Warmth

… … …

They were at war.

Well, maybe not the most dangerous, but still. It all stemmed from the bickering of the night before. Hermione had said that she was sick of doing all of the housework, that if she didn't clean and cook every night they would be living in chaos. Ron cluelessly remarked that she should just do it all magic, and wondered by Hermione insisted on doing all of the housework by hand. They weren't muggles, after all.

This infuriated Hermione. She reminded him that her parents were muggles, and that they taught her all of these things by hand and that he wouldn't do so as well was only laziness on his part. "Why," she said, "Without magic you couldn't bake a single thing without poisoning us, no doubt!"

This is why Ron Weasley was hunched over a muggle oven, which held the jam tarts he was horribly concerned were burning.

Hermione sat at the kitchen table while he did, reading the thick volume in her lap. She remained adamant he would not succeed. Even when she woke up that morning to find him whisking (if you could call it that) golden brown batter, effectively covering every surface in eggs and flour. It's not that she wasn't enjoying watching him trip around the kitchen, she did. He looked so goofy wearing her mum's apron.

He had tried cleaning up the mess that was trailing behind him, but he only managed to spread the mess larger and over more things. She had to discreetly hide a smile as she watched. If only I could clean this up magic, Hermione could almost see the thought on face. The oven ding-ed and Ron scrambled over, fumbling over his oven mitts as he opened it. He pulled the pan out and set it on the counter, the smell of apple jam filling the kitchen deliciously. Hermione raised an eyebrow. Maybe he'd win, after all.

Sitting down next to her at the table, Ron began prying the tarts from the pan and blowing on them. Hermione sat down the book on the table, stretching her arms out. After they were fully cooled, Ron picked one up and silently handed it to her.

She bit into the tart with a squish, her physical reaction almost immediate. The uncooked batter in the center filled her mouth, and she swallowed hard to get it all down. It tasted thick and greasy. The bottom was burnt in the second degree.

"Are they good?" He asked, his eyes wide and voice childlike. He sounded concerned, he'd forgotten that this was a war, and he actually wanted her to like them. He'd never baked anything before, after all. Hermione swallowed hard again, looking at him for a moment before forcing down the second half of the gruesome dessert. She nodded, reaching for his warm hand, no longer concerned by the overly large oven mitt. "They're good."

… … …