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ON MARCH FIRST, ELIZA CAWTHORNE AWOKE WITH A LITTLE MORE ENERGY THAN MOST DAYS. Why? Because for the past two years, on Ronald Weasley's birthday, she had to pretend she didn't loathe watching him blow out his candles without her by his side.
When they were younger, years before starting Hogwarts, it was sure-fire that the two would make it a priority on the other's birthday to blow out the candles on the cake. For instance, Ronald never failed to blow out Eliza's birthday candles just before she had the chance to, which she responded so kindly by shoving his face into the cake one of their mother's had spent all day in the kitchen for.
So today, Eliza had seven hundred and thirty-something days to make up for. And she'd been planning it ever since their night in the Astronomy Tower three weeks ago.
"Banana Fritters." She smiled sweetly to the Fat Lady. Ignoring the skeptical look from the woman in the portrait (who knew she wasn't a Gryffindor, but had once heard the Weasley boy talk about the freckles under her lip for an hour straight) she walked through to the common room.
A few students were up, and a few sent interesting looks her way when they realized she wasn't a Gryffindor. Gryffindors and Slytherins are always the house-prejudiced type, she (ironically) thought to herself. Walking throughout the boys dorm until a particular door caught her attention. It was the door that had a piece of parchment stuck to the front, in collectively sloppy penmanship:
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She would have respected it, had not Seamus, Neville, and Harry all been part of the group starting at her in the common room. Pushing the door open and clapping loudly, a Molly-Weasley-esque manner to her mayhem.
"Up!" She clapped, "up, up, up!"
Ron groaned, rolling over in his bed and bringing the blankets above his messy red mane. Eliza, a brighter smile decorating her face as of late, yanked open the curtains, letting in the fresh sunshine (which she never had the privilege to see from her room on the West side of the castle) and in one fell swoop yanking open the bedsheets once more.
She expected him to make a fuss, what with her hollering and clapping around his bedroom, but Ron Weasley only sat there, propped on his elbows. He looked like he could have murdered her, right then and there. She knew him better than that — all bark, no bite.
