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Hermione Granger rolled into her office already feeling a twitch forming in her eye. It was only six in the morning and she was being bombarded with parchment and the special brand of bureaucratic nonsense unique to the BBC. Schedules, programme blocks, and meetings that were apparently oh-so-important for the BBC to “help the home front”! And boost morale for the boys at the front lines! If only it were that easy. But in reality this wasn’t even supposed to be her job. All her life she had studied, trained, and built her prospects to become an intelligent analyst for the SOE, but no.
The moment the hiring agent heard her voice through the bloody phone, all her dreams came crashing down around her ears.
“You have a voice made for radio!” Mr. Fudge said -the liaison to the War Department-had said, sitting behind a desk flanked by a rather plump official in a black suit.
“Your education and credentials are fantastic." he went on, bringing a cigar to his mousy mouth. At the time it made Hermione want to throw him out the window.
“Then it should be no problem for me to work with the SOE?” she asked, hopeful.
“Well… yes, of course. In normal times you would be a rather good fit.” He lit the cigar and exhaled an acrid, obnoxious plume of tobacco smoke into the air.
Filthy habit, Hermione thought. Bad for your teeth.
“But we live in strange times, Ms. Granger, and we believe your talents would be better suited elsewhere.” He motioned to the gentleman next to him.
“My name is Arthur Weasley." the man said with a smile and an extended hand, which Hermione shook. “Have you heard of the Department of Food?”
That was a year ago, but it felt much, much longer. The world was at war and here she was, researching how to make lentil patties or a cake out of bloody potatoes, then telling Mum and Pop Britain how to whip up breakfast from crackers and spam.
It was just her luck that when she finally entered the recording studio, one of her assistants--a strange little bird named Luna Lovegood, who handled the music catalog, weather reports, and also let Hermione cry on her shoulder when things got too difficult--approached her with a bright smile and radiant eyes that were far too much this early without a cuppa or something stronger.
Luna had been there for her through weeks without a letter from her father, who was serving as an emergency doctor on the front. Even though he was a dentist. But such was war. Anyway, she didn’t like to think too much about that.
“Good morning, Ms. Granger. Did you hear?” Luna said enthusiastically, though in that semi-sleepy voice she often used during radio breaks.
“Hear wht?” Hermione asked, setting her bags on the desk.
“You’re getting a co-host." Luna began. “And a war hero to boot. I wonder if he believes the Nazis are in league with the aliens.”
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. No, she hadn’t heard that. She didn’t know anything about a co-host. Why wasn’t she informed? Anger started boiling inside her as Luna stared off dreamily.
“No, I hadn’t heard." she finally answered.
“Where’d you hear that?” Hermione continued.
“Louey from the film department told me this morning.”
“How would Louis know anything that goes on over in radio?” she snapped, but Luna didn’t seem fazed.
“I guess it’s probably to do with who the person is." Luna said simply.
“And who is it?” Hermione asked, exasperated.
“Captain Harry J. Potter.”
--
The twitch had now evolved into a bulging vein she could feel pulsing on her forehead. This was the last straw. Of all the crummy things she’d had to endure during her tenure at the BBC, this took the cake. It wasn’t enough that she wasn’t an intel analyst like she wanted--no, not how she had to endure the slow, agonizing bureaucracy of the British Broadcasting Corporation. Nor how she had to perform like a sodding clown on live radio for the whole of the UK to hear her waffle about recipes as if she was Betty flipping Crocker.
No! Now they apparently made decisions about how her programme had to be run as well, and who could be in it. Well, they had another thing coming.
She stomped her way onward to the director’s office to give him an earful. She’d worked too hard for this show to succeed, spent too many sleepless nights poring over centuries-old cookbooks and interviewing grannies from Cornwall to London to scrape together enough recipes, and she’d had too much food poisoning just for good measure.
She passed the director’s secretary, who at once began, “Ms. Granger, Director Weasley is with a visitor--” but Hermione ignored her. He can bloody well listen too.
She stood in front of his door and rapped at it with impatience.
“Come in." she heard the muffled reply.
She hastily opened the door, feeling her anger reach its boiling point now, and was met with Director Arthur Weasley’s excited smile. The man had become a mentor to her, understanding that this wasn’t what she wanted to do and having been very accommodating. He felt almost like an uncle to her. But in the moment those feelings were fleeting. She firmly shut the door behind her.
“Ah, just who I wanted to see--” he began before Hermione quickly cut him off.
“Now listen here, Director." she said with a hiss that made Arthur’s face go from a grin to one of surprise and confusion. Good. She’d caught him off guard.
“You know very well that I didn’t want this job when I was dumped here by Fudge, and although I appreciate your efforts to help me make a home here at the BBC--this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back!” She pointed a finger at him and he quickly raised his hands in supplication.
“Ms. Granger--”
“Don’t ‘Ms. Granger’ me.” Again she cut him off. “It’s bad enough that I have to deal with catcalls and whistles from the flatfoots around this crummy office, or the social pressures that come with being an independent woman without being called hysterical! Now I have to share MY programme with some jumped-up medal-chaser who’s won a couple of shiny decorations? The cheek of it, sir! I won’t stand for some swank waffling about on my set, making my life harder than it already is with his own whistles and grabby hands!”
She used up all the air in her lungs; she had never felt so satisfied in her life.
Arthur, bless his heart, stared at her with the most bewildered expression that at any other point would have been quite funny. But now it only served to make her feel just a bit bad about it. Just a bit.
Finally, after what felt like minutes, he spoke up. “Are you quite finished?” he said carefully.
Hermione nodded like an angry toddler.
Arthur extended his hand over to the seat in front of him, where sat a man in uniform whom she had completely ignored--or actually even noticed. The man turned to look at her with an amused expression.
“This is Captain Harry Potter." Arthur said, and it landed like a weight between them on the desk. “Your co-host.” He finished, and Captain Harry smiled at her.
Oh.
Bollocks.
Captain Potter stood up, towering a head higher than her. He wore a crisp RAF uniform, with his left sleeve pinned neatly at the elbow. He was missing his left arm. He was tall, with tousled black hair, vivid green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
His hand extended out to hers and she took it dumbly. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Granger.”
He was handsome, and as she got a proper good look at his face she noticed a scar that started on the left side of his forehead and went down all the way to his eyebrow, splitting the raven hair that sat above his eye. He was roguishly good-looking, almost in the vein of Quartermain, Blackeney, and Hannay.
Then finally her eyes trailed down to his left arm: the sleeve bent right at the elbow, where the rest of his arm should have been--only an empty shell of wool was left.
She had really bungled it up this time and never before in her life had she felt like a proper dunderhead.
“I-I…” Words had fled along with the birds somewhere far distant; her brain had decided it was time to go fishing for the noon time as she stared at this man who clearly had given his all for their country and she had just called him a jumped-up medal-chaser.
“Hermione.” Arthur spoke up, and his sudden use of her first name snapped her back from her shocked stupor.
“I really am sorry for not having told you sooner. It was a decision I made in the heat of the moment and I did not mean to offend you." he said kindly.
Then Captain Potter finally spoke up, turning to face Arthur. “Arthur, I’d rather not cause your staff any bother. I did tell you this wasn’t a good idea, as I recall.”
“Nonsense, Harry!” Arthur replied with an indignant expression. “What would you do then, eh? Sit at a desk pushing paper for God knows how long? Or worse yet, being paraded round the country giving pep talks to disgruntled folk who can’t have steak this week?”
Hermione could only stare at the familiarity these two men shared. They spoke with a softness that only years of friendship could possibly allow.
“Arthur, really, it’s not an issue. I can still be of service--” Harry tried.
“You saved my son.” And Harry stopped talking immediately as Arthur’s voice lowered to an almost whisper. His eyes stared at the missing limb with a pained expression. “How could I possibly not do everything in my power to help you?”
Captain Potter stayed quiet, a small smile forming on his lips. It was a very nice smile.
“If I may--” Hermione spoke up, breaking the sad silence that held the air. “I’d like to formally and wholeheartedly apologise for my behaviour. It was inexcusable and abhorrent and unacceptable and I should be censured and suspended for how I have represented myself today.” Her voice felt tight and just a bit higher as she quickly vomited the words, then turning to the captain: “Captain Potter, sir, I am very sorry for what I said.”
Quiet. Then a small, charming huff. “It’s quite all right, Ms. Granger. I understand the difficulties and struggles of a modern woman, especially now in these terrible times. No harm done.”
“I know this might be silly now after everything, but I would retract my earlier complaint and I would be honoured to have you on the show.” The shame had made a home in the back of her neck, and heat burned there as well.
“As I’ve mentioned, Ms. Granger, I don’t want to cause a fuss here. I admire the work you do and don’t want to make it any more challenging than it already is.”
“No! Not at all. Please, I could really use some help with the workload.” She really did, if she was honest the workload this month alone had been back-breaking, and as she stared at him she couldn’t help feeling that maybe having him around to help wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“There you see, Harry. No fuss at all." Arthur said as he stood up from his oak desk, a pleased smile now plastered across his rosy face. Captain Potter sighed and looked down, almost embarrassed.
“Alright then, if you’ll have me." he said sheepishly.
“Please." Hermione replied. “I would love to work with you, and the office could do with someone new to bother. Lord knows I’ve had enough.” She sighed.
And then Harry laughed--and what amazed Hermione most was that she did too. What’s more, she rather liked the sound of his laugh. She’d like to hear it again sometime.
“Great!” Arthur clapped his hands. “Now that that’s settled, let’s move on to the business at hand, shall we?” He walked over to them.
“Right.” Hermione nodded, her businesslike manner snapping back into place. “Where should we begin?”
“Well, I understand you run a pretty tight ship here at the BBC." Captain Potter said, gesturing around with his hand. “I’ve listened to your show a few times already and I get the gist of it. Though I imagine the planning and execution are rather more complicated.”
“You have no idea." Hermione said with a small smile, and he smiled back. Smiles all around today, it seemed. “But not to worry--today’s segment is all done and dusted. All you have to do is tag along, read a bit, and sound charming.”
“Ah, yes. Charming. I don’t think that’s my strong suit, I’m afraid, Ms. Granger.”
“I doubt that, Captain." she said before she could stop herself. The heat that had made a home on the back of her neck now decided her face was more suitable, and at the captain’s surprised expression, it spread to her ears as well.
“Well, thank you." he said, a bit of that same heat on his face.
Thankfully Arthur chose that moment to interrupt. “Right, Hermione--about tonight’s show.”
“Yes?”
“Well, you see, I’ve decided to change things up a bit.” He gave a guilty smile, and again Hermione felt a twitch in her eyelid.
“How so, sir?” she asked patiently.
“Well, I feel lentils have rather overstayed their welcome, haven’t they?” he said carefully. “We’ve done a few segments on them already, and perhaps it’s time for something a little different.”
What was wrong with lentils? They were a great source of protein, plentiful, stored well, versatile--you could make just about anything with them if you put your mind to it. Hermione had found a treasure trove of recipes in the Church archives thanks to the Lenten season.
“I don’t quite follow, sir. Last I checked, listeners were happy with the recipes." she said, confused.
Arthur placed a hand in his pocket awkwardly. “Well, yes, but… Harry here has rather an interesting one that I think would do nicely.”
Hermione turned her gaze to the man in question, who looked embarrassed to be put on the spot.
“Well, let’s hear it." she said, crossing her arms.
“Arthur, really--it was just a suggestion. I don’t know the first thing about cooking or the like." he said, brushing a hand through his hair.
“Oh, Harry, it was brilliant--come on." Arthur encouraged, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Captain Potter looked to Hermione, who nodded for him to continue.
“Well, I heard this from some of the Yanks I was serving with." he began. “And I heard it’s rather good. You know the Americans were suffering economically not too long ago, and families had to make do with what they had--sort of how we do now. Anyway, it’s a drink.”
“A drink?” she asked. He nodded.
“Yes, a drink. Sweet potato coffee.” He finished.
“Sweet potato… coffee?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “It’s pretty brilliant, really. You take sweet potatoes, bake them up, grind them, mix with a bit of water--and bob’s your uncle, you have coffee.”
“Well… that’s interesting." Hermione said, not quite as enthused.
“I know, isn’t it! Fascinating what those Americans get up to, eh? It’s perfect--sweet potatoes are common, plentiful, easy to grow. And with coffee so heavily rationed nowadays, families at home will have something to ease the cravings. What do you think, Hermione?”
They both looked at her, and she took a breath. Well, it was a good idea. It sounded easy to make, would help boost morale that seemed in short supply, and sweet potatoes were rather nutritious too.
It would do, she decided.
“I think it’s brilliant.” Harry beamed at her.
“Great! Now you two get on with it while I make some phone calls to get you what you need.”
“Yes, sir." Hermione said, already making the necessary plans and adjustments in her head. She turned toward the door, and as she opened it she caught Arthur giving Captain Potter a hug that was so fatherly it touched her heart.
“You’ll do great, son. You’ll see. Come by the old house later for supper--Molly would love to see you again.” He smiled, and Captain Potter nodded before turning and walking toward her. Hermione held the door for him, giving a nod to Arthur, who waved as they left and shut the door.
They stood outside the office in quiet for a second. She pressed a hand to her face before taking a deep breath. This day had started off so terribly, and now she had to rework her one-woman programme around a second person. She desperately wished for a cup of wine--or something stronger--at that moment.
“If it’s any consolation." Harry said, interrupting her thoughts. She looked up and caught his gaze.
“At least you won’t have to worry about grabby hands.” He gestured to his missing arm.
She smiled, taking him in: a handsome RAF captain, charming and sharp enough to understand the situation, whom she’d insulted not five minutes ago, now trying to cheer her up with a self-deprecating joke.
“Well." she narrowed her eyes a bit for emphasis, “that depends--are you left-handed or right-handed?”
“Right-handed.”
“Then you still have a good arm to worry about.” She started to walk on
He chuckled behind her before following. “I suppose I do.”
---
As it turned out, Harry was a pretty decent chap. He took the fame and glory showered on him by all her co-workers as she showed him around the recording studio and adjacent offices with humility and a mixture of embarrassment that, all at once, made him even more endearing to the masses--and, well, to her as well.
It was easy enough to get on with him. Conversation came easily and almost never ceased, and if it did, a comfortable silence hung between them. She couldn’t help feeling as if she’d known him for years. Maybe it was the way he carried himself--head held high with an ease and confidence that came naturally to a lucky few. His uniform looked as if it had been made for him specifically, amplifying this almost mythic air about him.
There in their midst was a bona fide hero: a man who had fought on the front lines for their freedom and culture, against the evil clutches of Hitler’s Wehrmacht and his league of Nazis. It showed, too--how could it not? The sacrifice was now part of his body. A piece of him missing, yet he walked on as if he’d never had it in the first place.
A part of her envied him. Here she was fretting over lentils and turnips, while men like him fought for their country. She brushed the thought aside--it was no one’s fault, and deep down she knew she was making a difference, even if it wasn’t what she wanted. She was still putting in an effort.
While they prepped for the evening show, they settled into an easy rhythm: she showed him the ropes, and he quickly took to the routine. Which was only natural--he was a soldier, and soldiers had to adapt or die. Though thankfully their job didn’t involve any real danger, unless you counted burns and cuts.
Or the bombings, which seemed to come less and less as the war pressed on.
“What did you do over there? I assume you flew, or something of the sort?” she asked while leading him through the cooking set, its pans and cookware neatly stored to her specifications. All around them, workers carried on, prepping ingredients and equipment so vital for the programme.
“I flew Spitfires." he said offhandedly as he stared at the gas stove as if it were a deeply
complicated machine. “The Mark V, mainly.”
“For how long?” she asked, staring at his back--the jacket shoulders filled with what she assumed was lean muscle.
He took a second to respond, then turned to her. “Well, I reckon since the beginning of the war.”
Hermione’s eyes nearly bulged. “You fought during the Battle of Britain?” Named by Churchill in his great speech in Parliament, the battle had taken place nearly 3 years ago, right at the start. Its success was only possible thanks to the daring pilots who fought and died to keep the Wehrmacht at bay and make invasion impossible for Hitler. Many brave boys lost their lives during that time; Hermione only knew of a few.
He nodded. “Yes. I graduated only a few months before I was assigned to a squadron and orders issued.” His eyes wandered off, as if lost in a memory.
“Thank you." she said, and he quickly looked at her.
“It wasn’t anything." he said, waving her off.
“Captain, during that time I was worried I wouldn’t be able to finish my studies, worried about the lives of my family and friends. But because of you and people like you, I’m able to be here today. I’d say that’s quite something.” She needed him to hear that, she didn’t know why, but she needed him to understand it.
“Weren’t you awarded the Victoria Cross?”
They both turned to see that the crew had stopped what they were doing and were listening intently to Harry and Hermione’s conversation. At the mention of the VC, the crew began to murmur among themselves.
“I’d rather not--it really isn’t--” Captain Potter began.
“That’s you! I read about you in the papers. Brilliant what you did!” said one of the younger workers.
“Gave those Jerries what for, old sport!” said another.
Quickly the murmur grew, and Hermione got the feeling the good captain wasn’t fond of his fame, his honours, and didn’t want to regale them with dashing tales of his heroics. He looked uncomfortable.
So Hermione stepped up.
“Right then, you lot--back to work. We’ve got a show to put on in an hour or so, and I don’t need you pestering the Captain while I try to explain what goes on around here. Got it?” She said it with as much command and force as she could muster, and Captain Potter flashed her a grateful smile as the workers began to disperse and get on with their business.
Hermione walked on beside him, her back to the cutting board on the prep table behind her.
“Thanks for that." he said quietly. “It’s very awkward when people start treating you as if you were Saint George.”
“I can imagine." she replied.
The comfortable silence settled between them again as the workers clanked and buzzed around.
She wanted to know, but she didn’t want to bother him just then. Deep inside, though, Hermione knew he would tell her when the time was right.
How does one get a Victoria Cross and live?
---
“Alright, everyone--settle in." one of the crew chiefs shouted as the last-minute adjustments buzzed around the set. Microphones were tuned and tested, lights tweaked, paperwork shuffled.
“We’re on the air in five minutes, Ms. Granger. Anything else you need?” the chief called from behind one of the sound booths.
“I think we’ve got everything now. Let’s make sure we don’t pick up the water boiling this time, shall we?” The chief gave a silent thumbs-up through the soundproof glass.
Hermione was all nerves now. It was normal, but this felt different--a sharper kind. She hadn’t tested the recipe beforehand, which was her standard protocol before airing, and not only that, but she had to hold a proper conversation with someone in front of hundreds of thousands of listeners. That was altogether a new fear, a new horizon to overcome.
Next to her, Captain Potter seemed to feel some of the anxiety too. His hand opened and closed as he took steady breaths--she supposed it was a coping habit to settle the nerves.
“You all right?” she asked quietly.
He nodded. He’d taken off his uniform jacket and was now struggling to tie the apron she’d given him so he wouldn’t get food or stains on his clothes. He tried over and over, but to no avail. Tying a knot one-handed was impossible, and Hermione wondered how he’d managed his shoes that morning.
Was there a girl, perhaps?
She pushed the thought aside and stepped up behind him. “Here, let me.”
“I can do it." he said quickly--not one to be pitied, it seemed.
“No doubt, but at this rate you’ll be fretting with it the whole show, and I need you ready.”
She saw his shoulders sag, his head drop a fraction as he let her help. She was close to him now, and she could smell him.
He smelled of cigarette smoke--which would normally make her nose wrinkle in disgust--but mixed with his aftershave and cologne, it suited him. Hermione found herself enjoying the scent.
She took shallow breaths, her face already heating at the discovery. It was all she could do not to seem as if she were inhaling him. Her fingers felt tense, and she took longer than necessary to tie the knot at his waist.
“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
He nodded wordlessly again as he turned to face her. Now face-to-face, he was too close, and she could smell him even better.
“Could you perhaps…?” He gestured to his remaining sleeve--the one with the arm still in it.
“Right. Wouldn’t want to get this all dirty, would we?” Her hands took hold of his cuff and she began to roll the sleeve. With each roll, she couldn’t help noticing his arm--the quiet strength held in the skin.
Focus, she reminded herself.
Focus.
She had finally reached his elbow and made sure to fold it as evenly as possible with almost shaking fingers before letting go--making things even more uncomfortable for herself. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. Whether out of obliviousness or respect, she didn’t know, but she was thankful.
“Think it will work out, Ms. Granger?” he finally said, taking in all the microphones and people staring at him.
“I believe so, yes.” Though she didn’t feel super confident at the moment. “Just remember what I told you, Captain: let me do most of the talking, don’t swear or be crass, and most importantly--”
“Be charming." he finished for her. She smiled and nodded.
“Exactly. And you’ll be fine. It’s an easy enough recipe.”
He nodded silently again before offering, “Right. Easy enough.”
She said a silent prayer for mercy as the set director waved at her.
“Right, we’re live in 5… 4… 3… 2…” He pointed at her. She took a deep breath and let muscle memory take over. Adopting a cheerful smile--what she hoped was the brightest one she could muster, even if they couldn’t see it. They could hear it, and the studio crew was watching, so technically there was an audience in front of her.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome back to Cooking on the Home Front--the show where we teach you how to make do without much!” She took a breath.
“Im your host as always, Hermione Granger, and today we have a special treat. Joining me today--and from now on--is my new guest and co-star… Captain Harry J. Potter!” She motioned to the captain for his introduction.
She saw his eyes go wide as saucers, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. She nudged him gently, and he snapped out of it before mirroring her bright expression.
“Thank you for having me on, Ms. Granger. It’s a pleasure to be working with you and the fine people here at the BBC.”
“Oh Captain, the pleasure is all mine!” she said cheerfully. She heard him give a soft chuckle--that was good. He was relaxing a bit, though she could still see he was stiff, his hand flexing slightly.
“Right then, listeners--tonight, as always, we’ll be going over tips and tricks for stocking up the pantry during these challenging times, as well as a new recipe you might never have heard of or tried. Our very own war hero, Captain Potter, has apparently brought us one from across the pond, from our brothers and sisters in America.”
She nodded to the captain, who picked up the thread. “Right you are, Ms. Granger! During my time on the front, I got to rub elbows with all sorts from the US and share in some very interesting ideas from their own catalogue. Today I’ll be teaching you one. Listeners, you’ll be pleased to hear that today’s recipe is a drink!”
“Oh, a drink, you say?” Hermione added.
“Yes, Ms. Granger--a drink, and not just any drink, but a coffee substitute that’s sure to keep the cravings at bay when the ration starts to run thin.”
“Well, out with it, man." she chuckled. “What did the Yanks tell you?
“Well, all you need is a couple of sweet potatoes.” He chuckled along as well.
“I’m sure we can manage to scrounge up a couple of those around here somewhere." she replied.
“Marvelous. We’ll also be needing some water to boil, a potato peeler, and an oven.”
“Well, it just so happens we have all of that here.” Her voice dripped with showmanship, and even though Harry was still a bit stiff in his delivery, he was quickly taking to the banter just fine.
“No doubt, Ms. Granger--this kitchen is among the finest I’ve seen.” Hermione made her way over to the kitchen area, the captain following behind as the crew adjusted and followed with the microphones around them.
Hermione made her way over to the kitchen area, the captain following behind as the crew adjusted and followed with the microphones around them.
“Alright, listeners--be sure to have a pen and paper ready as we begin. Thankfully it’s a pretty easy recipe, so you shouldn’t have to write much." Hermione said as she began taking out the ingredients and cutlery. The captain helped along with his one arm as best he could.
“So, Captain--what exactly will we need?” She looked up at him. His green eyes darted across to the script on the table; he quickly picked it up and began reading in a voice that was half natural, half nerves.
“Right, Ms. Granger. Well, first off you’ll need a few sweet potatoes--say, four or five good-sized ones. Wash them well, then peel and slice them rather thin. Lay the slices out to dry--either in the air if you’ve got time, or pop them in a low oven till they’re properly dry and crisp. Once they’re ready, cut them into small pieces small enough for your coffee grinder--or if you haven’t got one, just bash them up fine. Roast them slow in the oven till they’re a nice light brown, like proper coffee beans. Then grind or crush them, and you’re set.”
He paused, glancing at her for reassurance. She gave a small nod--keep going.
“To make the brew, use about three or four tablespoons of your sweet potato grounds per cup of water. Boil the water, add the grounds, let it steep a few minutes like tea, then strain it through a bit of muslin or a fine sieve. Bob’s your uncle--you’ve got a hot drink that’s naturally a touch sweet, dark, and quite comforting when real coffee’s thin on the ground. Some folk mix in a spoonful of real coffee if they’ve any to spare, but this stands on its own.”
Hermione smiled, stepping in smoothly to keep the rhythm. “There you have it, listeners--sweet potato coffee, courtesy of our American friends and the captain’s wartime ingenuity. Plentiful, easy to grow, and a grand way to stretch the ration book. No caffeine kick like the real thing, mind, but it warms the cup and the spirits all the same.”
She turned to him with a playful lift. “Captain, shall we demonstrate? Let’s get these potatoes peeled and sliced--show the home front how it’s done.”
“Right away, Commander!” he said playfully, and Hermione couldn’t help letting out a mirthful laugh before she composed herself once more. She set about getting the pans and water ready at the stove, pulling up the strainer and making sure she had everything at hand--until she heard a knife slice rather brutally, followed by the dull thud of something hitting the floor.
She turned just in time to see Captain Potter looking down, rather disappointed. “Ah, I see." he said quietly.
“Are you all right?” she asked, hastening over to him.
He sighed. “Well, you see, Ms. Granger--it turns out I need a bit of a hand cutting these up.” He gestured with the knife in his hand, and she realised he had no way of stabilising the potato on the cutting board.
A flash of heat shot all the way up to her face as she pieced it together. “I-I am so sorry--how terribly inconsiderate of me. I should have known--” she stammered, bending to pick up the scattered pieces of sweet potato that had fallen to the floor. Captain Potter laughed, ducking down to help, knife set safely on the table.
“No, no--it’s quite all right, trust me. I even forget myself sometimes.”
How utterly embarrassing. “For the listeners at home who might be confused." she said regretfully into the microphone, “in my great wisdom I asked Captain Potter to prep the potatoes, and well… you see, he’s missing an arm.”
“Oh goodness me, I apologise--why are you laughing?” she said, exasperated, as she saw the broad shoulders of the captain shake.
“It’s just--well--listeners, I wish you could see Ms. Granger right now. Her complexion has taken on a brilliant shade of red that rather matches these sweet potatoes.”
“It’s not funny, is it! I feel terrible, Captain." she huffed indignantly.
“Yes, of course, Ms. Granger. It’s just rather endearing to see you get so worked up on my behalf.” And that embarrassment was now combined with a different sort of feeling altogether.
“Oh, for goodness sake.” She rolled her eyes and began scooting him over to the other side of the kitchen, toward the oven. “Go ahead and start boiling the water!” she said louder than she meant to. He was still chuckling all the while. Around them, she could see some of the crew found the whole bit very amusing.
He was impossible. She took back everything nice she’d thought about him.
“Yes, sir!” he said as he poured water into the pot and set it on the stove. She began cutting the potatoes as the recipe instructed, narrating along to avoid any dead air. But out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the captain staring at the oven with as much confusion as a child staring at the engine of a lorry.
“Is something the matter, Captain?” she asked as she sliced a spud.
“Well, no--I’m just trying to--” He kept flicking the knobs, but the fire on the stove wouldn’t catch. He began doing it more aggressively, and she realised he might break the thing if she didn’t intervene quickly.
“Easy there, flyboy--it’s a Regulo, not a Spitfire.”
With a flick of the wrist the stovetop came alive with fire. She set the correct temperature and turned to him with a mischievous smile.
“Say, Captain--you wouldn’t be the type of man who can’t even brew a cup of tea to save his life, now would you?”
He squared his shoulders, brows knitting behind his frames. “I’ll have you know, I can brew a cuppa that’ll knock your stockings off.”
She raised an eyebrow before turning back to her work. “Well, you’ll have to show me sometime then.” She picked up her knife without looking back. “That particular stove was generously provided to us by the Radiation Company. For all your cooking needs, Regulo is there for you.”
After much bickering and bantering about what constituted ‘fine grain’ and other such notions, Hermione found herself actually having fun. Normally cooking was fun, but after a year of this job she wouldn’t even cook when she got home. The very thought of it made her want to bite off a bit of bread and sleep until morning.
But here and now she was enjoying the company of the good captain. His easy-going attitude and light-hearted banter made her forget for a moment that she was working on a set. The thought crossed her mind that she wouldn’t mind actually cooking something with him--maybe in a much quieter place, with better lighting and no audience to listen in.
Of course, as always, she pushed that thought aside. She had only known the man one day, and besides--he smoked cigarettes.
The imitation coffee sat between them, small wisps of steam curling upwards like ghostly fingers inviting them to try a sip.
She looked at it suspiciously. “Well, the colour looks about right." she concluded. “And I suppose it smells pretty good as well.”
“Yes, it’s got this dark tinge to it. I believe my American friends said it was supposed to look like this.” The captain nodded as he took a cup.
Hermione’s head snapped toward him. “You mean you haven’t tried it yourself?”
“No." he said with a mischievous grin.
Of all the ruddy things--Hermione’s eyes nearly bulged from her skull. “You mean to tell me we spent all this time poring over sweet potatoes and a hot stove, and there’s a chance this might be awful!”
He shrugged. “What’s life without a bit of adventure, Ms. Granger?”
“We could have prepared some kind of gastrointestinal disaster, Captain! Listeners, I’d like to apologise in advance for this recklessness.”
“It’s just sweet potatoes. It’ll be fine.” He brought the cup to his lips, and she wanted to strangle him.
He took a sip--a rather large one--then smacked his lips.
“Well, that’s lovely." he said with a satisfied look.
“Yeah?” She squinted at him.
“It’s not going to fool anyone into thinking it’s the real thing, but it’s got this sweet, buttery aftertaste that I rather enjoy.”
Hermione brought her own cup to her lips and took a tentative sip.
It wasn’t coffee by a long shot but it wasn’t bad either. Warm, mildly sweet, with an earthy undertone that reminded her faintly of roasted chestnuts. Comforting, in its own modest way. She could see why it the Americans liked it when the real stuff was in short supply.
She set the cup down, surprised to find herself smiling. “Well, I’ll be dashed. It’s actually quite drinkable.”
The captain’s grin widened. “You know--” he put a finger to his lips in thought. “I wonder how it would taste if we added a bit of that mock cream and just a dash of sugar and cinnamon?”
Hermione paused, considering. “Well, why don’t we try it out! Listeners, while we’re at it experimenting with this, we’re going to see if we can make it even better. If it all goes wrong, you’ll be the first to know.”
They set about mixing it all up, and when they were done Hermione was the first one to try it. “That is just a treat--very sweet, and I think the mock cream really makes this delightful.”
“I reckon you’re right, Hermione. I can see the babes and tots clambering for this as a little snack after school.”
They finished the rest of their drinks quickly enough, and after segueing into some tips and tricks for making perishables last longer--like pickling and drying certain foods--the show ended.
“Thank you so much for listening to this evening’s programme. We hope you enjoyed our little science experiment." Hermione said brightly.
“Yes, and I apologise in advance if I was a bore to listen to, folks. Not very good around the kitchen, I’m afraid." the captain said with a smile.
“Nonsense--you were brilliant." she said, a bit softer than she meant to. Captain Potter’s face… maybe turned a tad redder around the ears.
Which was a welcome delight.
“Well, thank you, Ms. Granger. You’re not too bad yourself." he said with a sheepish smile, a hand coming up to run through his hair, tussling the already messy locks that even a military haircut couldn’t control.
She snapped back to the microphone. “Well, folks, this has been Cooking on the Home Front. Have a good evening and stay safe.”
And with that, the show ended.
The crew around them began clapping and jeering, tossing compliments their way.
“Good show, very good show." one of the microphone operators said.
“Ms. Granger, I dare say that was one of your finest segments yet." a woman in charge of the script called from the open booth, where the chief was giving her a silent thumbs-up.
“Thank you all--we couldn’t have done it without you. Now let’s clean up and go home.” That earned her another round of applause, and soon they got to work.
Harry was the first to heave a sigh of relief, his body sagging against the cutting table, his face a mask of exhaustion. “Blimey." he said, lifting his glasses from his face before pressing a hand to his eyes.
“Not so easy, is it?” she quipped, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“I’ll say. I don’t know how you do it.” He looked up at her, the set lights hitting his bare eyes just right.
“Oh well, like I said--it’s mostly the crew that does the heavy lifting. I just talk about dumb recipes.”
“That was more than talking. You were acting, and charming, and funny. Honestly, it was very impressive.” Hermione flushed at that. She worked hard to make this show work, and it was nice to hear someone appreciate it.
Really nice, actually.
“It’s easier when you have someone equally as funny and charming to work with, Captain Potter.”
He smiled at her again, and she thought she’d probably never get tired of it. “By the way, where’d you learn to speak so well? It was rough there at the beginning, but then you settled in quite nicely.”
He paused, his eyes darting to the side as he considered her question, then shrugged.
“I suppose when you’re a captain of a squadron and you’re in charge of making sure the lads are in top shape, you learn to be confident for them--even when it’s terrifying. I just used some of that here today. Because I was terrified!” He chuckled, and Hermione did too.
Hermione figured Captain Potter must have been a fantastic leader.
“Well, come on, Captain. Let’s call it a day, shall we?” She turned to walk.
“Harry." he said.
“Pardon?”
“Please call me Harry.” He stood straight up then, and for the second time that day she felt how tall he was.
“Okay, Harry. Please call me Hermione.”
He smiled, and that was that.
----
As it turned out, that first segment would be the first of many. The listeners ate it up, and soon Director Weasley was getting calls from all over the country praising his decision to hire a new co-host. Of course, it also helped that the man was a veteran--giving a voice to the very men who fought on the front lines, fostering even more support for the war effort.
He was also quite nice to listen to, as some of the female listeners would often write in the post to say. Harry took it all as he usually did--with humility, once again turning all of his praise toward Hermione. Which, of course, she appreciated.
It was a bit disappointing that it took a man to show the world how much she put into the show, but unfortunately the times were what the times were. Still, with every new segment Hermione found herself enjoying the work more and more, to the point where she looked forward to every workday.
It was probably because of him.
Harry, who tried his very best to support her--staying with her late into the evening, wracking their brains for new ways to turn beets into something kids would love. A cigarette lit in his hand as he scratched out recipe after recipe they had gotten from the post. His idea as well:
“Maybe if we ask them to send their ideas in, we wouldn’t have to spend as much time doing research.”
“But research is half the fun!” she protested from her pile of 17th-century cookbooks.
But he was right. And as she watched him take a drag from his cigarette, she suddenly didn’t hate cigarettes so much. Of course, she had told him it was a health hazard and that it didn’t smell so good. But the only reply she got in return was cryptic: that it was about the only thing that worked these days.
She didn’t know what he meant, but there would be times--quiet moments--when she caught him staring at his missing arm, gazing at the empty space thoughtfully, as if he looked hard enough it might grow back.
She decided not to bother him again about it, but she noticed he carried mints much more often and tried to smoke outside, away from her. Which was short-lived, because she would inevitably find herself out there with him, bouncing ideas off him like a springboard.
It wasn’t until winter--while testing out a recipe in the empty studio, the staff long gone and it just the two of them--that it happened. He had stopped wearing his uniform by then and wore a suit like nearly every man those days; his jacket lay forgotten on a nearby chair and he was stirring over a pot of mushed peas when she finally asked him.
“Harry?” she said quietly beside him, staring at the pot of green that so reflected his eyes.
“Yes?” he replied easily.
“How does a man get the Victoria Cross while still alive?”
He didn’t stop stirring the pot, but a heavy quiet stretched between them like dense fog, circling and settling. She was about to retract her question, fearing she had overstepped, but then he answered.
“I don’t really know myself, Hermione.” His voice was neutral, but his gaze seemed far away--up above the clouds where the birds flew.
“When I came to, one of the colonels was there congratulating me and telling me I’d get a medal for what I did, but I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there. The world spun, everything blurred, and I could feel something was missing.” He gave a small, hollow chuckle. “Later, when I’d regained my senses, they told me what happened--and that I had lost an arm, as well as my vision.”
“What happened to your eyes?” she asked, watching him add some spices to the pot.
“I don’t know. I guess the impact of the crash caused some brain damage or something wicked like that. I didn’t have to wear these before.” He pointed to his glasses. “Now I look like a doctor or a scientist--someone smart and well-to-do.” He smiled, but it was small and weak, like the flames licking at the bottom of the pot.
“What happened?”
He breathed out slowly--she could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, but after all this time she wanted to hear him, wanted to know him.
She wanted to care for him. But only if he wanted that too.
“It was over France." he said, putting a cigarette in his mouth that he had fished from his shirt pocket. He struggled for the lighter, but Hermione took it from him and lit it up, holding his gaze as smoke poured from his mouth like pain given form.
They had been protecting bomber aircraft whose mission was to drop heavy explosives on a major enemy stronghold just past Dijon--an area close to Belgium. It was quiet for the most part; by that time the US Air Force and the RAF was conducting as many bombing raids as they could for some military operation the Americans were planning. Churchill wanted the boys to put as much pressure as possible on them. It was well into the afternoon--a dangerous time for them as they would be flying west facing the sun.
They couldn’t go anywhere else; anti-aircraft emplacements were plaguing the areas around them.
It was a dumb mission, a stupid mission cleared by some upstart who’d gotten a commission thanks to his father and was all too ready to throw the lives of his men away if it meant he got Churchill’s attention.
Harry was on high alert the entire time, watchful of the skies around them. His flight goggles were shaded, but the sun was too bright--there weren’t any clouds to block out its glare.
They held a loose formation for flexibility around the Vickers they had to protect. His wingman, Lt. Ron Weasley, was on his flank, keeping an eye where he couldn’t see.
“The director’s son?” she asked.
“Yes.”
And he continued. He had known Ron for as long as he could remember--ever since they were children. Harry hadn’t lived in a wealthy area and neither had Ron; they soon became fast friends. Harry had lost his father in the Great War, and it was just him and his mother. She raised him as best she could, but it was hard. Arthur and Molly had been there for him. So when they heard news of a potential war, Harry was the first to enlist, following in his father’s footsteps. Ron followed him, and when Harry learned to fly, Ron was right there beside him.
“It was a mistake to send us out there." he said after a drag.
“Why?” she asked, her heart clenching as she anticipated what came next.
“They came from the sun.”
Far above them--where they couldn’t see--the German 109s had flanked them so easily that it took him a moment to even understand what had happened. Two bombers were already hit; one of them had lost a wing and was tumbling down to its doom, trailing fire and smoke across the sky.
Harry banked hard and flanked. Ron followed him soon after. It must have been two squadrons of them, hunting for prey. How foolish of him to have not noticed it sooner.
Anger had coursed through his veins then, along with panic and raw terror as another bomber caught fire from the 109s’ heavy machine guns. Harry managed to catch one of them off guard and pressed on the trigger with all his might, just managing to catch his wing--severing it cleanly and sending that bastard spiraling down to his death.
It was a brutal battle. He had lost two of his best men: Lt. Wood, who had taught Harry everything he knew, and Lt. Finnigan, an Irish lad who always had a smile and a joke for you.
But both of them had taken down two planes each, and the fight was much more even now.
“I suppose I thought we had already won." he said quietly. “It was only a matter of killing who was left.”
But he was wrong. The Germans were fighting with everything they had--desperate, vicious, throwing themselves at the bombers like men with nothing left to lose. By the grace of God, Harry and his men had managed to thwart their mission of destroying the Vickers, and already the bombers had begun to turn tail back home. All they had to do now was cover their retreat.
But one lone plane decided to follow--like the coward he was, not knowing when he was beaten--and began firing at the retreating bombers. Harry had broken off from the major engagement, radioing to his pilots what was happening. The 109’s tracer rounds now glowed in the ever-encroaching evening, the sky tinged a deep, bruised purple.
If they could just make it to nightfall, they could be safe.
He managed to get on the tail of the enemy plane. It was perfect: in his arrogance, the German pilot had forgotten to watch his flank. Harry didn’t hesitate. He pressed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He pressed again--still nothing.
“I had run out of ammunition, you see.”
In the adrenaline and panic he had forgotten to ration his ammo for a prolonged fight, and now he had given the enemy a perfect chance to kill him.
Hermione felt her heart tighten as the words spilled from his mouth.
“Oh, Harry…” she whispered.
Sensing Harry’s blunder, the 109 turned swiftly, banking right, meaning to circle back and get a clean shot at him. Harry had been able to glance at the pilot’s side. He couldn’t see the bastard’s face, but he could see his decal--a large viper snake coiled and ready to strike.
But Harry would not die so easily. He would make the bastard work for it. What followed was a series of brutal turns and circles--the dogfight of his life. Harry employed every trick he knew, spinning the Spitfire, pushing it to its bloody limits, trying to buy time. To waste time.
But it was too late. Shots pierced the cockpit glass, sending sharp shards into his face. He smelled petrol--sharp, acrid--and when he wiped the blood from his goggles, he saw what every pilot feared: black smoke pouring from his engine. It was all over, he thought.
“I was as good as done for.”
He closed his eyes and accepted his fate.
But the end didn’t come. The turbulent air made his comms hard to hear, but he caught Ron’s voice cutting through the static as Ron fired on the green viper, forcing him to disengage from Harry’s crippled Spitfire and turn to the new threat.
All Harry could do was watch as his best friend fought to protect him. Ron was a good pilot--a damn sight better than most--but his opponent was better, and to make matters worse, Ron had already sustained damage from earlier in the fight.
His left wing was riddled with bullet holes, and his tail was resisting with every turn and movement. He didn’t have the dexterity necessary to outmaneuver the snake.
Soon the German had Ron in his sights. Harry could not help him. There was nothing he could do.
“But I couldn’t let him die." Harry said quietly. “I just couldn’t. He was in this bloody mess because of me to begin with, so I did the only thing I could.”
Faced with no ammo and no alternatives, he flew his Spitfire straight into the the viper--aiming to cut off its head. The propeller crashed into the 109’s cockpit in a deafening hail of screeching metal, shattering glass, and blood. The impact jolted through Harry’s body like a hammer blow. Before he knew it, he was falling--his plane nose-diving, the world tilting violently.
The last thing he remembered was yanking back on the controls, desperately trying to level her out. Then a sea of dirt and leaves rushed up to meet him, swallowing everything.
“The only reason I’m alive right now is because, in the same area where the battle was taking place, American scouts were performing reconnaissance." he said, turning the stove off. The peas were done, and only a sliver of his cigarette remained, which he squashed against the black glass of a nearby ashtray.
“When they saw my plane crash, they rushed to save me, and… well.” He gestured with his hand. “The rest is history.”
Hermione stared at him, sorrow and pain bubbling up inside her heart. Her eyes traced every scar on his face, every visible wound, and she imagined the ones that lay quietly beneath--festering where no antibiotic could reach.
It was harrowing, terrifying, what war did to men. Harry was a year younger than her, but in this moment he appeared much, much older. He turned to her, his eyes meeting hers.
“I guess, Hermione, that’s how someone gets a Victoria Cross and still lives. With dumb luck and stupidity.”
She shook her head. “Don’t say that.” She placed a hand on his chest. The distance between them closed--like icebergs crashing onto frozen seas.
“Harry, you were brave. Courageous. You sacrificed yourself to save the lives not only of the pilots who stood no chance against a fighter, but your friend as well. If that’s not a hero, then I simply don’t know what is.” She spoke softly, fingers curling into his shirt because she needed an anchor--whether for him or for herself, she didn’t know.
Harry’s gaze dropped. For a moment nothing was said. Then his eyes drifted to his missing arm.
“Hermione, I’m not much use to anyone anymore. I can’t fly ever again. I can’t fight.
And once this war is over, there won’t be much for me to do. No one will need a crippled man slowing them down.”
But she shook her head, her hand coming up to raise his chin. “I could use a crippled man.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying. Look at me. I can’t dance. I can’t clean… I couldn’t even hold my own child if I had one.” His face contorted with anguish.
“You’ve been getting along just fine here with me. You think any of that matters to me? I’ll dance with you. I’ll fight for you. And… I’ll help you hold--” But the word never came out. Heat rushed to her face in embarrassment. “I’ll help you, Harry.”
“I don’t understand what you see in me.” He shook his head.
“I see a brave, smart, and dashingly handsome man who would risk anything for the people he loves.” She smiled. “Honestly, Harry, a more fanciable man I have never seen.”
And then she did something she had never quite done before. Just as his mouth opened to protest, to shoot it down, to burrow back into his pain--she pulled on his tie and kissed him.
And she didn’t stop until they couldn’t breathe again.
----
May 8th, 1945
Victory in Europe day
All of Great Britain was alive with celebration. Parades thundered through the streets, streamers and confetti swirled like bright snow wherever the wind carried them, balloons lifted into the sky in great colorful clouds, and families -after years of aching separation- finally held one another again: sons, fathers, daughters, mothers, whole and home at last. Laughter rang out, songs rose unbidden into the air, tears fell freely, and for one precious day the weight of six long years seemed to lift, if only a little.
The celebration was beautiful beyond words. The British spirit had triumphed over the forces of evil.
But at no small cost. Millions had died. Countless more would walk through the rest of their lives maimed by wounds that time could never fully heal. And far too many celebrated alone, clutching photographs or empty chairs, looking for faces among the crowd that would never appear.
Hermione was lucky, profoundly, achingly lucky. God had preserved her family. A month ago her father had returned from his tour of duty, looking older, a little haggard, his eyes carrying shadows that might never fully fade, but alive. Home.
As she stood among the roaring crowds, watching people leap and embrace with a joy so fierce it hurt to witness, hearing the old songs lift into the spring air like prayers answered, she felt a strong, warm hand close around hers. His wedding ring pressed cool and solid against her fingers--a quiet promise that had carried them through.
Harry stood tall beside her in his uniform, a soft, almost disbelieving smile on his face as he scanned the sea of faces, searching. Then his eyes widened, bright with sudden recognition and something deeper--something like grace.
“There he is." he said, voice thick, and he pulled her gently but urgently through the throng. She laughed despite the sudden sting in her eyes, stumbling a little as he surged forward.
“Slow down, Harry!” she called, but the words were lost in the noise and in the sheer momentum of the man she loved, desperate to reach the other side of the street--where a tall red-haired man in a similar uniform stood frowning at a scrap of paper, looking utterly bewildered, like Dorothy dropped into Oz.
“Ron!” Harry shouted, voice cracking with emotion.
The man turned. His face lit up--pure, unguarded joy--and within seconds he was running toward them.
“Harry!”
They collided in a fierce embrace, Harry’s single arm wrapped tight around his friend, Ron’s arms enveloping him in return. The sight sent hot tears spilling down Hermione’s cheeks--maybe the hormones, maybe the sheer relief of seeing two men who had survived hell finally hold each other again.
“Bloody hell, mate--look at you!” Ron said, voice rough, tears shining in his own eyes as he pulled back just enough to grin.
“No--look at you, mate!” Harry laughed, pointing at Ron’s new captain’s rank, his own voice unsteady.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I could never ever replace--” But Harry’s hand found Ron’s shoulder, firm and silencing.
“You’re alive.” Simple words. But they meant everything.
Ron nodded, throat working, and pulled him in for another hug. They both laughed, shaky, breathless laughter that carried years of fear and loss and impossible luck.
Then Ron’s gaze shifted, landing on her. Confusion flickered, then wonder.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
Harry turned to her, his smile soft and radiant.
“This is Hermione Potter.” He slipped his good arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. She fit against him perfectly, as she always had and always would.
“My wife.”
Ron’s eyes dropped to the gentle swell of her belly, then back to Harry’s face, to the happiness there, unguarded and bright--and something like awe settled over him.
He beamed, wide and genuine, the most unguarded joy she had ever seen on anyone’s face.
They had survived. They were home.
And all was well.
Fin.