            Ron turned stiffly, not meeting her eyes as he stopped just inches away. Hermione looked at a painting over his shoulder. A sloppily brushed quidditch pitch sat askew in the wooden frame. Before she could step away, Ron’s hand dipped into her pocket. Her heart thrummed as he pulled out the napkin of oatmeal raisin cookies. "They only smell this good when house elves make them," he muttered, before crushing the cookies in his fist.