Chocolate cake
The scent of chocolate curled through the air like something tangible, rich and velvety, settling into every corner of the kitchen. It was the kind of scent that wrapped itself around the senses, a quiet promise of indulgence, of something made with care. There was warmth in it, the unmistakable kind that came from homemade things, from effort rather than convenience. It wasn’t just a dessert—it was something crafted with intention, something meant to be shared. A quiet offering. A reassurance.
Hermione sat at Neville’s kitchen table, her fingers grazing the rim of the plate he had just placed before her. The wood beneath her touch was smooth and warm, worn from years of use, the kind of surface that had known countless hands, countless meals, countless quiet moments. There was something grounding about it, something that reminded her of the Gryffindor common room—the sturdy, well-loved furniture, the years of familiarity woven into every grain of wood. Everything in Neville’s home felt like that. Steady. Safe.
She could hear him move, the subtle shift of his weight as he took a seat across from her. A pause. The space between them settling into something easy, something unspoken but understood.
“I know you said you weren’t really hungry,” he murmured, his voice low and edged with gentle amusement, “but I thought you might make an exception for this.”
The soft clink of metal against ceramic followed as he set a fork beside her plate, the sound light but deliberate, a quiet invitation rather than a demand. He never pushed, never made her feel rushed or uncertain. Instead, he let the moment exist as it was, letting her find her own way into it.
Hermione exhaled slowly, tilting her head slightly in his direction. “You made chocolate cake.”
She couldn’t see him, but she could hear the way he smiled when he answered.
“With ganache.”
The words carried an unmistakable note of pride, not boastful but pleased, the way someone sounded when they had done something not out of obligation, but because they had wanted to.
A faint chuckle slipped past her lips, quiet and warm. “You really didn’t have to go through all that trouble, you know.”
“It wasn’t trouble,” he said, with the same quiet certainty he always seemed to have when it came to her. “Besides, I thought you deserved something sweet.”
She hesitated for a beat before reaching for the fork, her fingers brushing over the cool metal before closing around it. Eating had become something she had to think about more than she ever had before—something that required patience, concentration. It wasn’t second nature the way it used to be. But Neville, as always, seemed to anticipate her hesitation before she could voice it.
“No pressure,” he added, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. As if it weren’t a reminder of the things she was still learning to navigate. “Just try.”
The first bite was heaven.
The moment the fork met her tongue, she let out a soft, involuntary sigh. The richness of the chocolate spread across her palate, deep and smooth, the ganache melting almost instantly. The cake was dense without being heavy, the kind of indulgence that lingered, leaving behind a warmth that settled somewhere deeper than just taste. There was something familiar about it—not just the flavour, but the way it made her feel. Like curling up by the fire after a long day, like laughter shared over stolen sweets, like something meant to be enjoyed, not just eaten.
Across from her, Neville let out a low, satisfied chuckle. “That good, huh?”
She barely paused before taking another bite, savouring the way the Flavors deepened, the way the richness coated her tongue like silk.
“This is really good,” she murmured, her voice softer now, not out of hesitation but because the moment itself felt softer, more deliberate. She swallowed and tilted her face toward him, expression thoughtful. “Neville, you could open a bakery. I mean it.”
For a moment, he didn’t respond. The pause stretched just long enough for her to notice it, for her to wonder what he was thinking. When he finally spoke, his voice was lighter, touched with something almost bashful.
“You’re just saying that because it’s chocolate.”
Hermione smirked, lifting her fork again. “If I were just being nice,” she countered, savouring another mouthful, “I’d say it’s fine and change the subject. But this?” She set down her fork, fingers idly tracing the rim of the plate. “This is something worth writing home about.”
His laughter came softer this time, a quiet hum that settled between them like something familiar, something safe. For a moment, they simply were—existing in the warmth of the kitchen, in the hush of a moment that didn’t need to be filled with words. She could almost picture him, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners, the way his lips would pull into that effortless, unassuming grin of his—the one that made everything feel lighter, steadier, like the world wasn’t quite so heavy after all.
The sound of the outside world filtered in through the open window—the faint hum of voices, the distant rustling of leaves, the occasional chirp of a bird settling into the evening. It was peaceful. And for the first time in what felt like too long, Hermione allowed herself to simply be—to exist in the moment, in the warmth of Neville’s kitchen, in the quiet comfort of something as simple as chocolate cake shared between friends.
They ate in comfortable silence after that, the only sounds between them the occasional clink of cutlery against ceramic, the rhythmic scrape of a fork cutting through the softness of cake, the low hum of the world beyond Neville’s kitchen walls. It was a silence that did not demand to be filled, one that felt natural, effortless—like slipping into an old, familiar rhythm without realizing it. The air carried the faintest hints of warmth, of cocoa and sugar, of something rich and indulgent, wrapping around them in the same way the firelight in the Gryffindor common room once had, flickering, steady, comforting in a way that required no words.
Hermione allowed herself to settle into it, to let the quiet seep into the spaces that had been tense for too long. There was something grounding about this moment—sitting here, in Neville’s home, the warmth of tea cooling beside her, the solid weight of the wooden table beneath her fingertips. It was peaceful. Steady. And for the first time all day, she let herself simply be—to exist in this space, in the soft comfort of something as simple as chocolate cake shared between two people who understood each other in ways that didn’t always need to be spoken aloud.
But then, just as she lifted her fork for another bite, she felt it.
A sudden, unexpected sensation—a warmth against her cheek, light and fleeting, the barest brush of something smooth against her skin before it was gone again.
She stilled, her breath catching ever so slightly in the back of her throat.
“There was some ganache,” Neville murmured, his voice lower now, quieter, like he had only just realized what he had done. “On your cheek.”
Hermione felt something shift—not physically, but in the air between them, in the way his words seemed to linger longer than they should have. It had been such a simple thing, an unconscious gesture, but now that she was aware of it, acutely aware, it was impossible to ignore the warmth it left behind. The pad of his thumb had barely grazed her skin, and yet it had sent a whisper of something unfamiliar curling through her chest, something neither unwelcome nor entirely expected.
“Oh,” she managed, her voice softer now, quieter in a way she hadn’t meant for it to be. “Thanks.”
He didn’t move right away. Or if he did, she could still feel him there, still sense his nearness, the gentle weight of his presence beside her. His scent—earthy, clean, touched with the lingering sweetness of chocolate and the faintest trace of flour—settled in the air between them, a reminder of how close he had been only moments before. It was strange, how aware of him she suddenly was, how something as small as the warmth of his skin against hers had made her notice the quiet details she had taken for granted until now—the steadiness in the way he moved, the way he never rushed her, the way his voice always carried something gentle when he spoke to her.
And it wasn’t just the warmth of the room, or the rich, indulgent taste of the cake still lingering on her tongue. It was him. It was the fact that, for the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t thinking about anything else—not about the things she had lost, not about the things she struggled to grasp in the dark.
Just as she parted her lips to say something—anything to break the strange, sudden weight of the silence—Neville let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low, warm, something easy that softened the moment just enough.
“You have more,” he said, amusement threading through his voice.
Hermione barely had time to react before she felt it again—the slow, deliberate brush of his thumb against her skin, gentle as he wiped away another stray bit of chocolate.
Her breath hitched, barely perceptible, but she felt it all the same.
It was nothing. A small thing. But it wasn’t nothing, not really.
Not when the world had become something uncertain and unfamiliar.
Not when moments like this—simple, quiet, undeniably real—felt like something precious, something steady in a way she hadn’t known she needed.
“That bad?” she finally managed, forcing a note of teasing into her voice, hoping it masked the sudden, inexplicable flutter in her chest.
Neville’s laughter was soft, the kind that hummed low in his throat, something genuine, something warm. “Disaster-level.”
She huffed, rolling her eyes, but it came out softer than she’d intended, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “And you just let me sit here covered in chocolate?”
“I was enjoying the moment,” he admitted, and there was something in his voice—something light, but not careless. Something thoughtful.
That was the thing about Neville. He had always been thoughtful, had always noticed things, even when no one else did. He paid attention, in a way that never felt invasive, never felt like expectation or pity. Just simple, steady awareness.
Hermione turned slightly in his direction, and though she couldn’t see him, she felt the way he was looking at her.
The quiet between them stretched, not awkward, not heavy, just present, like something waiting just beneath the surface.
The world outside faded—the distant sounds of the street beyond his window, the muffled ticking of the clock on the wall. Everything seemed to narrow down to this—the warmth between them, the small space they shared, the quiet weight of something almost but not quite spoken aloud.
She could have pulled away.
He could have stepped back.
But neither of them did.
Instead, Hermione let out a slow, steady breath, her fingers curling lightly around the edge of her plate, feeling the lingering warmth of the tea beside her. The corner of her lips lifted, just slightly, an almost-smile that wasn’t quite playful, wasn’t quite serious, but was something in between.
“Unbelievable,” she murmured.
Neville chuckled again, but this time, it was quieter. Softer.
And Hermione—who had spent so long feeling like she was standing on unsteady ground, like she was learning the world all over again—realized something.
Right now, in this moment, she wasn’t afraid of what she couldn’t see.
Because this—this warmth, this laughter, this quiet, fleeting moment between them—was enough.
For now, it was enough.