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“Did you sign up for the bake sale?” Pansy asked Hermione over the phone, the afternoon before their children’s primary school bake sale. Hermione’s daughter, Georgia, was a level below Pansy’s son, Leo at the same school.
“Yeah, I’m bringing ginger biscuits,” Hermione replied. “A bakery near our flat has some really good ones. Georgia and I are about to go pick some up.”
“You placed an order?”
“No,” said Hermione, helping Georgia put on her coat. Hermione had the phone on speaker.
Pansy chuckled. “Good luck with that.”
“What do you mean?” Hermione paused.
“You mean Oliver’s, right?”
“Yes…”
“You probably should have ordered them weeks ago,” Pansy said. “They are incredibly busy in December.”
“Surely, they’ll have something.”
They did not, in fact, have any biscuits available to buy in bulk. They only sold in quantities above two dozen for pre-orders, and Hermione needed thirty cookies by the next morning.
“What are we going to do?” Georgia asked.
“It’ll be fine, darling, I’m going to call Aunt Pansy again,” Hermione said, taking her daughter’s hand as they left the shop.
“Pans.” Hermione didn’t wait for Pansy to say anything, she just began when the phone picked up. “You were right. They can’t sell me more than twenty-four without an order in advance. What am I going to do? I need thirty Biscuits-for-Santa by tomorrow.”
“Rewind,” Pansy said. “Did you say Biscuits-for-Santa?”
“What have I gotten wrong now?” Hermione groaned.
“Biscuits-for-Santa was a specific category on the sign-up,” Pansy explained. “It’s the biggest one. You don’t need thirty biscuits, you need three hundred.”
Hermione gaped, nearly dropping her cell phone down the front steps to her townhouse. She and Georgia arrived home, so they entered and shed their coats.
After setting Georgia up with a puzzle in the sitting room, Hermione sent off to MacMillan’s bakery on Diagon Alley, hoping they would be able to send her the biscuits she needed.
Sorry, MacMillan’s is no longer accepting bulk orders for the Holiday Season. If you would like to place an order for January, please owl back with the attached form.
Hermione threw out the response and began pacing her kitchen. It was already 6:00 PM. There were absolutely no other options—she’d have to make the biscuits.
She got down the recipe book she’d gotten from Mrs. Weasley as a wedding present. She hadn’t really used it much, save for the few family dinners she had hosted before there were so many nieces and nephews. She and her husband both worked during the day and didn’t feel like cooking by the time dinner rolled around. She knew a handful of recipes by heart, but most of her diet consisted of dinner-kits and takeaway.
She managed to get one batch of cookies into the oven before the reality hit her. Hermione was generally a very organized person. She was angry at herself for not paying enough mind to the sign-up when she chose the biggest category. She was angry at herself for not placing an order at Oliver’s or MacMillan’s or somewhere far enough in advance. Mostly, though, she was angry at herself for signing up for a biscuit whose recipe only yielded twelve cookies per batch.
“What’s happening here?” came a voice from the doorway. Hermione looked up at her husband, Fred, with what she knew were crazy eyes. At this point, an hour into the fiasco, there were ingredients strewn about the kitchen. Hermione was sure she looked a mess, as well. Fred laughed as he took in the scene.
“It’s not funny,” she insisted. Maybe in a couple days she would find the humor in the situation, but right now she felt like she was bound to go mad any second.
“I’m sorry!” Fred put his hands up in surrender and made his tone sickeningly sweet. “What have you gotten up to today, love?”
He didn’t bother concealing his grin as she explained to him the crisis at hand.
“I’ve only got twenty-four cookies right now and I am getting more nervous by the minute!” Hermione exclaimed.
“Have you tried my mum?” Fred asked earnestly. “Or Peter?”
Hermione sighed. She hadn’t asked anyone for help. When Pansy had dropped the bomb on her, she’d gotten off the phone almost immediately. She was just so embarrassed to need the help at all, if she was honest.
“I don’t want to disturb them,” Hermione said quietly, earning an eye roll from Fred.
“You and your pride,” he said, rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands in the sink. “Let’s have at that recipe.”
Hermione and Fred finished six more batches over the next two and a half hours—including a break to tuck Georgia in for the night—thanks to the teamwork in preparing the cookie dough.
“We’re almost a third of the way through,” Hermione said, starting to sweat from the heat. Without having to be asked, Fred opened the kitchen window.
“It’s half nine, Hermione,” he said. “Is it going to take five more hours to finish?”
Hermione frowned, but didn’t have time to answer. Their heads both turned toward the sitting room when they heard voices. Drawing their wands, Hermione and Fred slowly walked around the corner to their sitting room.
“It’s only me, dears!” said Molly Weasley as they rounded on her. “Don’t be cross—Pansy owl’d me. I had to wait until Arthur was home from work, you see, because I had Bill’s children spending the night at the Burrow tonight.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—“
“Come off it!” Mrs. Weasley waved her off, walking past Hermione and Fred and into the kitchen. She held up her small bag and said, “I’ve brought my oven to make the process go by a little faster.”
Hermione didn’t know what she would have done without her mother-in-law’s help. She’d known that Molly Weasley was quite the resourceful witch, but this night brought it to light in another big way. Hermione really kicked herself, though, for not thinking to borrow someone’s oven.