fic: "Birthday Cake," Harry Potter.
Birthday Cake
Ron/Hermione. Spoilers for DH.
Rated G for fluff. Just... fluff.
Summary: Ron slid the cake toward her, apologetically, and made a quip about his terrible conjuring skills.
Merry Christmas effercakes! For best results, tape this into your copy of The Deathly Hallows amid the 1,000 page Camping Trip of Infinite Dullness and Angst.
----
The cake was stale, but it was still a cake. Hermione appreciated the gesture, she really did. After all, she never expected to be sitting in the wilderness, cold and scared, for her eighteenth birthday. She tried to thank God for small favors, like cake.
The cake was chocolate, or it was supposed to be chocolate, and it was frosted with sickly-sweet, goopy white icing. Ron looked bashful when he gave it to her, as though he was afraid she would freak out and yell or cry or something. Hermione didn't blame him--all three of them had been feeling a little off. Ron slid the cake toward her, apologetically, and made a quip about his terrible conjuring skills. When Hermione’s eyes filled with tears, he looked panicked.
“I didn’t mean... I’m sorry, Hermione. I just thought...” he looked down, “it’s your birthday,” he finished quietly. Hermione just threw her arms around him, holding him close.
“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear, “I love it.”
Harry entered the tent, pausing at the door as he tried to decide whether or not he should retreat. “Happy birthday, Hermione,” he said, grinning for the first time in weeks. “I’d suggest trying the cake, but knowing Ron...” Harry’s grin grew wider as Ron tossed one of Hermione’s books at his head.
They ate half the cake before unanimously agreeing that it was a vile piece of cuisine and gave it to the woods. Hermione fell asleep in Ron’s arms, one hand stretched across the tent floor to clasp Harry’s own. That night, the three friends went to sleep with high hopes. They were cold, hungry and lost, but they weren’t alone. They were never alone.
Ron/Hermione. Spoilers for DH.
Rated G for fluff. Just... fluff.
Summary: Ron slid the cake toward her, apologetically, and made a quip about his terrible conjuring skills.
Merry Christmas effercakes! For best results, tape this into your copy of The Deathly Hallows amid the 1,000 page Camping Trip of Infinite Dullness and Angst.
----
The cake was stale, but it was still a cake. Hermione appreciated the gesture, she really did. After all, she never expected to be sitting in the wilderness, cold and scared, for her eighteenth birthday. She tried to thank God for small favors, like cake.
The cake was chocolate, or it was supposed to be chocolate, and it was frosted with sickly-sweet, goopy white icing. Ron looked bashful when he gave it to her, as though he was afraid she would freak out and yell or cry or something. Hermione didn't blame him--all three of them had been feeling a little off. Ron slid the cake toward her, apologetically, and made a quip about his terrible conjuring skills. When Hermione’s eyes filled with tears, he looked panicked.
“I didn’t mean... I’m sorry, Hermione. I just thought...” he looked down, “it’s your birthday,” he finished quietly. Hermione just threw her arms around him, holding him close.
“Thank you,” she whispered in his ear, “I love it.”
Harry entered the tent, pausing at the door as he tried to decide whether or not he should retreat. “Happy birthday, Hermione,” he said, grinning for the first time in weeks. “I’d suggest trying the cake, but knowing Ron...” Harry’s grin grew wider as Ron tossed one of Hermione’s books at his head.
They ate half the cake before unanimously agreeing that it was a vile piece of cuisine and gave it to the woods. Hermione fell asleep in Ron’s arms, one hand stretched across the tent floor to clasp Harry’s own. That night, the three friends went to sleep with high hopes. They were cold, hungry and lost, but they weren’t alone. They were never alone.