(A DH Missing Moment Drabble in Honor of Valentine’s Day)
Hermione shuffled a little blindly out of bed and toward the tent’s makeshift kitchen. It was still dark out, but the rising sun would soon be visible. Her shift at watch would be soon and she wanted to wake up a bit before heading out to face the cold.
As she reached the table she stopped short. Sitting at what had become “her” place was a steaming mug and a small bunch of what appeared to be some type of holly with tiny purple berries tied in a rather sad looking bow. Had the bow been better constructed and not so obviously made of scrap fabric, she might have thought she was dreaming. She did that quite a bit now; imaging warm baths and pastries and a heart that didn’t constantly ache.
No, this was no dream. This offering had been left for her, she didn’t need to ask by whom. She tried her hardest to summon the anger that had been her nearest companion since Ron’s return; she clenched her fists at her sides and snarled down at the gifts intending to leave them untouched.
As fate would have it, at that moment the scent of that cup of tea, of very expensive French tea reached her nose. It was the same tea that her Grandmother always made for her when she came for a visit (perhaps she was dreaming after all).
Her hands shook as she reached out and brought the steaming cup to her lips. It was the most perfect thing she had tasted in months: the perfect amount of sugar and the optimal temperature. She was so absorbed in the experience that she initially missed the tent flap opening, but she did not remain oblivious to his presence as he moved closer behind her. The husky whisper of her voice sought him out, though she never turned around.
“How?”
“When I was at Bill and Fleur’s.”
“Oh.”
“I recognized the tin. It was just like the one in the package your Mum sent you last year on your birthday. I nicked the last of it, for you. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion…and since today is…well…you know.”
“I know.”
“Well, anyway…I hope you enjoy it. I wish it were more. I know it’s not enough.”
She felt him turn to go: back to his watch, back to his purgatory. It would have been so easy to just let him go; to deny him the comfort of her words, to deny herself the relief of saying them. But, as they say in the stories, the warmth of his gesture thawed at least a tiny bit of her frozen heart.
