A/N: Just some short and sweet fluff!
Ron pushes open the door to Hagrid's Hut and peers inside, a square cake tin tucked under his arm.
The fire roars in the grate, filling the hut with light and heat. Fang sleeps on the rough, hand-stitched rug. His mouth droops and the wrinkles around his eyes are pronounced. His fur is a little lighter with age, a little threadbare and grey with the weight of many years.
Ron steps inside and shuts the door behind him. It's not the first time he's visited; he makes it a point to drop by when he can. He doesn't like the idea of Hagrid puttering about in his hut, alone. Not that Hagrid isn't well-loved at Hogwarts; there's always someone knocking on his door to pester him about pumpkins or suffering through his rock cakes, or trying to sneak into the forest when he's not looking. And Harry comes by even more often than Ron does, popping by to sit and chat, so Hagrid really isn't alone. But he doesn't need a reason to drop in on a good friend anyway.
"Alright, Fang?" Ron says, as he settles in the giant armchair on this particular Thursday, the tin balanced on his lap. "Hagrid gone out?"
Fang gets up on his feet in a long, slow way, really stretching. He waddles away from the fire, plodding up to Ron with giant soft paws. He puts his nose against Ron's knee and nudges him, resting there. Ron scratches behind his big floppy ears quietly.
"Sorry, buddy. I didn't bring you any sandwiches."
He sneaks them in sometimes. Not half as big as the ones Hagrid makes for his own lunch, the ones Fang used to steal off the table when nobody was looking. But Fang gobbles them up all the same. The only thing in the tin are cream horns; definitely not appropriate for old hellhounds.
Fang woofs, but it's more of a soft boof. Ron snorts, and keeps scratching behind his ears. The hut is really warm, but not stuffy, not like on nights filled with illicit dragon's eggs and nosy Malfoys.
"Yeah, yeah," he says. "I'll bring something extra good next time. I'm getting pretty good at this cooking thing."
It's baking, really. Cooking comes surprisingly easy, although maybe it shouldn't be a surprise; Ron likes to eat, after all, and he might not be picky when it comes to what exactly he's eating, but he knows what good food tastes like. Growing up with Molly Weasley at the helm and hob really left him with certain standards. And he's picked up more than he thought.
There's more time to spend in the kitchen now that the kids are a bit older. Hugo even seems like he might be interested in joining him. Ron leans back against the seat, sliding the tin onto the cushion beside him, and yawns widely.
"Imagine that, heh, Fang? A chef for a son." Ron yawns again, eyes slipping shut, the fire easing him into a sleepy doze. "So long as it's not a wife. Don't tell Hermione, but she sucks in the kitchen…"
Ron still loves her dearly though. He falls asleep with a silly grin on his face, dreaming of the time Hermione tried to make Spaghetti Bolognese and almost burned the kitchen down in a frazzled tantrum.
When Hagrid returns about an hour later, Ron is dead to the world, conked out and snoring like an aggravated Thestral. Three out of six cream horns are absent, the tin tipped over on the rug. And Fang is sprawled across Ron's lap, suspicious flakes of pastry blotting his fur.
Hagrid stops and stands in the doorway with dirt on his boots and a soft look on his face. Then he chuckles, kicking the door shut gently. He pats Fang's face and ruffles Ron's hair, careful not to shake him too hard.
"Good boy, Fang, keeping 'im company," he says. Then he scoops the cream horns off the carpet and looks about for his fanciest plate, the one without anything growing on it. "Wanna help me with the rest of these?"
[Word Count: 685]