Ron was in a conundrum.

He probably wouldn't call it that, himself, but Hermione would have. And he was thinking about Hermione.

She hadn't been able to stay at the Burrow for very long that summer, since her parents had taken her to France about two weeks after the end of term. She'd been with the Weasleys for only a few days, and then she'd gone back home to pack for her holidays across the Channel.

After a day or two, Ron had felt something hollow in his stomach, and it wasn't hunger, so he'd done the only thing he could think of: he'd asked his mum about it.

Molly had been starting preparations for dinner (why that had to happen so early in the afternoon he had no idea), and, instead of going upstairs immediately after his Quidditch match with the twins and Ginny, had lingered around the kitchen door.

"Is that you already, Ron?" his mother had called to him as he hesitated. He'd ducked into the room then, and helped himself to some of the lemonade she had in a cooling jug on the counter. It was perfect, as usual: just sweet enough to be pleasant to drink, just enough lemon to give it a little bite. He wondered briefly if there was a trick to that, or if her magic had simply known how to make it just right. He gulped down about half the glass in one go, and then refilled it again to the top before taking a seat at the kitchen table.

This had his mother's attention in a heartbeat. With a tiny frown of concern, she dried her hands on a towel, which she then folded neatly and hung over the edge of the sink, pulling up the chair next to him as she sat. When he didn't speak for a few moments, she started up the conversation for him.

"What's the matter, dear?"

"Um," Ron hedged, really not sure how to begin, "I feel kind of...funny."

Molly narrowed her eyes at him in that way she had, as if she was trying to look through his skull at his brain. "Do you mean ill?" she inquired, studying his face. "It's not that hot today, I didn't think…"

"No, Mum," Ron sighed, feeling slightly discomfited. "Not that kind of funny. It's like, I dunno. It's like I feel kind of hollow inside. Not like hungry, but…" he trailed off with an incomprehending shrug.

Molly cocked her head slightly. "And," she said, in a strange tone, "how long has this been going on?"

"Dunno," Ron muttered at the table, scuffing his trainers on the floor. "Couple days, maybe." He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and looked up to see his mother slowly begin to nod her head.

"I see," she replied, clasping her hands together in front of her. "And has anything happened in the last few days?"

Ron shrugged again. "Not really anything since…"

"...since Hermione went home?" his mother supplied.

Yes.

Ron's ears went beet red, realizing what he'd nearly said. Out loud. To his mother.

"It's perfectly natural, after all," she was saying, as though he hadn't just blundered into a horrible, horrible admission right there in front of her. "She's such a lovely girl, and you spend most of your time together at school, and she's spent so much time here, too. Of course you miss your friends when you can't see them."

Internally, Ron breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't noticed. He had thought that figuring out why he felt bad would help, but his stomach only twisted up more, as if determined to make him as uncomfortable as possible. "Yeah," he said eventually, "yeah, that's it. I'm used to her being here, is all." He started to get up, to go find something to do to take his mind off it, but some impulse in him made him stop, about halfway out of his chair, and then sit back down again.

"So," he said at last, "what if I, well, made her something? To let her know we miss her."

A flicker of a smile made the corners of his mother's mouth twitch, before she spoke. "I think that would be lovely, dear," she said in a soothing voice. "Did you have anything in mind?"

"Dunno," Ron said again, trying desperately to think about things Hermione liked. Books? Quills? No, all that was school stuff. He didn't want to get her school stuff. She didn't like Quidditch much, and she hated flying, not that he could afford a broom or anything like that anyway. He was stumped. "What do girls even like?"

"Ron, dear," his mother clucked, "it's not about what girls like, it's about what Hermione might like."

Ron frowned at this. He didn't think Hermione was really concerned with a lot of the things the other Gryffindor girls had been chattering about this last year — makeup and boys and that. He couldn't have said she even wore makeup.

He thought for a moment, about her, and came up with the same list as before: quills, books, parchment, ink stains, and the smell of the library. But there was another smell, something sweet that he'd noticed in the library when he was with her, underneath the scent of parchment and dusty, leatherbound tomes.

"Maybe," he hazarded, still hoping his mum hadn't figured him out, "maybe something to, to smell nice?" At her small frown, he started backtracking. "Or, I dunno, something that smells good, like from the garden? To remind her about us, when she's not here?"

His mother's smile was cryptic at first, but warmed as he spoke. "I think that's a lovely idea, Ron," she cooed, leaning across the table to pat his hand. "I think I know just the potion, too. It's a bit tricky, but I could help you make some tomorrow, if you like."

"Could you?" Ron said, much more enthusiastically than he'd intended. "Um, that is," he hedged, trying to retain his dignity, "that would be great." He stood up again, completely this time. "Thanks, Mum!" he shouted as he took up the stairs, two at a time, to go write to Harry and tell his best friend about his plan.

Molly watched her youngest son go, shaking her head fondly at him as he went.

The potion, it turned out, really was tricky.

It had looked simple enough, he thought, at least by the ingredients list, but as his mother had chopped, crushed, and stirred the ingredients together, Ron marveled at how much she'd changed from the directions. "The recipe is just shorthand, dear," she'd said, when he'd said as much to her. "Your grandmother didn't write anything down, she just threw a bit in here and a pinch there. I made a few notes, but I had to recreate all the technique from memory."

It had come down to the last stage before Ron had really been able to help, his mother stirring steadily as she directed him to add the finishing touches himself: the little reminders of the Burrow he had collected from all of Hermione's favorite places. He'd pinched a bit of the soil from the paddock where they played Quidditch, from the spot where Hermione would sit and referee for them, when she wasn't studying. Little bits of the herbs from pots on the kitchen garden wall, the ones Hermione would regularly run her fingers over as she passed. A bit of lemon rind for the lemonade, which she had declared was the best she'd ever had, and a couple of the spices from her favorite biscuit recipe. Each had been pounded into a fine dust, and he had no idea how much to add, but his mum talked him through it. He'd pinch a bit between his fingers, and move his hand away from the cauldron as soon as she said "stop", and when it was done, she'd clapped the lid on immediately, and whisked it off to cool on the porch, locking the doors so it wouldn't be disturbed.

When they uncovered it the next day, he couldn't smell anything at all. "Don't worry," his mother said, "you won't be able to smell it. But Hermione will."

They'd bottled it up, and he'd kept a phial of it on his bedside, in anticipation of Hermione's next letter.