Toast
by The Eighth Weasley

It was always a problem. Draco liked it thin, Hermione liked it thick. Draco liked it toasted to what Hermione thought was burnt, Hermione liked it in a way that Draco thought was barely even crisped. Hermione liked apricot, Draco liked marmalade. The only thing they agreed upon was that it had to be eaten hot.

The biggest problem was that Draco was such a sneaky 'romantic' that he would often make Hermione breakfast in bed, with toast and tea, and cut it beautifully thin and toast it, in his opinion, properly. The apricot jam would be mysteriously absent from the tray.

The next morning, Hermione would be a sweetie and return the favour by making Draco tea and toast, and cutting it properly thick to be toasted to a light golden colour. The marmalade would stay in the fridge.

They were so determined to be nice to each other that they never brought it up. Each would smile at the other and say, "Thanks, that's lovely," whilst secretly wishing that the other would get a clue.

In such a way they whiled away the years, starting each morning slightly discontented at the other's taste.

And then one morning it came to a head.

Draco supposed he shouldn't have shouted at her, but he was sick with Elvish stomach flu and hadn't been able to go more that a few steps from the bathroom for most of the previous two days. He'd just started feeling better, and Hermione had offered to bring up tea and toast.

But she brought up thick, barely toasted pieces of bread that didn't melt the butter, and Draco couldn't take it anymore:

"Why can't you ever make toast properly?" His voice came out petulant and whiny, with an overtone of sneer that he just couldn't help.

"What do you mean?" Hermione had just put the tray down on the bedside cabinet, and now she put her hands over her hips and glared at him.

Draco picked up a cold slab. "This!" he exclaimed. "They're not even hot and they're just too thick!"

"Thick as you," Hermione retorted. "At least I don't burn it!"

"I don't burn the toast!"

"You do, too! Every time. It's almost black!"

"It's toasted. It's supposed to be dark!"

Hermione huffed. "Not as dark as that. And you can't ever sink your teeth into it."

"It's not a piece of bread, it's a piece of toast!" Draco felt the telltale spurt of saliva from the back of his throat and knew he had to get to the toilet. Soon. "I'm going to be sick."

"What, over a piece of toast?"

Draco pulled the covers off himself, roughly pushed Hermione out of the way, and made a run for the bathroom.

He didn't hear her come in over the sound of his being sick, but he felt her cool hands on the back of his neck, and then he felt a wet washcloth being put there.

"Thanks," he choked.

She handed him another towel so he could wipe his face.

When he finally straightened up, a little woozily, she looked very, very sympathetic.

"Do you want me to toast you some more bread?" she asked. When he began to glower - he did NOT need this, now - she continued, "I'll do it your way."

Draco gave her a smile. "Okay," he said. Heck, he was a Slytherin. He wasn't going to pass up an opportunity like this. Gryffindors were such bleeding-hearts.

Hermione kissed her hand and pressed it to his forehead. Draco started the shower - he needed to wash.

But he thought he heard her mutter, as he rummaged in the bedroom for a new pair of pyjamas, "When you get better, Draco, I swear, I'll teach you how to toast it properly..."

--fin--