Six Little Marshmallows

Ron had never been one to notice small, random things about people, for instance that Lavender always applied the same Passionate Sugar Plum lipgloss in Seamus' presence or that Neville only wore red and blue boxers. He didn't notice that Ginny tended to her hair more on days of Quidditch practice, that Parvati never wore the same sweater more than twice a month, or that Dean rapped the top of his bed every morning for good luck. Indeed, it even took him a while to notice if his hair was sticking up funny in the back or if there was a trace of breakfast on his robes, so it was only natural that he be even more blind to the unobtrusive things around him. But one morning, as he sat blearily between Harry and Hermione, Ron happened to observe something.

Hermione poured herself a cup of hot cocoa with a yawn, then she plucked six little white marshmallows out of the dish and plopped them in the mug. He watched through half-shut eyes as she stirred her cocoa three times to the left, three times to the right, and once more to the left before she cupped it in both hands and took a tiny sip. He thought nothing of this, as most teenagers do, and continued to spear his eggs with a fork.

The next morning, he saw her do it again. Hermione carefully poured herself a thermos full of hot chocolate, added six marshmallows, stirred it three times, three more, again to the left, and took a sip.

The next morning was a Sunday morning, and he was far too busy shoveling bacon and sausage down his throat to notice Hermione preparing her hot cocoa again.

Monday morning, he noticed.

Tuesday morning, he woke up with a sudden, unquenchable desire for something hot, liquid, and chocolate. He, Harry, and Hermione trooped down to the Great Hall as they did every morning. They managed to make it to breakfast rather early on, because Hermione had only stopped three unruly students for warnings and detention slips. Harry and Ron took that to mean that she was in a fairly good mood. They sat down on their usual bench, yawned in unison, and took to compiling their breakfasts. Ron reached for the great pitcher of hot cocoa and poured himself a very liberal amount of the stuff, then dashed in a large handful (he did have very big hands, you know) of fluffy white marshmallows. Hermione snorted.

"What?" he grinned, before taking a slurp.

She merely cocked her eyebrows in reply, a smile staining her lips, and daintily served herself. In went the six little marshmallows. Three times to the left. Three times to the right. Once more to the left. Sip.

"Do you always do that?" Ron asked suddenly.

She looked at him. "What?"

"You always put in six marshmallows," he said, nodding at her cup. "And then you stir the same way every time. Three times to the left, and then the right, and then to the left again."

Hermione gave him a half-smile. "You noticed something like that?"

He shrugged. "In passing."

She dropped her eyes back to her mug, running her finger along the porcelain handle. A tiny wisp of brown hair fell into her face. She pushed it back before responding softly; "It's the way my mum makes it." She turned a soft shade of pink, as though she had just revealed something slightly embarrassing. A funny feeling went through Ron just then, warm and fluffy, and for a moment, he wanted to throw his arms around Hermione and give her the biggest hug he could muster. Somehow, he managed to restrain himself.

"Hmm." He took another sip.

"And I suppose that's how you Weasleys make your hot cocoa," she said, cocking her head to the side. "In great abundance."

"Of course," he grinned.

She smiled.

"That actually doesn't sound too bad," Harry muttered sleepily, reaching over his plate to grab the pitcher. "Pass the marshmallows."

"Say please," Hermione said airily, handing him the dish.

On Wednesday morning, they stopped six times in the hallway so Hermione could reprimand a group of disorderly second year Ravenclaw girls, and the two boys knew very well that it was not going to be a pleasant day. Therefore, Ron merely watched silently as she added her marshmallows to the swirling liquid chocolate and stirred.

Thursday morning, Hermione woke up with a dreadful headache. But she smiled at Ron when he passed her six little marshmallows and a spoon.

Friday morning the weather was cold and biting and not at all suitable for Herbology, yet it seemed a little less so as the three of them watched Harry and Ron toss marshmallows into each others' mugs.

Saturday morning Harry and Ron slept in, so they did not get to see Hermione forlornly swirl the fluffy whiteness into her cocoa alone.

Sunday morning Ron entertained his two sleepy chums with a great white marshmallow mustache smeared across his upper lip and a hot chocolate goatee sliding down his chin.

On Monday morning Ron was feeling a little tired of hot chocolate, and he merely contented himself with eating lots of bacon and watching Hermione mechanically stir her cocoa. In went the six little marshmallows.

On Tuesday morning, as a very fretful and stressed Hermione reached over Ron for the pitcher, he got that funny warm little feeling again. She stirred in the usual six little marshmallows, not even bothering to sweep her unruly hair from her face. It took quite a lot of restraint for him to let it lie there and not brush it back for her, something he though very unusual.

And so it went for quite some time. Ron would sit quietly and watch Hermione watch her marshmallows dissolve into the chocolate mess. Sometimes, he would join her. Sometimes, he wouldn't. Sometimes, he and Harry teased her about the precise number of marshmallows to be placed in her mug. Sometimes, they said nothing. And for a while, Ron could have cared less about Hermione's hot cocoa, because you simply didn't care about that sort of stuff if you were in a row with someone. Rather, he was more concerned with how he was to get his homework done if his only aide was not speaking to him, and could he get to class on time if Lavender never cared to detach herself from his mouth? Back home at the Burrow, he refused his mother's excellent hot chocolate so vehemently Christmas morning that she threw the whole kettle of it into the snow, shrieking of how it must be unfit for everyone else in the house as well. He had almost forgotten all about the hot cocoa until he woke up one morning in the Hospital Wing with no explanation as to why he was there. After he had sat there for a few moments pondering the great mystery, the door creaked open.

Hermione sat down and placed two empty mugs and a pitcher on the bedside table.

Silence.

"So, how are you feeling?" she asked softly.

"Could be better," he replied. "Only I don't know what happened." She told him. He could see tears beginning to form in her brown eyes as she stared determinedly down at her hands, eyes, he noticed, that were the same smooth color of hot chocolate.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Um," he said nervously. "Me too."

She looked up and gave him a quivering smile. That funny feeling rushed back to the pit of his stomach, and more than ever before he wanted to hug her with all his strength until he couldn't bear the strain anymore.

Hermione stood and picked up the pitcher, then poured out two mugs of hot cocoa. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a tiny plastic bag filled with marshmallows, which she divided and dropped into the mugs. Then she stirred them. Three times to the left. Three times to the right. Once more to the left. She handed him a mug and took one for herself. They smiled at each other, clinked their mugs, and took a

sip.