InsaneJournal

“Will you girls be right with this lot?” Molly Weasley asked as she craned her head to look out of the kitchen window. There were rather a lot of loud explosions emanating from the Weasleys’ backyard, and Molly was certain that Fred and George were responsible for it – and no doubt they were making a dreadful mess of everything.

 

“Of course, Mrs Weasley,” Hermione replied cheerfully. Taking up a wooden spoon, she began to vigourously stir a tub of cake batter.

“Yes Mum, we’ll be fine,” Ginny sighed as Molly shuffled hurriedly out of the kitchen and into the yard. As Hermione and Ginny stirred cake batter, setting upon lumps as though they were Cornish pixies set loose by Gilderoy Lockhart, Molly Weasley’s voice wafted into the room, all anger and frustration and exclamations of “Fred!” and “George!”

 

“Those brothers of yours, Gin,” Hermione said in what she had intended to be a reproving manner, though the effect was undermined by the smirk that had settled on her pink lips. The edge of her rather large front-teeth protruded slightly, glimmers of white pressing against her bottom lip as she smiled.

Ginny made no reply as a snort of laughter escaped her mouth: blades and shreds of grass had begun falling back to earth following a loud popping noise. This event was, of course, accompanied by Molly’s irritated growl.

 

The two girls continued to stir and giggle at the theatre that was the Weasley Twins.

“There,” Hermione said as she withdrew her spoon from the bowl. She placed the bowl down on the bench and raised her left forearm to her forehead, the fine hairs prickling against the tiny beads of sweat that had formed above Hermione’s brow.

Ginny craned her neck to examine Hermione’s bowl.

“That looks about right,” she said as she looked at the rose bloom of Hermione’s cheek, “Oh, you’ve got a little something there, Hermione,” Ginny said, indicating Hermione’s face.

“Oh! Where?” Hermione asked, her hands ready to remove the errant cake batter.

“Just...” Ginny tried to specify as Hermione wiped her fingers against her own face most unsuccessfully, “hang on, Hermione,” Ginny said, letting her own spoon slip into the mixing bowl.

 

Ginny turned to face Hermione. Her eyes rested on the splotch of batter that had settled on Hermione’s face, just below her bottom lip and just above her chin. Ginny extended her hand, her thumb outstretched. She pressed the digit gently against the affected area, scooping the batter up with the tip of her thumb. As she was about to retract her hand, Ginny paused momentarily, the mount of her thumb hovering hesitantly above Hermione’s soft lips.

 

“Did you get it?” Hermione asked quietly through her slightly parted lips. Ginny could feel Hermione’s breath caress the flesh of her lingering thumb as she spoke.

“Yeah,” Ginny replied suddenly, “Yeah, I got it.”

“Oh good,” Hermione said, “How’re you going with yours?”

“Oh,” Ginny muttered as the reality of baking shook her from the strange thoughts that had been drifting through her mind. Ginny looked into her own bowl, the spoon now nearly completely submerged in the thick, sticky mess.

“I think I’m done,” she said, clearing her throat, but her sentence was cut short by the increasingly loud events that were taking place in the yard.

“Shall we go and see what’s going on out there?” Hermione asked, smiling.