Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 7—Round 4

Team: Holyhead Harpies
Position: Captain
Task: Incorporate a pre-chosen line of dialogue from another franchise into your story—"This tastes nothing like chicken." (Merlin)

Word Count: 2,996

A/N: I'd have loved to have continued this further, but word limits! In case it isn't obvious, this is set during the beginning of Deathly Hallows—when everyone's hanging at the Burrow before Bill and Fleur's wedding. Enjoy!

'Chicken' Lasagne

Ron was very decidedly not in a good mood. His house had always been chock full of people—that was a given considering he was one of seven children—and since things had started to become much more unsettled within the wizarding world, the Burrow had somewhat become a safe house for members of the Order of the Phoenix. And as such, that meant there was rarely a time someone wasn't sat looking weary and troubled at his kitchen table, muttering under their breath to either one of his parents about some secretive and disconcerting business.

But Ron had become accustomed to that, whether he liked it or not. But this new development was something else. Impending wars he had made his peace with, but wedding planning?

"Oh, for f—"

"Ron!"

Ron pursed his lips as Mrs Weasley glowered, his eyes still burning with the fury his tongue wasn't permitted to convey. All he'd wanted was a bit of toast, and the entire kitchen had apparently transformed into a florist's overnight. Bill and Fleur's wedding was still a week away and honestly, Ron didn't know how much more he could handle.

"How am I supposed to eat breakfast?" he demanded of his mother, who seemed as busy as ever. Doubly so, now that she was hosting her eldest son's wedding in a week's time.

"Why don't you go outside?" Mrs Weasley suggested, although not without a bitter sort of exasperation in her tone.

Ron glanced out the window, wrinkling his nose. It was a beautiful day, that was true, but the thought of hanging out in the garden with all the pollen, and the heat, and the gnomes…

"And whilst you're out there," Mrs Weasley said, as though reading his thoughts, "you and your brothers could get to that de-gnoming you've been promising you'll do for about a week now."

"I'll just eat in the lounge," Ron grumbled, rolling his eyes and helping himself to a bowl of cheeri-owls. As he left, he threw the dirtiest look he could muster at the huge oriental lilies dominating the kitchen table.

"Woah, wotcher, Ron!"

"Merlin's beard, Tonks, watch where you're going!" Ron scolded, despite knowing he was the one responsible for the almost-collision.

"Breakfast?" she asked cheerily, seemingly immune to his bad temper.

Ron grunted in confirmation.

"Enjoy," Tonks said with an unmistakable wink before hurrying past him into the kitchen herself.

"Huh?" Ron said aloud, deeply confused by the interaction. Shaking his head in dismissal, he continued into the lounge. This was ridiculous, he thought. He couldn't even walk through a door without colliding with another person; that's how jam-packed their house was.

Someone was sat on the sofa when Ron entered the lounge, and he almost swore again, until he realised who it was.

"Oh, hi..."

"Morning," Ron mumbled, gulping nervously, unsure how to proceed. "It, err, it was packed in the kitchen so I…"

Hermione smiled to herself, but there was a certain sadness there. "The lilies," she said with a gentle laugh.

Ron loitered awkwardly in the doorway, unsure where to sit. Since Tonks had left, Hermione was alone—pretty remarkable in such a crowded house—but there were several sofas and armchairs, and this posed a problem. Would it be rude to distance himself from her? And yet, for whatever reason, Ron felt oddly uncomfortable at the thought of sitting directly next to her.

She wiped her hand across her face, as though brushing away tears that didn't seem to be there, and Ron's heart swelled. Without a second thought, he sank down onto the sofa next to her. She offered him a smile, but the sadness lingered.

Ron really wished he wasn't still wearing his pyjamas.

"Do you, uhh, are you hungry?" Ron asked, offering her his half-eaten bowl of cereal. "I mean—you can have your own bowl—I can get you one—I didn't mean—"

"It's okay," Hermione said, still smiling softly. "I'm sorted." She lifted a mug of half-drunk tea.

Ron nodded, and for a few seconds they sat in uncomfortable silence whilst he realised he had forgotten every single word in the English language. When you'd been through what they'd been through, mundane conversation seemed so meaningless and difficult. What to say? Where to even begin?

"Where's Harry?" Hermione inquired after a while.

"He, err, I don't think he slept so good," Ron replied. "He seemed pretty restless in the night; I thought I'd let him sleep in. Merlin knows Mum will be rounding us all up for more wedding prep any moment soon anyway…"

"I don't blame him," Hermione said wistfully.

Ron longed for nothing more than to put his arm around her. But he resisted, still awkwardly clutching his cereal bowl. "What's up?"

Hermione shook her head, looking down at the tattered old rug they used to cover up the cracks in the floor. "It's stupid," she dismissed.

Ron's heart swelled once more. "It's okay, you can tell me," he gently urged, wondering if he should put his arm around her.

Hermione let out a deep sigh, before lifting her gaze from the rug and looking directly at Ron. She really did have the most beautiful eyes.

"It's just this time of the year," she began. "The beginning of summer—my parents would always host a big garden party with all their Muggle friends. I don't know, I guess, just seeing your whole family united, and all our friends, preparing for this wedding… I miss them. I miss the silly little mundane things about life before."

Hermione had sacrificed more than all of them, Ron recalled. She might never see her parents again. It might never be safe for her to give them their memories back. He suddenly felt incredibly guilty for how bitter he'd been about being in a full house, surrounded by his entire family. He hadn't even thought about it from her point of view.

"We are your family," Ron said softly. "At least, we can be. For now," he added. "This is only… temporary."

Hermione smiled at him. "Thank you, Ron," she said softly. "That means a lot." She leaned over to place a hand on his left leg, just above his knee, and gave a gentle squeeze. Ron gulped, but disguised it with a smile.

"So tell me about this annual garden party."

Hermione let out a laugh. "They've been doing it since as long as I can remember. Each year, a different family hosts it—it would have been my parents' turn this year," she said wistfully. "They always make a chicken lasagne."
"Chicken lasagne?" Ron echoed, smiling fondly.

"Oh, yes, I was very fussy—I'd never eat beef. But this was lovely—zucchini, carrot, ricotta…" She listed everything on her fingers.

"Well, it sounds delicious," Ron said encouragingly, an idea already forming in his mind. "Really, really lovely."

"Alright, little brother?"

"How's it going, young Ronald? Excited for a fun day of de-gnoming the garden?"

"Better wear your suncream."

"Oh, yes, we can't have a horrendous burn covering up those endearing little freckles of yours."

"Certainly not, it would completely spoil your charming complexion."

"Oh, shove off," Ron growled, shunting past Fred and George and into the kitchen.

"Rude," Fred said.

"Unnecessarily so," George agreed.

"And where's little brother off to with such a determined look?" Fred wondered aloud to his twin.

"Apparently not out to the garden to help us with the de-gnoming."

"Well, we can't have that. That's just unsportsmanlike."

"Incredibly unsportsmanlike."

"I say we teach him a lesson, George," Fred proposed.

"I couldn't agree more, Freddie. "

"Mum, I want to make dinner tonight," Ron declared, bristling past the lilies.

Mrs Weasley regarded him with a startled expression. "I beg your pardon?"

"I, err, I want to make dinner," he said boldly, certain of himself. "A chicken lasagne. Though, I might need some help…"

Mrs Weasley was still staring wide-eyed. Behind her, in the kitchen sink, potatoes were washing and peeling themselves. "But I'm already making dinner. And besides"—she narrowed her eyes suspiciously—"since when have you ever helped prepare a meal? Is this so you can get out of the de-gnoming?"

"No, not at all!" Ron insisted. "I just… I really want to do this."

Mrs Weasley continued to stare at her youngest son with a suspicious glower. A look that penetrated his very soul.

"It's for Hermione," Ron blurted out.

Mrs Weasley's look seemed to soften. She said nothing, but raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"She was telling me about how homesick she feels, and about how her parents used to host this annual garden party thing, and they'd always make a chicken lasagne, and I just thought, if I could bring that here then—"

"Okay, okay," Mrs Weasley interrupted. She raised her wand, and immediately the potatoes clattered into a bowl. She was positively beaming. "I think that's a wonderful idea, Ronald! Very sweet, very thoughtful!"

Ron shrugged, like he couldn't care less, furiously trying to hide the blush which had spread across his face. "I guess."

Mrs Weasley clapped her hands together. "We can use the potatoes tomorrow! Now, do you know what ingredients were in the recipe? Anything specific? I can't say I've ever made a chicken lasagne before…"

Ron cast his mind back to earlier that morning. "It, err, kind of," he thought aloud. "Carrot, I think? Ricotta? Something about zucchini, maybe?"

"Should I check with Hermione?"

"No!" Ron burst out. "No, I, err, I want it to be a surprise.

Mrs Weasley's already beaming grin deepened.

"Chicken lasagne, eh, Freddie?"

"Well, I'm not sure that's a valid enough reason to be escaping one's de-gnoming duties."

Fred and George were hidden in the stairwell, retracting their extendable ears.

"Very unsporting for one of us to be able to take the time out to woo our lady friends whilst the rest of us are sweltering away under the hot sun."

"I completely agree with you, George."

"Little brother Ronald needs to reassess his priorities."

"Absolutely."

"I've got a brilliant idea." Fred's face had spread into a wicked grin.

George's mimicked that of his twin. "I'm all ears."

"Well," Fred said.

"Shut up."

Hermione was crying, she was actually crying. Ron was startled, thinking he'd done something wrong. It was supposed to have been a nice gesture! To make her happy! Not burst into tears!

But before he could question her about it, she was flinging her arms around his neck. Much to Ron's great embarrassment. His entire family were there, after all. From entangled within Hermione's embrace he could see Fred and George backed up into the corner wiggling their eyebrows at him. He silently mouthed a phrase he'd never let his mother hear out loud. They just continued grinning like idiots.

As he awkwardly patted her on the back, Hermione gently unwound herself, but continued clutching at his arms excitedly. "I can't believe you did this," she breathed in wonder.

Ron's entire body was tingling. He couldn't be sure whether it was because of the feel of her warm hands gripping him or the way she was staring up at him, full of admiration, full of appreciation.

"It was nothing," he shrugged. "I just… I thought it would be a small thing to make you feel more at home. It, err…"

"It's wonderful," she finished for him, still beaming. "And it looks delicious! It smells exactly like the one my parents always make!"

Ron couldn't help but smile at that. He'd have to buy his mum some flowers or something, he thought to himself. To say thank you. Although there were so many bloody lilies about, she probably wouldn't appreciate it.

Either way, they'd nailed it. Nothing compared to the look on Hermione's face. This is what it had all been for.

"Well," Mrs Weasley announced, "I thought it would be nice if we all ate out in the garden—what with the clutter in here. And it's such a lovely day. Everybody grab a plate and help yourselves!"

A very hungry household descended on the lasagne Ron had so painstakingly spent preparing with his mother that afternoon. He'd never thought of himself as a cook. He was a great fanatic of food, that was a certainty, but he'd never even thought about actually preparing it himself. It was all worth it for Hermione though.

Hermione approached him with two plates of steaming lasagne. "Let's go," she said eagerly. "I can't wait to try it!"

Ron's stomach suddenly flipped. What if it didn't taste right? What if he'd missed out some key ingredient or it just wasn't on par with the one her parents made? Suddenly anxious, Ron followed Hermione out into the garden, not even realising he was being flanked by Fred and George, both with deeply mischievous twinkles in their eyes.

It was a truly lovely day, Ron noted. Maybe he should start appreciating these summer days whilst he still could. Who knew where their world was headed; their whole lives could change in an instant.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" Hermione asked with a smile.

Ron was brought back to reality. "Huh? Oh, yeah…" He couldn't help but notice how her eyes sparkled in the sunlight. "Beautiful."

"Anyway, let's eat!"

Ron raised a tentative forkful of the lasagne to his mouth. This was the first meal he'd ever cooked, he realised. And sure, he'd had a lot of help from his mother (and magic), but he was proud of himself. Maybe if he practiced he could cook even more. He could be that husband—one who cooks!

Ron almost dropped his fork before it reached his mouth. Why was he thinking of marriage? Probably just because of all the wedding preparations that had been going on, he assured himself. He still couldn't move without stumbling into some bloody lilies. He stole a nervous glance at Hermione; she'd already taken a bite.

"Is it okay?" Ron asked, watching her chew.

Hermione said nothing for a while, and it was hard to read her face. She was chewing a lot, Ron noted. Was that good? Was it supposed to be chewy? He wasn't sure chicken necessarily was, but his mother had seemed to know what she was doing. Ron was going to be furious if they'd messed it up.

Hermione swallowed a little too aggressively. Her brow furrowed. "It's, uh… It's different, but—but I like it!" she insisted quickly. "It's got a lot of flavour."

Ron's stomach dropped. "I… I used all the ingredients you listed!" he assured her.

"No, no, it's lovely!" she said a little too eagerly. "Everything tastes perfect. I think it's just… maybe the meat tastes a little different—but that's all!"

Ron sniffed the lasagne. "It was fresh chicken," he insisted. His mother only ever used fresh ingredients; it couldn't possibly have been bad meat. But the smell… something wasn't quite right. Before he could overthink it, Ron took his first bite of the first meal he'd prepared.

And almost gagged.

"This is awful," he exclaimed, horrified. "This tastes nothing like chicken!"

It was chewy—not at all the taste or texture of the chicken he was accustomed to. And yet it didn't taste like any other kind of meat he'd ever tasted before?

"No, no, it's probably just a different kind of, uh…" Hermione struggled to defend the awful lasagne. "Everything else tastes great," she assured him. "The vegetables, the sauce, the pasta… delicious!"

"This is wrong," Ron said furiously, rising from his chair. He was going to confront his mother—she'd clearly put in something other than chicken. She'd ruined his surprise for Hermione! "I'll be back in a second."

Ignoring Hermione's insistence that he stay, Ron headed off towards the burrow, furiously clutching the awful 'chicken' lasagne. Within seconds, Fred and George were besides him, irritatingly smug about something.

"Something wrong, little brother?" Fred asked.

"Leave me alone."

"Not enjoying your lasagne? I, personally, thought it was… exquisite!"

"Very exotic," George agreed.

Ron stopped in his tracks, immediately suspicious. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

The twins looked at each other in surprise, feigning innocence.

"Whatever could you mean, young Ronald?"

"Yeah, we're not 'doing' anything," Fred insisted. "Unless, of course, you mean engaging in conversation with our favourite brother!"

Ron's suspicion deepened. "What did you do?" he demanded through gritted teeth. "Did you have something to do with this?" He held up the plate of lasagne, tempted to throw it at them.

"Of course not, bro," Fred said cockily. "That was all you."

"And Mum," George added.

"Yeah, how could we have had anything to do with this delightful meal when we've been de-gnoming the garden all day?"

"For almost ten hours," George said cheerily.

"All by ourselves," Fred said, equally cheery.

"Whilst you got to prance around in the kitchen with a wooden spoon."

"Instead of helping."

"Like you were supposed to."

Ron's jaw dropped in disbelief. "Are you seriously mad at me because I didn't help de-gnome the garden with you today?"

"No, of course not, it was a hoot!"

"Oh, yeah!" George agreed. "Would you like to see all our bites?" He raised his hands, which appeared to have been shredded by tiny razor-like teeth on almost all visible surfaces. "Who'd want to miss out on that and instead be, oh, I don't know, hanging out in the kitchen surrounded by food and not tiny, disgusting, vicious, little devils?"

"That's not my fault!"

"You shirked your responsibilities!" Fred said indignantly.

"You're one to talk!" Ron countered. "And anyway, It's not like I was just lazing around! I was… slaving away over a hot stove! It was, uh, very physical, and sweaty, and I strained my arm a bit—look!"

Fred and George ignored the arm Ron thrust into their faces.

"Oh, you poor little House-Elf."

"What did you do to my lasagne?" Ron demanded, furious for their interference. All he'd wanted to do was something nice for Hermione to help her feel a little less homesick, and Fred and George had unjustly ruined it! "Why was the chicken so… odd?"

"Oh, it wasn't chicken," Fred said with a shrug.

"So that's probably the reason." George agreed.

"What!?"

"Well, whilst we were slaving away under the hot sun, getting bitten all over by those bloody gnomes, we stumbled upon something at the bottom of the garden that we thought might make a nice alternative to chicken."

"You don't want to waste good meat, after all!"

"Ohmygod," Ron said in horror, staring at the accursed plate of lasagne still in his hand. "What the hell is this, then!?" he demanded. A horrible thought crossed his mind. He stared at the twins, wide-eyed. "It's not gnome, is it!?"

"Good grief, no!" George exclaimed.

"Don't be disgusting!"

Ron relaxed.

"It's badger."