a/n- i'm not entirely sure how this turned out- it kindof varies between poetic (or at least, i aimed for that) and light. It might have turned out too sappy, or too choppy, so let me know!
Ron used to love grapes when he was little. His mother would come home from the grocery store with jugs and jugs of milk (enough to sustain the whole family for less than a week), too many fresh vegetables, and a muggle coin she had found on the ground for his father. There was always some type of vitamin supplement for Percy, who even then had been concerned with things like that, mushed baby formula for Ginny, and if he was lucky, grapes. He'd sit in the kitchen with a large bunch in his lap; he'd get to pop only a few into his mouth before his brothers would arrive. They'd barrel down the stairs (except for Bill, who would apparate) and straight towards the grapes. His mother would be so relieved that they were sharing, for once, but if he happened to blink, the most bizarre thing would happen. Every single grape would disappear, leaving only the little puckered ends.
He never cried or anything (Fred and George would tease him horribly if he did), but all the same, there was something strange about seeing the ends with their grapes ripped away. Ginny used to say they looked lonely, and although he would make fun of her for making such a comment ("come on, Gin, grapes don't get lonely"), he'd secretly agree. He used to tell himself that lonely grapes were fine, acceptable, but lonely people were not.
Hermione rarely got to eat sweets as a child- it was the consequence of having dentists for parents. She always drank a lot of milk instead, to build strong bones and (more importantly) teeth. On special occasions though- Christmas Eve, her birthday- her father would make her a special treat. He'd melt a small chunk of white chocolate, then stir it into a mug of milk. Hermione loved the sweet taste of the white chocolate subtly hidden in the milk, the way you could taste it but not see it. Whenever her mother would ask what she was drinking, Hermione and her father would share a secret look, then her father would say "milk" and she'd say "chocolate milk". This always made her mother laugh.
Somehow, the white chocolate milk always reminded her of Ron. It was an inexplicable connection; she had no recollection of sharing this story with him. Her relationship, for lack of a better word, with him was always predictable. Ron would irritate her, she would irritate him, yet they would simultaneously get along. It was like her mug of milk-she knew what to expect. But somewhere along the line, a chunk of white chocolate had been added in without her noticing. Nothing looked different, but the air around seemed deceptively a little sweeter.
Hermione wondered if she was cracking up.
Harry had first tasted pumpkin juice at Hogwarts. He'd never known such a thing existed, but he loved it right off the bat. It was think and creamy and cool- the perfect comfort drink. Over time, pumpkin juice gave way to butterbeer, but he never forgot how enticing the simple, understated taste of pumpkin juice was.
There was one morning where the pumpkin juice tasted bad. Seamus swore up and down that it had fermented overnight. They passed it around the Gryffindor table, each tasting it, and each agreeing towards the bitter, unusual taste. Yet they had each gone back and tasted it two, three, four more times, even. Hermione had tasted it and confirmed Seamus' theory (much to everyone's shock), and continued reading the Daily Prophet, unperturbed. Ron hadn't noticed a difference. Harry had tasted it, seemingly only mildly interested- his attention was more intrigued by the fact that despite the bad taste, everyone wanted to taste it multiple times. Hermione had glanced at his face and started to explain, but it was all in psychological terms- something about human nature and instinct and a primitive need for dissonance. Mostly, he didn't understand, but he figured he got the gist.
It was like how Malfoy created such intrigue for him. Yes he was a prat, yes his father was a Death Eater, and yes he was probably going to become one himself. But lately, Harry had been becoming curious- unsure of as to why, but undoubtedly curious- as to the enigma that was Draco Malfoy. He nearly went to Hermione for advice (after all, she did know every thing), but decided against it in the end. It wasn't so much that he minded Hermione and Ron knowing about this strangely flourishing intrigue, more that he wanted to find out what it was for himself, first.
When he was young and still living at the manor year round, Draco used to love watching the house elves make wine. The Malfoy Estate had several vineyards, and his mother would send him off to help pick barrels among barrels of grapes, and later go into the cellar to crush them. The house elves would fill multiple bottles, and, knowing that he loved it, set some aside for Draco to drink as grape juice.
He was thinking about this as he stepped into Dumbledore's office. He wasn't entirely sure why the headmaster had asked for him, only that he had. His eyebrows raised when he saw Potter already in the room, poised on the edge of his seat as if he planned to escape. He nearly laughed. Harry Potter: escaped convict. No matter what the rumors about Sirius Black were, Draco doubted that the Gryffindor would ever become a criminal.
"Thank you for joining us, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said, conjuring up another chair for him. Draco nodded and sat down.
"Mr. Potter and I were just discussing the differences between his house and yours," the professor continued. Sensing a long, meaningless speech about inter-house relations, Draco sank back into his own thoughts.
Because he so rarely had it, grape juice was a special treat for Draco. It was the only thing under the sun that his father couldn't just summon for him. He loved the syrupy texture, and the way the more you drank it, the more you craved it
"…it seems that the more the rivalries progress, the more the individuals and the houses both– crave it, let's say – " Draco looked up sharply. Dumbledore winked benignly at him. Surely not… he couldn't have possibly…
He once asked his mother if grape juice was the only thing that, no matter how much you tasted, you thirsted still for more. His mother had gotten a faraway look on her face; her hands had stilled. Draco had panicked at the time: he'd never seen his mother lose control like that. For a long time, she didn't seem to hear him. Finally, she smiled a slightly strained smile.
"Why don't you go talk to your father," she had murmured, then turned away. He nodded, watching her eyes shift to the portrait of her wedding day.
"Thank you for that excellent example," the headmaster said, and it was only then that Draco realized he'd been speaking aloud. "It is not only rivalries and –grape juice, and you so rightly said- that procure this type of reaction." Potter was staring at him now, as though he'd grown two extra heads. Although according to rumor, Potter had wrestled with a three-headed dog in first year, so a three-headed Draco Malfoy really shouldn't surprise him.
"Harry, is there anything you'd like to add?" Potter starts, jerking his gaze away from Draco.
"Ron likes grapes," he blurts, before flushing and escaping like he'd been so ready to earlier.
Draco stared at his fleeing back.
Harry was hungry. He slid out of bed, tossing the invisibility cloak around him and slipping out of the dormitory. He headed towards the kitchens, tickled the pear, and let himself in. Once inside, he found Draco Malfoy leaning against the counter with a midnight snack.
"Grape?" he offered.
It was just after they'd made up, and the whole "your car ate my rat now we are sworn enemies" thing had been swept under the rug. In fact, Ron was being particularly nice to her. Hermione was infinitely grateful that he had taken over the hippogriff research department. He was currently sprawled in an armchair, flipping through In Defense of All Magical Creatures, a leather bound book Hagrid had lent him.
"I'm going down to the kitchens," Harry announced. "You guys want to come?" Ron nodded, but Hermione shook her head. She had five more inches to add to her ancient runes essay, and no time at all for a break. She heard them clambering out of the portrait hole, their footsteps fading as they left the common room.
She vaguely heard their return, but what made her actually pause in her essay-writing was the steaming mug a freckled hand placed in front of her. She looked up to find Harry and Ron each cradling a mug of hot chocolate in their own hands. She glanced at the mug in front of her.
"What, I only get milk?" she asked.
"We didn't want to ruin your teeth and have your parents after our hide," Ron said, and grinned teasingly.
"How thoughtful," she responded, rolling her eyes. She accepted the mug anyway. A quick sip revealed a different, hidden flavor, far sweeter than milk. She looked up to ask- how could he possibly know?- but Ron was already engrossed in another hippogriff book. She smiled and took another sip.
a/n- all reviews -loved/hated/anything else- appreciated!