Dinner was over. She should be upstairs studying, maybe a shower, sleeping, maybe some tea to calm her nerves or… anything other than what she was currently doing. Instead, she found herself standing outside the kitchens with crossed arms and the growing realization that she had done this to herself.
Crap
“You could still leave it,” she said under her breath. “Just hand it to an elf and disappear. The elves would love it. I’d be their favorite for sure. No big deal right?”
The painting of the bowl of fruit did not answer. Unfortunately. With a dramatic sigh, she tickled the pear and stepped inside.
The kitchen was alive with activity. Elves running too and fro, cleaning, doing dishes, scurrying around faster than she could follow. A high, reedy voice caught her attention. “Tilly is back! Cake is safe. Toddles guarded it from giant hungry Hufflepuffs.”
Matilda laughed at the elf, “That feels oddly specific, thanks Toddles.” Toddles only smiled and tugged her to a corner where the cake was ready. The cake sat proudly on the counter inside a white box, wrapped with a simple string of twine, after cooling for the last twenty four hours. Far too much effort for someone she technically barely knew.
Correction. Someone related to someone she absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent was not falling for. Nope. Not happening. Not even a little.
“Merlin,” she whispered, staring at it. “This is insane.”
A normal person would have bought sweets. A sane person would have written a card. Matilda Nordstrom had apparently decided to celebrate her future-not-future-maybe-fiancé’s younger brother with skilled baking. Wonderful.
Lifting the box, she balanced the package carefully like she was holding a bomb. Which wasn’t too far from the truth.
Climbing the castle stairs to Gryffindor tower took forever. Weird looks directed her way from nosey students. She nearly turned around. Twice, but then found herself standing in front of the Fat Lady portrait who looked more than a little miffed when Matilda didn’t come right out with the password.
What if Serik hated it? What if she messed up and used salt instead of sugar? What if Drago thought this was super weird? Even worse, what if Drago thought this was sweet?
Ugh, that thought nearly sent her back to the kitchens, but ultimately she said the password and walked through the common room door. The room was filled with chatter and laughter, small groups sitting with each other, studying, playing chess or just talking.
And there they were. Definitely brothers, and impossible to miss with their broad shoulders, extra height and annoying good looks.
Drago sat with Serik nearby, and the second Matilda spotted them, every ounce of confidence evaporated. Wonderful. Fantastic. Brilliant idea, Tilly.
Clutching the box tighter, she crossed the room before she could lose her nerve.
Stopping in front of them, cheeks already warmer than she’d like, she cleared her throat.
“Hi,” she started.
Without giving herself time to rethink, she carefully lowered the cake box toward Serik. “I, um…” Her confidence abandoning ship entirely. “Drago mentioned it was your birthday and I made you a cake.”
A pause.
Her eyes narrowed slightly in warning. “And before anyone says anything, this is a perfectly normal thing. Don’t make it weird.”
If you tell a redhead
NOTto do something
She’ll do itTWICE and take pictures....
“But it’s my birthday?”, Serik tried with an innocent grimace, hope mingling with listlessness.
“Homework doesn’t care for your birthday.” Drago leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, nodding at the half-filled parchment laying before Serik.
His brother had always been less interested in his studies, rowdier overall, lacking self-control and discipline. Since they’d come to Hogwarts however, things only seemed to have gotten worse. Drago had been watching it with increasing concern. He had no idea where the notion of a birthday giving an excuse to not see one's duties fulfilled came from. That had never been a thing.
Sure, they all received gifts and celebrated. But that didn't justify negligence.
This environment wasn’t good for him. Serik needed more order.
His brother huffed in annoyance but picked up his quill again. Thankfully his tendency to listen hadn’t changed, not yet at least. But Drago worried about that too. Maybe they should have left him at Durmstrang.
“Hi.”
Drago looked up, ripped from his train of thought, brow still creased. His eyes landed on Matilda and his expression smoothed over a bit, gaze dropping to the box she was holding.
“I, um…Drago mentioned it was your birthday and I made you a cake.”
They both blinked at her for a moment.
“And before anyone says anything, this is a perfectly normal thing. Don’t make it weird.”
There was another beat of suspended silence and then—
“Fuck yeah!”, Serik exclaimed from across, and that drew his attention away from Matilda. Glaring, he gave him a kick under the table.
Serik grunted. “I mean, thank you.” With a polite smile that only looked a little bit pained he took the box from Matilda’s hands, setting it atop his homework. So much to that then. He already had the lid opened before Drago could say another thing but when the contents revealed themselves, the words gut stuck in his throat anyway.
Fucking Medovik.
While Serik got even more excited, hectically reaching for his wand to try and conjure forks, Drago looked back around at Matilda, his initial shock quickly morphing into a teasing grin. “Is normal to make Russian Honey Cake for brother of betrothed that you are not sure you want, yes?”
“Fuck yeah!” Tilly blinked at Serik’s excited Russian. She had no idea what he just said, but she was pretty sure it was positive.
“I mean, thank you.” She smiled at the younger version of Drago. It was normal for students at Hogwarts to miss their birthdays with their families, but most would send gifts. Tilly’s parents and grandmother had never done such nice things. Thankfully, Bram remembered the important things. “You’re welcome.” She said simply, smiling at Serik’s rushed excitement to conjure forks and dig right in.
Then her eyes moved to Drago. And shit…
“Is normal to make Russian Honey Cake for brother of betrothed that you are not sure you want, yes?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, Matilda’s lips pursed into a tight line, her eyes narrowed and a pent up breath escaped her nose. It took no time at all for him to see right through her niceness. “That,” she said pointing at the smiling handsome Russian looking straight through her, “sounds dangerously close to making it weird.”
Grabbing a chair from a nearby table, she sat down with the brothers. “For the record, I was working in the library after you mentioned his birthday. I was bored and started looking up cake recipes. I like to bake, and have been known to make desserts for my friends. Ask Benji, I’m responsible for at least twenty pounds on that boy.”
A smile tugged at her lips, happy that she was able to make the birthday boy smile. The prickling feeling on her neck told her Drago was still near, possibly staring at her. Sure enough, when she looked in his direction, his warm brown eyes were there.
“Just because I found a recipe for a very traditional Russian dessert doesn’t mean I’m ready to pick out china patterns and walk down the aisle. It’s just cake, and also, if it tastes terrible, we collectively agree to never speak of this again.”
Matilda was pretty sure the cake was edible. Good in fact. After Benji took a chunk out of it and didn’t vomit, she was pretty sure the brothers would enjoy it. That spot on the cake was covered with an extra layer of frosting. Stupid hungry badger.
Watching Serik attempt to conjure utensils, Matilda chuckled under her breath and leaned towards Drago. Whispering, she asked, “Is now a good time to mention I brought up plates and utensils?” Pulling out three forks from the bag hanging from her side.
If you tell a redhead
NOTto do something
She’ll do itTWICE and take pictures....
“That sounds dangerously close to making it weird.”
Drago couldn’t help but grin wider.
Over the past weeks he’d become a little bolder with her, teasing, smiling, searching for the tiniest touches. Slow enough to honor her request, daring enough to test the waters, and draw her in. He was sure it was working, because despite her justifications that this meant nothing, Drago booked this as a win. Baking a cake, a Russian recipe at that, didn’t just happen. Who baked for someone they didn’t like?
“Just because I found a recipe for a very traditional Russian dessert doesn’t mean I’m ready to pick out china patterns and walk down the aisle. It’s just cake, and also, if it tastes terrible, we collectively agree to never speak of this again.”
Drago hummed, unconvinced, still grinning. “We have time, is no need yet,” he said with a bit of a tease in his tone, unfolding his arms to lean onto the table. “You can choose china pattern next year.” He let his knee fall against hers, lightly touching under the table.
Across, Serik was still trying to conjure forks, eagerly waving his wand, repeating incantations.
Apparently cake was the secret to getting him to practice his magic.
“Is now a good time to mention I brought up plates and utensils?”
Drago chuckled, watching his brother grow frustrated. “Yes. Serik.” He jerked his head sideways when the other looked up, redirecting the boy’s gaze to Matilda. “Put wand down before you blow up cake.”
Serik grumbled but didn’t object, sheepishly accepting a fork and a plate before making to cut himself the first slice.
Drago gave him another kick under the table, followed by a meaningful look. Serik groaned but obliged his silent instructions. The first slice went to Matilda. The next to Drago. The third to Serik himself. When he was done, his eyes lingered on his older brother for a second but Drago just sighed and waved a hand. Serik dug in immediately.
And the moment he took his own first bite, Drago's brows shot up, eyes flicking to Matilda as he swallowed. “Is really good,” he said somewhat surprised, looking almost confused. It tasted like home, spreading a warmth through his chest that felt good until it ached. He wasn't sure whether he liked it or not, this sensation of something familiar in a foreign environment. A bit startled by how she had managed to make this happen so easily.
His eyes returned to his plate and taking another bite, Drago watched Serik for a moment. The boy hadn’t even stopped to say one word, simply stuffing his slice down piece by piece, like a starved child.
Drago looked back at Matilda, a little lost in thought for a moment.
After a few seconds the grin returned though, along the spark of mischief in his eyes. "You can make Medovic for our wedding," he said, pressing his knee further against hers, deliberate this time. "Will have to be more than one though."
“We have time, is no need yet. You can choose china pattern next year.” Was he??? Wait… Was he TEASING her?! Who was this person sitting next to her… And his knee was touching hers.
Was it hot in here? “Oh don’t worry, the china will be bright pink… with sparkles.” She said, looking him in the eye defiantly.
Watching Serik rush with excitement to serve the cake, first to her, then Drago and then himself, she smiled with his manners. That was one thing she could say about the Zdravkova’s, they were polite.
“Thank you,” she said to Serik, giving him a deserving smile. Watching Serik dig in with delight, not looking up from his cake as he devoured it filled her with a sense of pride.
Matilda immediately tried not to look too interested as Drago took a bite. And failed spectacularly.
“Is really good,” he said, looking almost surprised. She smiled wider.
“Well.” She tried for casual and landed somewhere suspiciously pleased. “Good. I was worried I somehow accidentally committed culinary fraud against an entire country.”
There was nothing better than making something and watching others enjoy it. Matilda then took a bite of the cake, honestly not knowing what to expect. She knew the ingredients and the process in which it was baked, but the items mixed together were different than anything she had ever made before. When the fork touched her tongue, then was pulled out, leaving the sweet, decadent honey dessert in her mouth, she almost moaned.
It was far better than she had expected. With her second bite a small, happy sound escaped, surprised by just how much she liked the sweet dessert.
Drago’s voice broke her out of her sugar induced coma, only to be shocked by his words. He was becoming far more forward as the weeks went on. "You can make Medovic for our wedding. Will have to be more than one though."
Their knees were fully touching now, causing her heart rate to increase. It was a simple touch, layers of clothing separating them, but still it stirred something inside. A pink color rose up her neck and face, a mix of embarrassment and, well… we wouldn’t be putting a name on that other emotion.
“Is that so?” she asked with a chuckle, playing along despite herself. Taking another bite, she frowned slightly at just how annoyingly delicious the cake turned out.
“You’re becoming awfully comfortable planning imaginary events,” she added, lifting a brow. “And who’s to say you get cake privileges at all? I made this for your brother, not you.”
Still smiling, she crossed her legs beneath the table, bringing one around without thinking until her foot hooked lightly against his knee. The contact registered a beat too late.
…Well. That seemed unfortunate.
Trying to recover, she sat back in her seat and crossed her arms looking at Serik. “I’m glad you both like it.” Then, because the vulnerability was horrifying. “But if anyone asks, this was entirely accidental and I deny everything.”
Still smiling, still with her foot, exactly where it had landed against his knee.
If you tell a redhead
NOTto do something
She’ll do itTWICE and take pictures....
“Is that so? You’re becoming awfully comfortable planning imaginary events. And who’s to say you get cake privileges at all? I made this for your brother, not you.”
Dargo smirked around his fork, a little surprised at how content the taste of Medovic could make him feel. Despite the subtle ache that came along it, the warmth spreading through his chest outweighed that by far. Not looking away from Tilly, he took another bite.
“Is because is not imaginary,” he countered lightly, winking. It wasn't meant as a threat, or even the expectation of fulfillment of duty. Somehow he felt just a bit looser, reaching even beyond his recently thawed exterior — in Matilda’s company anyway — and maybe he was simply flirting.
“Pink with sparkles,” he mused as though considering this as an actual option, shrugging. “We will talk about that again. And cake privileges. I like your cake. I want one too for my birthday.”
He said it casually but it rang truer than he would have thought. Strangely enough.
Underneath the table, her foot nudged against his knee, stilling him for a beat. She didn’t pull it away, leaning back in her chair instead and crossing her arms. Yet again, he didn’t dare move, like always when a touch came from her instead of him. Accidental or not.
She did this rarely and every time it felt like he’d made a new achievement. Like a cat’s hard-earned trust after weeks of hopeful care, finally rewarded with a brush against his legs, a bump of a head against his hand.
“I’m glad you both like it. But if anyone asks, this was entirely accidental and I deny everything.”
Another grin spread over his lips. “Will will not tell anyone,” he said, mockingly serious.
But the humour made way for a smile a second later and he added, “Thank you.” Genuinely grateful. Not only for having made his brother a gift like this, but for something way deeper, too tender to properly touch.
A moment of open peace and a nudge of his knee was all he had to offer.
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