me to try to run with an elf and a teenager, while you're bound and gagged in the cellar?"
Malfoy was quiet for a moment, then said, "You are an evil, evil man who will come to a bad end."
"Says the ex-Death Eater spy."
"Exactly. Which means you are especially wicked."
Ron stood up, and offered Malfoy his hand. Malfoy instead hauled himself to his feet on the edge of a counter. "So here's what we're going to do," Ron said, but Malfoy waved a finger in his face to shush him.
"As you so graciously point out, Weasley, this is my restaurant," he said. "So I shall be making the decisions here, thank you very much."
"As long as it doesn't involve kidnapping Blaise or burying his corpse in the cellar," Ron said.
"Don't be ridiculous," Malfoy said. He brushed down his front and walked around the chaotic kitchen, frowning deeply. He examined the cookbook without touching it, nosed around the pantry and the cold cupboard, and picked up a slightly dented baking sheet, only to put it back down.
Ron watched all this with his arms crossed, one eye on the time.
Finally, Malfoy sighed enormously and said, "Where does he keep the aprons in this place?"
"He brings his own," Ron said. "But I'm sure Tiffer can set you up with some tablecloth scraps."
If eyes were wands, Malfoy would've glared an Unforgivable.
They set out trying to do a normal day at the restaurant, with only Ron's memory for reference. He knew the measurements for the pizza dough well enough, or at least well enough to set several tight balls of dough rising on a counter right away; the sauce was problematic, though, and Malfoy argued fervently every step of the way that Ron was doing it wrong, wrong, my god, how can one man be so wrong?
"You make it, then," Ron said. "Just don't add any salt."
"Part of the problem is that it needs salt," Malfoy said. "Also, your mincing is abominable."
"I mince just fine," Ron said. "This isn't a potion, after all, it's sauce. Any idiot can make sauce."
"Funny, that idiot seemed to be having trouble." He tasted the sauce, then added salt (of course) and oregano. "Bring me the sausage."
"Get your own sausage."
"I don't want my own sausage, I want your sausage." Ron stared at him, and Malfoy turned a delicate shade of pink. "In an entirely culinary sense, of course."
"Of course." Ron sank the knife into a ripe tomato. "So get your own."
The toppings were another difficulty, of course, and led to endless arguments about quantity and proportion and combinations. Zabini had also left behind some ingredients that Ron simply didn't comprehendhe had eaten the pineapple and ham, of course, but what were they supposed to do with a head of fennel? Four pounds of hazelnuts? Chopped octopus marinated in wine? And did Blaise really use this much garlic, or was some of that just for snacking?
They got pizzas out of the oven just in time for the first lunch customers. Malfoy declared victory, and tried to go down to the cellar, resulting in another tussle. "We finished lunch!" Malfoy shoutedalmost whined, really. "I deserve a nap!"
"No, you don't," Ron said, "because we didn't finish lunch, unless by finish you mean start."
"We must've made fifty pizzas!"
"Try five."
"That's still a lot of pizza," Malfoy pouted.
"Do you even pay attention to your own receipts?" Ron asked. "'We can sell that in an hour, if it's busy."
"Still." Malfoy tried to squirm away. "Can't I get a nap? Just a little one?"
"Do you let Blaise get naps?"
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Nice try, Weasley, but I refuse to learn from this experience."
This charming exchange was interrupted by a shriek from the counter. Ron rushed forward, vaulting over the rubbish bin, and discovered that the cash register had closed its drawer on Dennis's wrist. A customer was beating the register with a cane, though it didn't seem to be helping. Ron quickly pushed him out of the way and used a Freezing Charm to immobilize the register. "Get me something to pry with," he called into the kitchen.
"Like what?" Malfoy shouted.
"Like a...prying thing!"
"Oh, you are so very heroic, Weasley."
Malfoy came charging out with the offset spatula. "Not that thing!" Ron said. "It's the only one we have!"
"This is the only competent employee we have!" Malfoy shouted. "Do you want to keep him or not?"
Dennis whimpered.
They eventually settled on the combination of a wicked-looking bread knife and a fork. Ron wedged the bread knife into the drawer, and when Malfoy released the Freezing Charm he forced the drawer open and propped it with the fork. Dennis freed his hand and clutched it to his chest while Ron scooped as much gold as possible out of the register and into the fold of his apron before the fork gave way. When it did, the drawer snapped shut, and the register gave a menacing growl.
"I reckon I ought to take that to my dad's office," Ron said, watching its keys ripple menacingly.
Malfoy grabbed an empty flour sack out of the bin. "No, no, I'll get it sortedjust don't make any sudden movements."
"What about the customer?" Dennis whimpered.
Ron and Malfoy looked up as one, and Ron noticed for the first time the elderly wizard holding a slice of pizza wrapped in paper. He was staring at them, shell-shocked, and the fork had speared through the point of his hat.
"Hello," Malfoy said, rustling the sack. "We'll be with you momentarily."
"Keep the change," the wizard said weakly, backing away. So, unfortunately, did a few other customers in the room.
"Er, don't worry!" Ron called out. "Everything's under control! We'll just...we need a moment to put our, um, accounts in order, and we'll be right with you."
Malfoy circled around the back of the register with the sack, and suddenly leapt forward. He and the register both went over the edge of the counter and rolled, struggling, into the kitchen corridor. Ron tried not to watch as he sorted Galleons and Sickles into the first container he could findthe small, empty plastic buckets from the imported cheese. They still smelled a bit like old milk, but (from the sounds of struggle he was definitely not looking at) they weren't exactly going to have any alternatives soon.
Dennis suddenly stepped up to the counter, still clutching his wrist (which was coming out in a spectacular bruise). "Mr. Weasley?" he said in a strangled voice. "Erm, Mr. Weasley?"
"Just a minute, Dennis," Ron called from his crouching place on the floor.
"Mr. Weasley?"
"I'm busy down here, Dennis!"
"Ron?"
Ron blinked. In the corridor, the register dinged aggressively, and Malfoy said "Ha!"
"Ron, I know you're down there."
Slowly, still conscious of the coins in his lap, Ron peeked over the edge of the counter. Harry and Ginny were standing on the other side, looking at him as if he were insane.
"Hi," Ron said. "Be right with you."
Ginny pushed past Harry. "Ron, what is"
"Ha!" Malfoy came staggering out with one fist pumping over his head. He was covered in a fine layer of flour, except for where he'd split his lip, but he still had a manically triumphant grin on his face and the flour sack of sadly rattling register under his arm. That is, he was grinning until he noticed Harry and Ginny. Then his face sort of slumped into abject horror for a moment, before settling into a deep and twisted scowl. "Out," he snarled. "Out, out, out!"
"Malfoy, leave off," Ron said, pushing back from the counter. "Go unhex the register."
"No," he said. "Get that...that...person out of my restaurant!"
"Good to see you too, Malfoy," Harry said stiffly.
Ginny banged on the counter. "Ron, what are you doing here? And why are you wearing an apron?"
"Out!" Malfoy barked.
Ron took a deep breath. "Malfoy, shut up. Dennis, mind the, er, buckets. Harry, Ginny...can we talk later? Possibly much later?" He tried smiling at them.
"I'd like to talk now, actually," Ginny said.
Malfoy's eyes were looking a bit glassy. "Get out of my restaurant! I will not have you in my restaurant!"
Tiffer suddenly ran out of the kitchen. "Mr. Weasley, your pizzas is burning!"
"Right," Ron said. An eerie and total calm settled over him such as he hadn't felt since the last time he was running for his life. He thrust three cheese buckets full of coin at Dennis, kicked the register out of the way, grabbed Malfoy by the collar and hauled him into the kitchen. With his free hand, he charmed open the over doors, letting the smoke of four lightly scorched pizzas (margherita, pepperoni, pineapple and ham, and octopus) billow into the air, and then turned down the heat on a pot of sauce that was gleefully boiling over. "Malfoy," he said, "please shut up, before I kill you."
"You can't kill me, I hired you."
"No, you didn't." He banished the ruined pizzas and grabbed the next set of gently rising dough balls. "And if you go out there and harass Harry or my sister any more, I will kill you. And bury you in the bloody cellar. Understand?"
"He tried to kill me," Malfoy hissed, "he's more than half the reason my family's name is mud"
"He got you the pardon that saved your life!"
"I never asked for his help!" Spit flew from Malfoy's lips, and his eyes were bulging alarmingly.
Ron found he didn't care. "He's also a paying customer, so you can't kick him out," he said, frantically rolling out dough. "Go insult his hair color if it'll make you feel better."
"I won't have him in here"
"Why?" Ron shouted. "Because he wounded your bloody pride?"
Malfoy's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, and then he groped under his tablecloth-cum-apron until he found his List. "You're going to pay," he muttered feverishly, "you're all going to bloody pay, some day, I'm going to make every one of you pay"
"Oh, shut up," Ron said, and snatched the List out of Malfoy's hands.
"Give that back!" Malfoy shrieked.
"Certainly," Ron said, and dunked it into the simmering sauce.
Malfoy's eyes were wide, but his pupils were blown to the limit of the gray iris. All the skin of his face seemed to pull backwards, and his lips stretched out to reveal his tightly-clenched teeth. With an inarticulate cry of rage, he leapt forward, wand forgotten, and reached for Ron's throat.
Ron got his arms up in time to avoid a choking, but Malfoy's forward momentum knocked them both to the floor, and for a moment they rolled there, Malfoy punching and clawing insanely, Ron trying to wrestle him into stillness. There seemed to be shouting everywhere, most of it indiscernible over Malfoy's screeching and swearing. Ron was pretty certain Malfoy bit him. He managed to get the upper hand for a moment and pinned Malfoy across the throat, hoping the lack of air would bring him to his senses, but Malfoy slipped under his arm and pounded their heads together so hard Ron saw stars.
"Locomotor mortis!" somebody shouted over the noise.
Ron rolled away just in time to avoid being caught in the hex; Draco went stiff and flopped to the floor, though his eyes still rolled malevolently in his head. Harry and Ginny stood in the doorway of the kitchen, looking simultaneously gobsmacked and angry. "Ron," Harry said slowly, "for the last time, what the hell is going on here?"
Ron stood and wiped his suddenly-sweaty hands on his apron. "Can I explain later?" he asked. "Only, it's the lunch rush."
Chapter One
Chapter Five
Chapter Seven