Notes: THC/The Houses Competition
House: Gryffindor
Class: History of Magic
Category: Drabble
Prompt: Action: Baking a Cake
Word Count: 680
Betas: Jetainia, Celeste Magnolia, Mumka
Early morning sunlight, pale yellow like the butter that was softening on a counter, streamed through the windows of the Burrow. A stained scrap of Muggle newspaper was charmed to perch above the countertop, and Hermione squinted at the recipe upon it.
"Self-rising flour? 60% cocoa solids? I can't really be sure that we have what it asks for."
"Where did you get that?" asked Ginny.
"The BBC food section. It's a Muggle thing my parents use."
Ginny smiled. "Mum taught me to bake. At this point, we mostly just throw stuff in a bowl."
"I'm sure that would be brilliant, but…can we make something like this one? Harry said he really liked it when I made it for his fourteenth birthday."
"You told me Harry mostly had grapefruit that summer. He would have loved anything as long as it was cake." Ginny realized, after she said it, that her words had not been the kindest. It seemed to her when Hermione spoke next that she thought this as well.
"Are you… Ginny, is it weird for you that we're doing this, together?"
"What are you asking? Why would it be weird?"
"It's just…." An uncomfortable expression struggled across the older witch's face and from it Ginny gathered that she was choosing her words carefully. Hermione's voice was lower when she began again: "Cho was jealous."
"I'm not Cho, Hermione. It's not like that for me." Ginny paused and asked, just in case. "Do you think I have a reason to be jealous of you?"
Hermione shook her head vigorously as she tumbled the cocoa powder into the flour.
Ginny's voice quieted. "I do, though. I do have a reason."
She met her friend's eyes, her own gently accusing. "You and my brother are planning something with Harry. I don't know what it is, but I know…you're going to leave. You're going somewhere where nobody can find you. And I can't even picture it in my head, once you go. It's that far."
"I'm sorry."
"I get it. The Trace, and all that. Just…you know I'd be there. If I could."
"I know he'd want you there."
Ginny shook her head, chuckling slightly as she protested. "No, he wouldn't. He wouldn't want me in danger. He probably doesn't want you and Ron in danger, either."
Hermione huffed quietly and gave a small, dark smile. "He may not. We're not giving him much of a choice."
"Thanks for that. Look…look after them, will you? And look after yourself." Ginny flushed and then continued. "I'm sorry. That's a lot to ask."
"It's all too much. We'll do it anyway." Hermione paused, a complicated look in her eyes. "We've kind of always had to." She looked at Ginny. "Will…will you …"
Ginny didn't let her finish, unable to answer if the question ended in be okay. "I'll do it anyway, too. Whatever I end up needing to do, when you leave."
(Months from this moment, miles from this kitchen, her own words would echo in her ears as she shook beneath the curse that Alecto Carrow cast upon her. She told him nothing, grateful for once that she had nothing to tell.)
Back on August 1st, no part of Ginny had known what to expect. More concerned with her present than with her uncertain future, thinking always more of Harry's needs than she did of her own wants, Ginny opened the oven door on the morning of Bill's wedding. It was the last day she would see Harry before he would emerge through a passage into the Room of Requirement and then walk himself willingly into a jet of green light.
As she helped to slide the cake in, Hermione gaped. Ginny knew she was marveling at the incongruity of the oven–how it had been charmed to hold more on the inside than seemed possible at first. Like both of us, Ginny thought. Like how much we love him. Different love, different people. Insurmountably strong.
She squeezed Hermione's shoulder when the oven door closed. "Harry will adore it. It's going to be perfect."
