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Entry tags:
FIC: Partners (Harry/Ron - 16,296 - R)
Title: Partners
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kinkthatwinked
Pairing: Harry/Ron
Word Count: 16,296
Rating: PG for Chapters 1-4, PG-13 for Chapters 5-7, R for Chapter 8
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Betas:betasocks and lockel
Summary: Set during the Goblet of Fire novel. Harry’s been informed he has to have a dance partner for the Yule Ball. He’s refused other girls and put off asking Cho until the last minute, only to find she’s already taken. Ron, in a veela haze, asked Fleur to much public embarrassment. Now they’ve just been told that even Hermione and Ginny already have dates, leaving them with few options and very little time.
“But Harry had just seen Parvati and Lavender come in through the portrait hole. The time had come for drastic action.” J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Chapter 22.
But what if the girls hadn’t come in just then? What course of action would Harry, in his desperate frame of mind, have latched onto instead?
Chapter One
“It’s like every girl in Hogwarts has gone off their rocker!” Ron exclaimed, but Harry wasn’t really listening. Christmas Day was less than a week away, and between Cedric already snagging Cho, Fleur able to practically hypnotize any boy who came near her, and Krum’s gang of giggling fans tailing him throughout the castle waiting for him to choose from amongst them, Harry was going to be the only Triwizard Tournament champion who couldn’t even convince someone to attend the Yule Ball with him. Even Hermione and Ginny, two last hopes Harry didn’t even know he had until Ron suggested them, had already been claimed, apparently by boys much sharper and quicker than him.
What was he going to look like when the other champions and their dates strolled out onto the dance floor in neat little pairs, and there he was trying to convince Dean or Seamus to let him borrow one of their dates for a minute … or worse, had no choice but to ask one of the teachers to dance with him? A horrible image flashed through his mind of himself leading Professor Trelawney out onto the floor, her magnified eyes looking down on him with pity, assuring him she had known for weeks that he wouldn’t be able to find a date?
Harry stared at the portrait hole, his back ramrod straight with tension and at odds with Ron’s depressed slump into the couch, willing the Fat Lady to conjure some pretty girl who was miraculously both still available and eager to say yes. The portrait remained closed.
“I didn’t really want to go, anyhow,” Ron declared loudly, but he still sounded too sulky to be convincing. “I wasn’t keen to let anyone see me in that rubbish nightdress Mum bought me, anyway!”
Harry joined Ron on the couch, appearing to slump even deeper than him because Ron was nearly six inches taller. “I thought you wanted to see the Weird Sisters,” he said. Harry, having never heard their songs, couldn’t have cared less, but he’d noticed the way Ron’s eyes lit up when he’d heard about Dumbledore booking the music group for the ball.
“Well, yeah,” Ron admitted, then, muttering, “when would I ever be able to afford concert tickets?” Ron, still mortified by his dazed attempt to ask Fleur to the ball, could hardly be blamed for letting some of his old bitterness slip out just now, Harry thought. His best mate had always been touchy about being poor, especially since Ron’s mother had purchased him a set of old-fashioned, secondhand formal robes for the ball, a frilly, lacy, mouldy thing so effeminate that Ron had initially mistaken it for a dress.
Sensing a slight change in subject was in order, Harry said, “At least you know how to dance.” Ron had complained back at the Burrow about how Mrs. Weasley had made a point of teaching him and the twins how to waltz over the summer before Harry’s arrival. At the time Ron thought it was some mad obsession of hers, but in hindsight he realized she’d been informed by Mr. Weasley about the upcoming Yule Ball, and decided she wanted her boys to have a good showing. Harry had laughed at the time, particularly when a shuddering Fred and George insisted that being forced to slow dance with their own mother had scarred them for life. However, since McGonagall’s revelation that Harry, as a champion, had to dance to open the ball, he wished he’d been there for Mrs. Weasley’s lessons himself. Harry had never danced before in his life, and now he was expected to twirl some girl around a dance floor with the entire school watching. So even if he had found a date, he would still likely look a complete fool come Christmas Night, he thought miserably.
“Fat lot of good that’ll do me, without a dance partner,” Ron answered, interrupting Harry’s train of thought. Ron leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his head hung, bringing his bright red hair into Harry’s peripheral vision … and it was like that shock of orange against the dark Gryffindor common room furniture made Harry’s thoughts jump tracks.
Wait, another small, quiet part of his mind said to him, a voice that reminded Harry of the day he managed to throw off Professor Moody’s Imperius Curse. A dance partner. Not a date, just someone to get you through the opening dance, that’s all you need. But what girl was going to agree to that, dancing for one song, receiving a quick thanks, and then being left on her own for the rest of the night? Even if Harry could find one, every girl in Hogwarts seemed to be taking this event way too seriously to simply be his “dance partner.” She would expect to be his date, showered with attention and affection, and likely more dancing, for the entire evening.
Ron wouldn’t expect all that, the voice said.
Harry froze. Maybe someone had cast an Imperius Curse on him after all, because what in the world could have made his brain go there?!
His thoughts continued. Attend as friends, you won’t be the only ones, look at Neville and Ginny. Just go, let Ron lead you around the dance floor for a few minutes, and then you spend the rest of the night with your best mate, tossing back butterbeers and laughing about the whole thing.
But, Harry silently argued with himself, but we’ll be in front of the whole school! All our friends – Fred and George will never let us hear the end of it. And oh god, Malfoy and Snape! We’ll probably make the front page of the Prophet once Rita Skeeter gets wind of it!
And that’s opposed to what, how low profile you are now? His brain shot back. You’re The Boy Who Lived, and a Triwizard champion to boot. You’ll make the papers no matter who you take, and you’ll be teased no matter who you take. It might as well be someone you’d enjoy spending four solid hours with.
But, Harry insisted, somewhat desperately considering this was just an argument in his own head, but he’s not a girl!
Did McGonagall say your dance partner had to be a girl?
You know what I meant! Harry fired back. It was a strange feeling, to be angry at his own thoughts.
Yes, you’re straight. So is Ron. You both know this about each other. So since there’s no chance of any misunderstanding, what’s the big deal?
Harry felt his mouth open to answer, but whether silently or aloud, he couldn’t think of a thing to say.
What’s the alternative? The voice pressed. You show up with no dance partner, and Ron doesn’t go at all? How is that better?
Well … Harry’s eyes went again to the back of Ron’s head, still hanging between his shoulders, and Harry took a second to think about Ron’s predicament: no date, humiliating dress robes, those embarrassing dance lessons over the summer amounting to nothing, and perhaps his only chance to see the Weird Sisters perform passing him by. Ron sighed, and Harry could see that, as loudly as Ron had proclaimed he’d rather go alone than with an unattractive girl, the truth was that without a date Ron would likely spend Christmas Night moping by himself in Gryffindor Tower.
No, not a “date.” Just someone to go with him …
“… A partner.”
“Mm?” Ron sounded, and Harry realized he’d said that last thought out loud.
“Uh …” Harry managed. When he’d reached the conclusion in his head, his body had been perfectly calm. Now that the prospect of voicing that conclusion presented itself, however, Harry’s body seemed to have gone haywire: his heartrate and breathing sped up, his palms began to sweat, and, just as with Cho, he seemed to have trouble getting his mouth around the words. “I … I … w-was just … th-thinking … um … I jus- I mean … maybe w-” Harry finally let out an exasperated sound and stared at his knees.
By now Ron had sat up, peering at Harry curiously. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
Harry barked out a laugh at that. What, indeed? Yet, the idea still made a kind of sense. Getting Ron to understand that, however, would be a whole other matter.
“I w-was just thinking,” Harry began again, trying to look Ron in the face as if it were just another typical conversation between them, “that since we don’t have dates, m-maybe we … don’t need dates?” Harry’s eyes found his knees again. “Maybe we could just, um, g-go with friends?” Suddenly the fireplace, which required Harry turn his head completely away from Ron to look at it, became extremely interesting. “I mean, we could … for example, um … go with … each other?”
Ron’s silence, which could only have lasted a few seconds, seemed a lot longer to Harry. When Ron finally let out a chuckle, Harry couldn’t help flinching a little.
“I’ll give it to you, mate, at least you got me to laugh a bit,” Ron said.
Harry could feel irritation crawling over his skin. All the nerve he had to pluck up just to ask, and he got laughed at for his trouble? That was worse than all the giggling girls combined.
“I mean it,” Harry said, the irritation overriding his apprehension. “Come to the ball with me. And – and I’ll need you to have that first dance with me, too.”
The expressions Ron’s face morphed into as he went from waiting for the punchline, to realizing there wouldn’t be one, to wondering why Harry had said that, to finally realizing it was because Harry was serious, should have been comical. As it was, it just made Harry a bit impatient for Ron to catch on. And then Ron, slowly standing up, looking at Harry as if he’d just started speaking Parseltongue again, said, “What the bloody hell are you on about?!” And Harry knew that, regardless of how Ron ultimately answered, they were in for a nice, long discussion that night.
At that moment the portrait hole opened, and the gleeful giggling of Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown rang through the common room.
“The way he walked up to me and actually bowed!” Parvati gushed.
“And he kept calling you enchanting, and stunning, and breathtaking!” Lavender sighed.
“And his accent!” They squealed together, collapsing in giggles again.
“I can’t believe you pulled a Beauxbatons boy for the ball!” Lavender said.
“I know!” Parvati agreed. “And you’ve got Seamus, both of our dates are gorgeous! This is going to be so much fun!”
The girls stopped short at the sight of Ron and Harry, the former standing and looking dumbfounded, the latter sitting and looking nervous. “Hello, Harry,” Lavender said, looking between the two of them and practically scenting something gossip-worthy in the air. “Everything alright? Got a date for the ball yet?”
Making sure he didn’t so much as glance in Ron’s direction, Harry said no, praying the girls would leave it at that. Of course, they didn’t.
“You can’t find a date?” Parvati said incredulously, while Lavender barely held back a smirk. “You were turning them down left and right for a week, what happened?” In Harry’s silence, she guessed, “the one you were holding out for didn’t hold out for you, then?” Harry’s pink face sent the girls over the edge and they started giggling again, which naturally brought more blood to Harry’s face.
“How about you, Weasley?” Parvati continued. “Since it didn’t work out with Fleur,” and here their tittering, already unkind, took on a hint of nastiness. Apparently they’d witnessed or heard about Ron’s embarrassing attempt to proposition the French champion. “You’ll likely just ask Granger, right?”
“I – she – she said she already has a date,” Ron stammered.
“Granger found someone who’ll have her, but you can’t?!” Lavender all but shrieked as Parvati covered her mouth with her hand, which did nothing to hide her laughter. His eyes avoiding all of their faces, Harry was able to see Ron’s hands clench into fists.
And so it starts, Harry thought, the taunting about Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived and Triwizard champion, going to the Yule Ball alone. He had hoped he at least wouldn’t have to deal with it until Christmas Night (and for weeks afterwards). He looked miserably up at Ron, whose face wore the same burning humiliation. The girls, finally getting their laughter under some control, offered less than sincere apologies and reassurances the boys would find dates eventually, sang, “Well, goodnight!” and went up their staircase, their renewed giggles echoing down well after their departure.
Harry looked up to remind Ron that they still had a few days left until the ball, there were over a hundred girls at Hogwarts, surely they couldn’t all have been asked already. They could even ask first and second year girls if they had to. Ron was glaring at the staircase Parvati and Lavender had just climbed, face still red, fists still clenched.
“Sod it!” Ron suddenly erupted, making Harry flinch again. God, he hadn’t been this jumpy in his own skin when he faced Voldemort, both times. What was it about the prospect of asking his best friend on a non-date that had him so on edge? “Let’s do it!”
“W-what?”
“We’re going to the bloody ball!” Ron clarified, still appearing angry enough to put his fist through a wall.
“Y-yeah, alright then,” Harry said.
Ron stood there a few seconds more, still seething, then turned and marched up the boys’ staircase, evidently deciding their talk was over and it was time for bed.
Harry sat for a minute after Ron had gone, reviewing the day’s events in his head. Just that morning he and Ron had made a pact to have dates before the day’s end. In that time they’d managed to get shot down by four girls, both privately and publicly, informed that Neville Longbottom had found a date before they did, ridiculed by two of the most attractive girls in their year, and finally agreed to attend with each other. It had been, to put it mildly, a rather unpredictable twelve hours.
Well, Harry thought as he heaved himself off the couch and headed upstairs, at least I have a date – partner – for the ball.
• So, the first chapter of my story goes on the assumption that the same Beauxbatons boy who ends up spending most of the Yule Ball with Parvati anyway asked her out in the Great Hall during dinner, instead of waiting until the Ball to approach her like he does in the book. Him asking Parvati out is why she and Lavender were delayed in returning to the common room.
• And yes, I like the idea that if Molly Weasley knew about the Triwizard Tournament, and subsequently the Yule Ball, she might insist her boys learn to waltz, without telling them the real reason she suddenly wants them to learn. Just like she insisted they take dress robes that year, but instead of telling them the full reasons why, she simply said it was on their supply list.
Chapter Two
Well, that didn’t take long, Harry thought dully. News that he hadn’t found a date for the Yule Ball had spread like wildfire. Virtually overnight, students from the other three houses had added sniggering to their usual repertoire of staring, pointing, and whispering in his vicinity, while fellow Gryffindors shot him sympathetic looks. Even the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students seemed to have heard. Their faces held a kind of cruel triumph every time they crossed paths with Harry during meals in the Great Hall; while their champions, Fleur and Krum, were either tied with or behind Harry in Triwizard Tournament points, they certainly hadn’t encountered any obstacles in finding dates. A few Hogwarts girls, either too young to attend on their own or unable to secure dates, had approached Harry since the news broke, but they did so with a kind of smug surety, assuming he’d be so desperate at this point they needn’t fear rejection.
“No, that’s alright,” he politely responded to the girls who offered their company as if they were doing him a huge favour, secretly enjoying watching the magnanimous expressions drop from their faces. He and Ron had wisely taken a leaf from Hermione’s book and not told anyone exactly who they were taking to the ball. As no one really cared who went with Ron, he wasn’t peppered with questions like Harry, except by those trying to get him to reveal Harry’s plans.
“If he wanted you to know, he’d tell you, wouldn’t he? Bugger off!” Ron would snap at them. It only took a couple of days for people to tire of having their heads bitten off until they stopped asking.
As for Ron’s take on the whole idea, Harry didn’t exactly know. The morning after Harry’s invitation, Ron asked Harry to join him for a walk. Once outside on the freezing, deserted grounds, Ron blurted out “Are we really doing this, then?” Harry explained the previous night’s reasoning through chattering teeth, and Ron, his nose red and running, grunted when Harry was done. Harry could only assume Ron agreed with his logic because he suggested they head back inside as if the conversation were finished, or maybe Ron decided arguing his point of view wasn’t worth developing frostbite. Once in front of the common room fire, however, Ron said “I would’ve found my own date eventually, you know.”
“I know,” Harry lied. Just asking Ron for something like this would test their friendship, could possibly damage it, yet Ron was willing to take that risk because Harry needed him. The least Harry could do was spare his mate’s feelings.
In the days leading up to Christmas, Harry occasionally caught Ron staring at him over a chessboard or a game of Exploding Snap, examining him as if Ron were trying to read his mind. But apparently Ron had decided the idea wasn’t completely mental, since he hadn’t changed his answer. In fact from the look of it, Ron wasn’t even interested in finding a date anymore, striding right past girls instead of sizing them up as he had just a few days prior.
Harry certainly identified with that. The pressure to find a date had been lifted, leaving him feeling a stone lighter. Hallways full of girls no longer felt claustrophobic, and Christmas became a holiday again instead of a deadline. He could spend his break relaxing, reading his Chudley Cannons book, or watching the twins test their products. Even enduring Hermione’s nagging about the golden egg felt soothing, compared to how he’d felt in the days before he’d approached Cho.
* * *
Forget Muggle alarm clocks, Harry thought as he clutched his chest, his heart pounding under his palm, nothing wakes a person up quite like having a house elf’s huge eyes inches away from their face. Dobby, still apologizing, held a haphazardly wrapped package in his hand, which Harry correctly assumed was his Christmas present.
By the time Harry had pulled on Dobby’s offering (mismatched socks the elf had knit himself), and he was sure his dormitory mates were thoroughly distracted by their own gifts, he leaned in and said in a low voice, “Thanks for this, and … you know, the other thing.”
Dobby shot a quick glance at Ron from the corner of his eyes, nodded, then put a finger to his smiling lips in a “quiet” gesture Harry was glad Ron and the others hadn’t seen. He knew he ran the risk that Dobby might answer him in some ridiculously loud stage whisper or something, but Harry found he couldn’t help himself – there were only two other souls who knew what he had planned, and one was in front of him. “It should be here this morning,” he said into Dobby’s large, floppy ear.
Dobby looked toward the window, then with a cry ran toward it and threw it wide open. Harry could have yelled at him for the indiscretion, until his brain caught up and he realized what must have prompted such a reaction. Seconds after Dobby opened the panes, as Ron and the others protested the blast of icy air, a barn owl swooped in carrying a long and wide, yet rather thin, box. The owl dropped the package atop Harry’s mess of wrapping paper, and took off again. With a wink to Harry, Dobby made his goodbyes and scurried off to the kitchens.
“Who’s got an owl delivering on Christmas morning?” asked Neville.
“And it didn’t even want a tip! That’s unusual,” observed Seamus.
“Large package, but it must be pretty light if only one owl carried it,” marked Dean. “Who’s sending you last minute stuff, Harry?”
But Harry quickly tucked the box under his bed. “I’ll open it later,” he said. “Let’s head down to breakfast, I’m starving, can’t wait to see what kind of food they have to impress Beauxbatons and Durmstrang for Christmas.”
“What?” Ron exclaimed. “Open it, go on!”
“Later,” Harry insisted, already out of bed and pulling on clothes. It only took a minute or so of talking about how the house elves were probably outdoing themselves yet again until Ron’s stomach growled and the subject of the box was dropped. Ron didn’t even mention it at breakfast, perhaps sensing that Harry didn’t want to discuss it in public, or he was simply too busy stuffing his face with food.
As soon as they returned to the common room, however, Ron was upstairs like a shot. Harry followed to find the box back on his bed, Ron waiting impatiently.
“C’mon,” Ron said, “Let’s see what you got, and who sent it!” Ron obviously hadn’t forgotten the last time Harry received a mysterious Christmas gift it turned out to be the Invisibility Cloak. Harry reckoned that only deeply ingrained manners had kept Ron from tearing the box open himself. Harry hoped his friend’s apparent good mood, helped along by a trunk full of presents and a tummy full of food, would last after the box was opened.
“Go ahead, then,” Harry said, working to keep his voice even. “It’s for you.” Ron’s confused face went from Harry to the box, then back to Harry again. Then Ron sat down on the bed, unknotted the string holding the box shut, and opened the lid.
The dress robes and trousers were a striking shade of royal blue, draped across a crisp white shirt accented with a waistcoat and bow tie, both a soft black. The material looked and felt like a combination of silk and satin. There was even a pair of smart shoes inside, black and polished to a high finish.
“What the –”
“I hired them.” Somehow it seemed the most pertinent thing for Harry to say. “They go back to Madam Malkin’s tomorrow.” To anyone who didn’t know Ron that would sound harsh, especially on Christmas, but Harry had banked on that bit of information quelling Ron’s anger.
He bet wrong. The speed at which Ron’s face went from pale to pink to red would have made anyone else lightheaded. “What’s the matter,” he growled, finally making eye contact again with a look that made Harry want to shrink into the wall, “worried I’ll make you look bad in the other ones?”
“What? Ron –”
“This must have cost a bloody fortune, I don’t care if it’s hired or not! How much did you spend on it?” Ron demanded, then again when Harry stayed silent, “How much?!”
“It’s not import-”
“More than I’ll ever see, I reckon,” Ron let out a bitter laugh. “More than I’ll ever make in a lifetime! Maybe one day my grandchildren will be able to pay you back –”
“I don’t care about the money spent, you prat!” Harry had had about enough of this, of feeling like he was walking on eggshells every time he wanted to buy Ron something, even for Christmas, because he might spend more than Ron’s pride could handle.
“I care!” Ron exploded, “I don’t want to walk out there in something that everyone can tell with one look that I didn’t pay for, that no one in my family could have afforded! I – we – bloody hell, Harry, we’re not your bleeding charity case!” Ron’s fists were clenched again, and he looked for all world like he wanted to punch Harry, but his eyes were swimming.
“When have I EVER treated your family that way?!” Harry bellowed. “I’ve never done that to any of you, yet every time I pull a single Galleon from my pocket you act as if I’m boasting or something! What the hell do you want me to do, apologize for my parents leaving me money?!”
By this point, Harry had his hands in fists as well, hoping Ron would throw a punch. That’s how Ron believed Harry saw him, how Ron thought Harry regarded the family he’d grown to love more than his own? For the second time that year, Harry wanted to chuck something at Ron’s head. Where were those stupid POTTER STINKS badges when you needed them?!
“You know what, wear whatever you want, I’m with your mum – you can go starkers for all I care! This was supposed to be a way to thank you for going with me, because without you I would be the one looking like a bloody idiot tonight, getting laughed right out of the ball, and the robes on my back wouldn’t make a bit of difference!”
Ron’s eyes narrowed. “You’d still show up with me even if I wore the robes Mum gave me?”
Harry nearly shouted yes, when a months-old image flashed through his head, and he suddenly fought a small urge to smile. “Borrow old Archie’s nightdress from the Quidditch World Cup if you like, just get me through that opening dance, alright?!”
It took Ron a moment to work past his current emotional state and pull up the memory; when he did, he gave Harry an almost bemused look, as if he couldn’t believe Harry was bringing up something that ludicrous at a time like this. Just like that, the angry tension in the air was broken, if not completely dissipated. Ron looked down at the box again, then over to his closed wardrobe where they both knew the antique dress robes hung. Then he huffed out a small laugh. “Well,” he began, “as pleasant as a ‘nice breeze around my privates’ sounds, I think I’ll stick with the choices I’ve got.”
“Great,” Harry said, relieved. Ron’s face was still a rather deep pink, and Harry’s own breathing was still returning to normal, but at least they weren’t shouting anymore. And Ron hadn’t broken their da- agreement, so that was something.
The rest of their day went well; apparently leaving the final decision on his attire solely up to Ron was the right move. Only at seven o’clock, with the sky darkening and the Yule Ball an hour away, did things begin to get tense again. Sweaty and dishevelled from their afternoon snowball fight, Harry and the Weasleys headed for the showers. Harry couldn’t help feeling nervous, as he would soon have the eyes of the entire student body upon him, and not because he’d caught a Snitch or even captured a golden egg from a Hungarian Horntail, but because he’d be dancing. Truth be told, he’d rather face the Horntail again.
The usual shower room banter didn’t happen that night, as they were eager to just get clean and get ready. Well, the twins were, at any rate. Fred had Angelina waiting for him, and George had scored a date with the very same fifth year girl who’d earlier asked Harry, the one he’d declined because she was a foot taller than him. Quite ironic now, considering who he’d be dancing with instead.
Once the twins had left, Harry looked over at Ron, who moved as if it were the last shower he’d ever take in his life and he aimed to make it last as long as possible. Harry, soaping his own stomach for the third time, had some idea how he felt. As much as he told himself what they were about to do was no big deal, they were just going as friends, straight friends, it wasn’t a date or anything, the fact remained that he was about to invite a room full of people to observe as he was swept across a dance floor in the arms of another boy. That had to be a statement of some kind, Harry just wasn’t quite sure what the statement was, or if he entirely wanted to make it. Apparently Ron felt the same trepidation.
It suddenly occurred to Harry that he had no idea how gay people got on in the wizarding community. Were they embraced, barely tolerated, ridiculed, shunned? Would the same people who knew of phoenixes and unicorns, who accepted the existence of stones that grant immortality and hourglasses that turn back time, still close their minds to two men kissing … or two boys dancing?
“What?”
Harry couldn’t remember how long he’d had his head turned in Ron’s direction, but his musing must have gone on a little too long. “Sorry,” he said, fixing his gaze on the tiles in front of him. Rule number one of communal shower etiquette, keep your eyes to yourself.
“No, what?” Ron repeated, and Harry realized his friend was grasping for a distraction, an escape from his own train of thought.
“I was just …” Harry began, and decided to share an earlier thought, “I was just thinking that you’re tall enough for me to tuck my head under your chin.” Harry attempted a smile. “How do you think people would react if we did that on the dance floor?”
Ron’s eyebrows crawled up to his hairline before he smiled, too. “I’d think you actually wanted to make the front page of the Prophet!” and, pointing at Harry’s chest, “You just make sure Skeeter spells my name right, got it?”
“I’ll make it a condition for the exclusive interview.”
“Cheers, mate.”
With a bit of the tension broken, and his hair squeaking as he ran a hand over it, Harry finally had to admit he was as clean as he could possibly get. He left the shower to towel off, Ron following shortly after.
“You know,” Ron said, his back to Harry, his tone suggesting he was testing the waters, “under normal circumstances, this would probably be a bloke’s ideal date.”
“How do you reckon?”
“Well, I haven’t taken you to dinner yet, or taken you dancing yet, or even dressed up.” At this point Ron smiled over his shoulder at Harry, “but I’ve already seen you naked.”
Harry heard himself snort out a laugh. “You’ve seen it all in the showers for years now, actually!”
“Yeah,” Ron considered. “You’re a bloody excellent date, mate!”
“Well, don’t get too excited,” Harry warned, waggling a finger at Ron as they headed back to their dormitory, “letting you have a peek is as far as I’m prepared to go!”
Ron mock whined and called him a tease.
• It was never mentioned in the books, but communal showers at Hogwarts makes sense, doesn’t it? It would also explain why the prefects having their own private bathroom, complete with a tub, is such a big deal.
Chapter Three
Seeing Ron in his underwear lately made Harry think about, of all things, genetics. Aside from their red hair and freckles, Arthur and Molly Weasley were physical opposites. Where Arthur was tall and skinny with narrow shoulders, his wife was short, with a wider frame to carry her naturally heavier build. Uncle Vernon had called her dumpy, but really Molly was what would be considered curvy, and she probably caught many a man’s eye in her day. Arthur, Harry believed, was and always would be a beanpole, not weak or fragile, just extremely lean.
As a result of their union, their children were an interesting mix: various eye colors, unpredictable freckle patterns, and, between Arthur’s fiery orange and Molly’s deep auburn, every shade of red hair under the sun. As far as physiques went, however, their kids had clearly chosen sides. Bill and Percy, tall and thin, took after their father, while Charlie and the twins, with their average heights and thickset builds, paid homage to their mother. With Ginny it was too soon to tell, but in her Harry envisioned a tall, willowy female version of her father.
Ron, though, was another matter altogether. Several inches taller than Harry since the day they met, Ron had continued to shoot up over the years, with no signs of stopping anytime soon. Since he’d also been thin all his life, smart money would have pegged him as an ectomorph like Arthur. Puberty, however, begged to differ. Ron’s shoulders had broadened considerably recently, and whatever time he’d spent at the Burrow riding his Cleansweep Seven and swinging gnomes had left him with solid legs and arms that, with some conditioning, could easily grow into muscle bulk, so Molly’s genes were making their presence known. Putting his envy aside (why couldn’t his growth spurts be that dramatic?), Harry felt glad for his friend. Ron would definitely be turning some girls’ heads soon, if he wasn’t already.
Ron, completely oblivious to Harry’s observation, stood facing his open wardrobe. On opposite sides hung the robes Mrs. Weasley had bought and the ones Harry had hired. He didn’t seem to be looking at either article, just staring at the wardrobe’s wall.
“Ron?”
“She’ll expect me to wear it,” Ron said quietly, turning to face Harry. His look was pure guilt. “She didn’t have much gold, we never do, but she spent all we could afford on it. She probably spent hours combing through charity shops trying to find the best ones, too. That’s what she does, see. That’s why she got so upset when I complained about it, it was like I was saying her best effort wasn’t good enough or something.”
And this, thought Harry, was just one of the reasons Ron deserved the expensive robes, because he would chuck them in the nearest bin with hardly a second thought if he believed wearing them would hurt his mother’s feelings. He didn’t tell Ron this, of course; blokes didn’t do things like that.
Ron turned back to the wardrobe, frowning at the ugly frock and determinedly not looking at the sleek robes on hire. Then he clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders, and started pulling the older dress robes on. The mouldy lace cuffs barely reached his wrists, making it painfully obvious that even this, along with just about everything else he’d ever owned, was the wrong size for him. Ron stood before Harry, his ears already turning pink. “I suppose I’m ready.”
With no idea what to say to his friend, Harry simply nodded and focused on getting himself dressed. Unable to remember his mother and hardly caring what Aunt Petunia thought of him, he’d never had the experience of a guilt trip from a mother figure before. The closest he’d ever come was the time Mrs. Weasley sent a Howler to Ron for the flying Ford Anglia he and Harry had both commandeered to travel to Hogwarts. But even that guilt-by-proxy was enough for Harry; he couldn’t begin to guess how to ease Ron’s.
Soon Harry was ready as well, his own brand new, shimmering green dress robes bringing out his eyes, just as Mrs. Weasley had predicted.
“You look good, mate,” Ron managed a small but genuine smile.
Harry wouldn’t insult Ron’s intelligence by returning the compliment, so instead he said, “Thank you again for this.”
Another quick little smile, and then Ron proffered his arm. Harry took it, both of them ignoring the lingering odour of whoever owned those dress robes before Ron, and they headed down the staircase to the common room.
Among the sea of excited, chattering students, their multicoloured robes such a jolt from the usual mass of black that it nearly hurt Harry’s eyes, the red hair of the Weasley twins still stood out. Harry and Ron, in a silent mutual decision to get it over with, made a beeline for them.
“Evening,” Harry said, doing his best to tune out the gasps and exclamations of the Gryffindors around him.
“Hi,” Ron said, the arm not linked with Harry’s extended as if to say, do your worst.
Harry waited for the ribbing to start, but nothing came. What he did get were identical looks of surprise, puzzlement, and then … annoyance?
“You git!” Fred said, his eyes roving distastefully over Ron. “You actually chose these robes?”
George fanned the air. “The ones that make you smell like an old woman, yes, obviously the clear winner.”
Ron opened his mouth, but Fred cut him off. “You really think we’d be upset Harry thinks you’re worth new robes? Envious, more like.”
“You don’t think we’d be a bit more embarrassed our prat of a brother would rather go out there looking like Great-Aunt Muriel?” George added.
“Reckon if they were here, Mum and Dad would have some choice words for you about showing proper gratitude when someone gives you a gift,” Fred declared, his twin nodding.
Harry’s head whipped around to Ron. “You told them?!” But even before he finished the question, he could tell by Ron’s face he hadn’t said a word.
“Oh, we heard your little spat about the robes this morning,” George supplied. “We were on our way up to drag Ron back downstairs. Christmas, family day, you know.”
“Didn’t say anything, thought maybe he’d come to his senses on his own,” Fred mourned, shaking his head. “Clearly we underestimated how thick he is.”
“Oi!” Ron had finally found his voice.
“We apologize, Harry,” said George, as each twin hooked a hand under Ron’s armpits and began bodily dragging him back towards the boys’ staircase. “But your date’s not quite ready yet. He’ll need a few minutes.”
“Gerroff!” Ron protested, but the Quidditch Beaters were as brawny as Ron was tall, and he was no match for their combined strength.
“Might have a little chat with him ourselves, sort him out a bit,” Fred added as the crowd, enjoying the show, easily parted for the Weasley trio.
“B-b-but –” Harry stuttered.
“We’ll have him pretty in no time!” they chorused, taking the steps two at a time, Ron still sputtering in indignation as he was unceremoniously dragged along.
Harry stood there, now unable to block out the hundreds of shocked and intrigued eyes upon him.
“… It’s not a date,” he finished weakly.
• I think I remained mostly faithful to Rowling’s description of the Weasleys’ physical features, though I may have filled in a few blanks. With Ron, however, I definitely took some liberties. I just picture him as well built, especially since he ultimately became a Quidditch Keeper. Harry, on the other hand, was malnourished for ten years of his early childhood, and that should show, too (which, coincidentally, is why he’s the perfect build for a Seeker).
• Since Fred and George burst into Harry and Ron’s room to make sure they all spent Christmas together in the first book, I figured it was a family tradition.
Chapter Four
Harry stared into the fire, trying not to panic as the Gryffindor common room steadily emptied. Eight o’clock was fast approaching, and though Harry wasn’t exactly looking forward to the clock chime before, he positively dreaded it now that Ron wasn’t beside him. Harry realized he had underestimated until this moment just how much easier this whole situation had been when he could just turn his head and see Ron dealing with similar stress.
The Weasleys had been upstairs for nearly fifteen minutes, a lifetime it seemed. Meanwhile Professor McGonagall might have wanted the champions to show up early. At this rate, Harry might arrive a few minutes late.
Suddenly one of the twins came bounding down the stairs. “Can’t keep Angelina waiting,” he said, thus identifying himself as Fred. “Go on to the entrance hall, Ron will meet you there.”
“What’s taking him so long?” Harry demanded.
“Like I said before, he needed a right talking to, but don’t worry, George is finishing up. See you there!” With that, Fred disappeared through the portrait hole.
Great, just walk out there and have all those people, half of whom had probably heard what happened in the common room, see him showing up alone. But somehow, sitting there until he was quite possibly late was worse; Harry never was one for staying put and doing nothing. So he walked toward the portrait hole, straining his ears with each step for the sound of Ron’s feet on the stairs. Hearing nothing, Harry left the common room.
The entrance hall was jam packed with students, but Harry could see the Triwizard Tournament champions lined up along one wall like they’d been arranged there. Standing with them was Professor McGonagall, who glanced rather nervously up the stairs. Upon seeing Harry, her face quickly switched to impatient. Raising her bony hand, she beckoned him down the stairs with a look that promised detention if he didn’t hop to it. Harry saw several people look up at him, the Slytherins sniggering loudly at his lack of a date, the Gryffindors craning their necks to locate Ron. At times like this there was always a small part of Harry that wanted to curl in on itself, but he never gave in; if anything, it made his back straighten and his chin raise a little higher. Sometimes he wondered if that courage was some genetic holdover from his parents, or if life with the Dursleys had instilled a bone-deep belief that he could handle anything after surviving them. Either way, it served him well that night as he walked down the stairs looking as calm as if he were strolling down for breakfast.
He did nearly trip over his own feet, however, as he noticed Krum’s date. Hermione didn’t even look like the same girl. Everything, from her dress, to her hair, to her makeup (makeup!), to the way she carried herself spoke of a womanhood she had kept well under wraps until that night. There was no other word for it, she was stunning. Harry doubted he would ever see her the same way again after this. Then gasps sounded all around Harry, someone said “Whoa,” and for a moment he thought they’d all recognized Hermione at the same time he had. Then he noticed they were all looking up the stairs he had just descended. Harry turned around, and if his mouth hung open at the sight of Hermione, now his jaw hit the floor.
Had he just regarded Hermione as stunning? Ron was … well, “Whoa” pretty much covered it. Like Hermione, it wasn’t just the clothes, or how Ron must have gotten his hands on some hair gel. It was the way Ron stood there, like he knew the proverbial spotlight would be on him and he’d decided to revel in it. Yet his stance wasn’t cocky, just confident, forcing Harry to realize how seldom he saw that in his friend. Unable to take his eyes off Ron as he descended the stairs, Harry also noted that Dobby had done his job well – the dress robes draped Ron’s body as if he’d been personally fitted for them. His broad shoulders made the robes look even more regal, his wider chest and tapered waist were accentuated by the cut of the shirt and vest, and the newly formed muscles in his legs filled out the trousers nicely. Any other colour might have clashed dreadfully with Ron’s bright red hair, but it turned out that the perfect complement to a vibrant orange is an equally vivid blue. On the whole, Ron looked … he was just … he was … standing directly in front Harry, waiting for him to say something.
Harry fumbled for words – somehow “you look good, mate” didn’t quite cover it – and ultimately all Harry could manage was a whispered, “Wow.”
Apparently, that worked. Ron’s face split into a nervous, grateful grin. Harry’s eyes traveled over him again, intending to simply tell Ron the robes fit him well, and suddenly an image of how Ron looked underneath those clothes, disturbingly accurate as Harry had seen him in the nude not thirty minutes earlier, superimposed itself: the new definition in his arms, the light dusting of hair across his chest, the barest indentations of a six pack, all leading down to –
A small thrill of emotion raced through Harry, familiar and unmistakable. Yet it confused and frightened him beyond anything he’d experienced thus far, because until this moment that feeling had only sparked when Harry, late at night and alone in bed, undressed Cho Chang in his mind. Desire. One could even go so far as to call it lust. And he’d felt it for Ron.
“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall cut into his thoughts, in a tone that suggested her patience had worn thin.
Harry tore his eyes away from Ron with effort. “Y-yes, Professor?”
“Is your dance partner in the vicinity?”
“Yes, I am,” Ron answered as Harry, a bit overwhelmed, could only look up at him in response. Harry barely heard the ripples of conversation that radiated from their spot through the crowd at this confirmation.
“Very well,” McGonagall replied without missing a beat – if she was surprised, she hid it well – and gestured to the wall. “Do line up with the other champions, please.”
Again Ron crooked his arm towards Harry. His bicep, no larger than it was yesterday, held a new fascination now; Harry had to resist the urge to squeeze it under his palm. He also had to suppress the wave of panic in him at this new turn in his thoughts.
This was a stupid idea, a horrendously bad idea. His brain wouldn’t even be entertaining thoughts like this if none of this had happened, if he hadn’t ever been forced to think “Ron” and “dance partner” in the same sentence! He wouldn’t be getting confused, going mad, picturing his best friend naked! What was wrong with him?!
As if on cue, Ron leaned into his space to whisper, “Alright there, Harry?” And god, the twins had even convinced Ron to use aftershave. Harry had no idea what it was, but it made him want to bury his face in Ron’s neck, maybe leave a love bite to show his appreciation. Where in the hell were these thoughts coming from?!
“Yeah,” Harry managed, “just nervous about dancing.”
Dancing. Harry still had to dance with Ron, with everyone scrutinizing them, trying to discern if there was anything between them. And he had to keep this newfound burst of strange feelings tightly buttoned down so Ron wouldn’t notice and get freaked out. And after all that, they still had to be friends afterwards.
Ron’s handsome face (when did he become handsome?) softened in understanding. “Don’t worry, mate,” he assured Harry, flexing his arm to squeeze Harry’s hand against his side, “we’re going to be fine.” Harry felt his face flush.
Yes, this truly had been a horrendously bad idea.
• I can certainly understand and appreciate Rowling not going into graphic detail concerning the effects of puberty, but I personally think there’s just no way a fourteen year old boy isn’t undressing attractive people with his eyes yet. Harry’s still a good kid, just one with hormones.
• I submit that if Ron can suddenly notice that Hermione is beautiful just because she got all gussied up for the ball in GoF, then Harry can suddenly realize Ron is hot as soon as he gets cleaned up, too.
CONTINUE TO PART 2
Author/Artist:
kinkthatwinked Pairing: Harry/Ron
Word Count: 16,296
Rating: PG for Chapters 1-4, PG-13 for Chapters 5-7, R for Chapter 8
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Betas:
betasocks and lockelSummary: Set during the Goblet of Fire novel. Harry’s been informed he has to have a dance partner for the Yule Ball. He’s refused other girls and put off asking Cho until the last minute, only to find she’s already taken. Ron, in a veela haze, asked Fleur to much public embarrassment. Now they’ve just been told that even Hermione and Ginny already have dates, leaving them with few options and very little time.
“But Harry had just seen Parvati and Lavender come in through the portrait hole. The time had come for drastic action.” J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Chapter 22.
But what if the girls hadn’t come in just then? What course of action would Harry, in his desperate frame of mind, have latched onto instead?
Chapter One
“It’s like every girl in Hogwarts has gone off their rocker!” Ron exclaimed, but Harry wasn’t really listening. Christmas Day was less than a week away, and between Cedric already snagging Cho, Fleur able to practically hypnotize any boy who came near her, and Krum’s gang of giggling fans tailing him throughout the castle waiting for him to choose from amongst them, Harry was going to be the only Triwizard Tournament champion who couldn’t even convince someone to attend the Yule Ball with him. Even Hermione and Ginny, two last hopes Harry didn’t even know he had until Ron suggested them, had already been claimed, apparently by boys much sharper and quicker than him.
What was he going to look like when the other champions and their dates strolled out onto the dance floor in neat little pairs, and there he was trying to convince Dean or Seamus to let him borrow one of their dates for a minute … or worse, had no choice but to ask one of the teachers to dance with him? A horrible image flashed through his mind of himself leading Professor Trelawney out onto the floor, her magnified eyes looking down on him with pity, assuring him she had known for weeks that he wouldn’t be able to find a date?
Harry stared at the portrait hole, his back ramrod straight with tension and at odds with Ron’s depressed slump into the couch, willing the Fat Lady to conjure some pretty girl who was miraculously both still available and eager to say yes. The portrait remained closed.
“I didn’t really want to go, anyhow,” Ron declared loudly, but he still sounded too sulky to be convincing. “I wasn’t keen to let anyone see me in that rubbish nightdress Mum bought me, anyway!”
Harry joined Ron on the couch, appearing to slump even deeper than him because Ron was nearly six inches taller. “I thought you wanted to see the Weird Sisters,” he said. Harry, having never heard their songs, couldn’t have cared less, but he’d noticed the way Ron’s eyes lit up when he’d heard about Dumbledore booking the music group for the ball.
“Well, yeah,” Ron admitted, then, muttering, “when would I ever be able to afford concert tickets?” Ron, still mortified by his dazed attempt to ask Fleur to the ball, could hardly be blamed for letting some of his old bitterness slip out just now, Harry thought. His best mate had always been touchy about being poor, especially since Ron’s mother had purchased him a set of old-fashioned, secondhand formal robes for the ball, a frilly, lacy, mouldy thing so effeminate that Ron had initially mistaken it for a dress.
Sensing a slight change in subject was in order, Harry said, “At least you know how to dance.” Ron had complained back at the Burrow about how Mrs. Weasley had made a point of teaching him and the twins how to waltz over the summer before Harry’s arrival. At the time Ron thought it was some mad obsession of hers, but in hindsight he realized she’d been informed by Mr. Weasley about the upcoming Yule Ball, and decided she wanted her boys to have a good showing. Harry had laughed at the time, particularly when a shuddering Fred and George insisted that being forced to slow dance with their own mother had scarred them for life. However, since McGonagall’s revelation that Harry, as a champion, had to dance to open the ball, he wished he’d been there for Mrs. Weasley’s lessons himself. Harry had never danced before in his life, and now he was expected to twirl some girl around a dance floor with the entire school watching. So even if he had found a date, he would still likely look a complete fool come Christmas Night, he thought miserably.
“Fat lot of good that’ll do me, without a dance partner,” Ron answered, interrupting Harry’s train of thought. Ron leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his head hung, bringing his bright red hair into Harry’s peripheral vision … and it was like that shock of orange against the dark Gryffindor common room furniture made Harry’s thoughts jump tracks.
Wait, another small, quiet part of his mind said to him, a voice that reminded Harry of the day he managed to throw off Professor Moody’s Imperius Curse. A dance partner. Not a date, just someone to get you through the opening dance, that’s all you need. But what girl was going to agree to that, dancing for one song, receiving a quick thanks, and then being left on her own for the rest of the night? Even if Harry could find one, every girl in Hogwarts seemed to be taking this event way too seriously to simply be his “dance partner.” She would expect to be his date, showered with attention and affection, and likely more dancing, for the entire evening.
Ron wouldn’t expect all that, the voice said.
Harry froze. Maybe someone had cast an Imperius Curse on him after all, because what in the world could have made his brain go there?!
His thoughts continued. Attend as friends, you won’t be the only ones, look at Neville and Ginny. Just go, let Ron lead you around the dance floor for a few minutes, and then you spend the rest of the night with your best mate, tossing back butterbeers and laughing about the whole thing.
But, Harry silently argued with himself, but we’ll be in front of the whole school! All our friends – Fred and George will never let us hear the end of it. And oh god, Malfoy and Snape! We’ll probably make the front page of the Prophet once Rita Skeeter gets wind of it!
And that’s opposed to what, how low profile you are now? His brain shot back. You’re The Boy Who Lived, and a Triwizard champion to boot. You’ll make the papers no matter who you take, and you’ll be teased no matter who you take. It might as well be someone you’d enjoy spending four solid hours with.
But, Harry insisted, somewhat desperately considering this was just an argument in his own head, but he’s not a girl!
Did McGonagall say your dance partner had to be a girl?
You know what I meant! Harry fired back. It was a strange feeling, to be angry at his own thoughts.
Yes, you’re straight. So is Ron. You both know this about each other. So since there’s no chance of any misunderstanding, what’s the big deal?
Harry felt his mouth open to answer, but whether silently or aloud, he couldn’t think of a thing to say.
What’s the alternative? The voice pressed. You show up with no dance partner, and Ron doesn’t go at all? How is that better?
Well … Harry’s eyes went again to the back of Ron’s head, still hanging between his shoulders, and Harry took a second to think about Ron’s predicament: no date, humiliating dress robes, those embarrassing dance lessons over the summer amounting to nothing, and perhaps his only chance to see the Weird Sisters perform passing him by. Ron sighed, and Harry could see that, as loudly as Ron had proclaimed he’d rather go alone than with an unattractive girl, the truth was that without a date Ron would likely spend Christmas Night moping by himself in Gryffindor Tower.
No, not a “date.” Just someone to go with him …
“… A partner.”
“Mm?” Ron sounded, and Harry realized he’d said that last thought out loud.
“Uh …” Harry managed. When he’d reached the conclusion in his head, his body had been perfectly calm. Now that the prospect of voicing that conclusion presented itself, however, Harry’s body seemed to have gone haywire: his heartrate and breathing sped up, his palms began to sweat, and, just as with Cho, he seemed to have trouble getting his mouth around the words. “I … I … w-was just … th-thinking … um … I jus- I mean … maybe w-” Harry finally let out an exasperated sound and stared at his knees.
By now Ron had sat up, peering at Harry curiously. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
Harry barked out a laugh at that. What, indeed? Yet, the idea still made a kind of sense. Getting Ron to understand that, however, would be a whole other matter.
“I w-was just thinking,” Harry began again, trying to look Ron in the face as if it were just another typical conversation between them, “that since we don’t have dates, m-maybe we … don’t need dates?” Harry’s eyes found his knees again. “Maybe we could just, um, g-go with friends?” Suddenly the fireplace, which required Harry turn his head completely away from Ron to look at it, became extremely interesting. “I mean, we could … for example, um … go with … each other?”
Ron’s silence, which could only have lasted a few seconds, seemed a lot longer to Harry. When Ron finally let out a chuckle, Harry couldn’t help flinching a little.
“I’ll give it to you, mate, at least you got me to laugh a bit,” Ron said.
Harry could feel irritation crawling over his skin. All the nerve he had to pluck up just to ask, and he got laughed at for his trouble? That was worse than all the giggling girls combined.
“I mean it,” Harry said, the irritation overriding his apprehension. “Come to the ball with me. And – and I’ll need you to have that first dance with me, too.”
The expressions Ron’s face morphed into as he went from waiting for the punchline, to realizing there wouldn’t be one, to wondering why Harry had said that, to finally realizing it was because Harry was serious, should have been comical. As it was, it just made Harry a bit impatient for Ron to catch on. And then Ron, slowly standing up, looking at Harry as if he’d just started speaking Parseltongue again, said, “What the bloody hell are you on about?!” And Harry knew that, regardless of how Ron ultimately answered, they were in for a nice, long discussion that night.
At that moment the portrait hole opened, and the gleeful giggling of Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown rang through the common room.
“The way he walked up to me and actually bowed!” Parvati gushed.
“And he kept calling you enchanting, and stunning, and breathtaking!” Lavender sighed.
“And his accent!” They squealed together, collapsing in giggles again.
“I can’t believe you pulled a Beauxbatons boy for the ball!” Lavender said.
“I know!” Parvati agreed. “And you’ve got Seamus, both of our dates are gorgeous! This is going to be so much fun!”
The girls stopped short at the sight of Ron and Harry, the former standing and looking dumbfounded, the latter sitting and looking nervous. “Hello, Harry,” Lavender said, looking between the two of them and practically scenting something gossip-worthy in the air. “Everything alright? Got a date for the ball yet?”
Making sure he didn’t so much as glance in Ron’s direction, Harry said no, praying the girls would leave it at that. Of course, they didn’t.
“You can’t find a date?” Parvati said incredulously, while Lavender barely held back a smirk. “You were turning them down left and right for a week, what happened?” In Harry’s silence, she guessed, “the one you were holding out for didn’t hold out for you, then?” Harry’s pink face sent the girls over the edge and they started giggling again, which naturally brought more blood to Harry’s face.
“How about you, Weasley?” Parvati continued. “Since it didn’t work out with Fleur,” and here their tittering, already unkind, took on a hint of nastiness. Apparently they’d witnessed or heard about Ron’s embarrassing attempt to proposition the French champion. “You’ll likely just ask Granger, right?”
“I – she – she said she already has a date,” Ron stammered.
“Granger found someone who’ll have her, but you can’t?!” Lavender all but shrieked as Parvati covered her mouth with her hand, which did nothing to hide her laughter. His eyes avoiding all of their faces, Harry was able to see Ron’s hands clench into fists.
And so it starts, Harry thought, the taunting about Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived and Triwizard champion, going to the Yule Ball alone. He had hoped he at least wouldn’t have to deal with it until Christmas Night (and for weeks afterwards). He looked miserably up at Ron, whose face wore the same burning humiliation. The girls, finally getting their laughter under some control, offered less than sincere apologies and reassurances the boys would find dates eventually, sang, “Well, goodnight!” and went up their staircase, their renewed giggles echoing down well after their departure.
Harry looked up to remind Ron that they still had a few days left until the ball, there were over a hundred girls at Hogwarts, surely they couldn’t all have been asked already. They could even ask first and second year girls if they had to. Ron was glaring at the staircase Parvati and Lavender had just climbed, face still red, fists still clenched.
“Sod it!” Ron suddenly erupted, making Harry flinch again. God, he hadn’t been this jumpy in his own skin when he faced Voldemort, both times. What was it about the prospect of asking his best friend on a non-date that had him so on edge? “Let’s do it!”
“W-what?”
“We’re going to the bloody ball!” Ron clarified, still appearing angry enough to put his fist through a wall.
“Y-yeah, alright then,” Harry said.
Ron stood there a few seconds more, still seething, then turned and marched up the boys’ staircase, evidently deciding their talk was over and it was time for bed.
Harry sat for a minute after Ron had gone, reviewing the day’s events in his head. Just that morning he and Ron had made a pact to have dates before the day’s end. In that time they’d managed to get shot down by four girls, both privately and publicly, informed that Neville Longbottom had found a date before they did, ridiculed by two of the most attractive girls in their year, and finally agreed to attend with each other. It had been, to put it mildly, a rather unpredictable twelve hours.
Well, Harry thought as he heaved himself off the couch and headed upstairs, at least I have a date – partner – for the ball.
• So, the first chapter of my story goes on the assumption that the same Beauxbatons boy who ends up spending most of the Yule Ball with Parvati anyway asked her out in the Great Hall during dinner, instead of waiting until the Ball to approach her like he does in the book. Him asking Parvati out is why she and Lavender were delayed in returning to the common room.
• And yes, I like the idea that if Molly Weasley knew about the Triwizard Tournament, and subsequently the Yule Ball, she might insist her boys learn to waltz, without telling them the real reason she suddenly wants them to learn. Just like she insisted they take dress robes that year, but instead of telling them the full reasons why, she simply said it was on their supply list.
Chapter Two
Well, that didn’t take long, Harry thought dully. News that he hadn’t found a date for the Yule Ball had spread like wildfire. Virtually overnight, students from the other three houses had added sniggering to their usual repertoire of staring, pointing, and whispering in his vicinity, while fellow Gryffindors shot him sympathetic looks. Even the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students seemed to have heard. Their faces held a kind of cruel triumph every time they crossed paths with Harry during meals in the Great Hall; while their champions, Fleur and Krum, were either tied with or behind Harry in Triwizard Tournament points, they certainly hadn’t encountered any obstacles in finding dates. A few Hogwarts girls, either too young to attend on their own or unable to secure dates, had approached Harry since the news broke, but they did so with a kind of smug surety, assuming he’d be so desperate at this point they needn’t fear rejection.
“No, that’s alright,” he politely responded to the girls who offered their company as if they were doing him a huge favour, secretly enjoying watching the magnanimous expressions drop from their faces. He and Ron had wisely taken a leaf from Hermione’s book and not told anyone exactly who they were taking to the ball. As no one really cared who went with Ron, he wasn’t peppered with questions like Harry, except by those trying to get him to reveal Harry’s plans.
“If he wanted you to know, he’d tell you, wouldn’t he? Bugger off!” Ron would snap at them. It only took a couple of days for people to tire of having their heads bitten off until they stopped asking.
As for Ron’s take on the whole idea, Harry didn’t exactly know. The morning after Harry’s invitation, Ron asked Harry to join him for a walk. Once outside on the freezing, deserted grounds, Ron blurted out “Are we really doing this, then?” Harry explained the previous night’s reasoning through chattering teeth, and Ron, his nose red and running, grunted when Harry was done. Harry could only assume Ron agreed with his logic because he suggested they head back inside as if the conversation were finished, or maybe Ron decided arguing his point of view wasn’t worth developing frostbite. Once in front of the common room fire, however, Ron said “I would’ve found my own date eventually, you know.”
“I know,” Harry lied. Just asking Ron for something like this would test their friendship, could possibly damage it, yet Ron was willing to take that risk because Harry needed him. The least Harry could do was spare his mate’s feelings.
In the days leading up to Christmas, Harry occasionally caught Ron staring at him over a chessboard or a game of Exploding Snap, examining him as if Ron were trying to read his mind. But apparently Ron had decided the idea wasn’t completely mental, since he hadn’t changed his answer. In fact from the look of it, Ron wasn’t even interested in finding a date anymore, striding right past girls instead of sizing them up as he had just a few days prior.
Harry certainly identified with that. The pressure to find a date had been lifted, leaving him feeling a stone lighter. Hallways full of girls no longer felt claustrophobic, and Christmas became a holiday again instead of a deadline. He could spend his break relaxing, reading his Chudley Cannons book, or watching the twins test their products. Even enduring Hermione’s nagging about the golden egg felt soothing, compared to how he’d felt in the days before he’d approached Cho.
* * *
Forget Muggle alarm clocks, Harry thought as he clutched his chest, his heart pounding under his palm, nothing wakes a person up quite like having a house elf’s huge eyes inches away from their face. Dobby, still apologizing, held a haphazardly wrapped package in his hand, which Harry correctly assumed was his Christmas present.
By the time Harry had pulled on Dobby’s offering (mismatched socks the elf had knit himself), and he was sure his dormitory mates were thoroughly distracted by their own gifts, he leaned in and said in a low voice, “Thanks for this, and … you know, the other thing.”
Dobby shot a quick glance at Ron from the corner of his eyes, nodded, then put a finger to his smiling lips in a “quiet” gesture Harry was glad Ron and the others hadn’t seen. He knew he ran the risk that Dobby might answer him in some ridiculously loud stage whisper or something, but Harry found he couldn’t help himself – there were only two other souls who knew what he had planned, and one was in front of him. “It should be here this morning,” he said into Dobby’s large, floppy ear.
Dobby looked toward the window, then with a cry ran toward it and threw it wide open. Harry could have yelled at him for the indiscretion, until his brain caught up and he realized what must have prompted such a reaction. Seconds after Dobby opened the panes, as Ron and the others protested the blast of icy air, a barn owl swooped in carrying a long and wide, yet rather thin, box. The owl dropped the package atop Harry’s mess of wrapping paper, and took off again. With a wink to Harry, Dobby made his goodbyes and scurried off to the kitchens.
“Who’s got an owl delivering on Christmas morning?” asked Neville.
“And it didn’t even want a tip! That’s unusual,” observed Seamus.
“Large package, but it must be pretty light if only one owl carried it,” marked Dean. “Who’s sending you last minute stuff, Harry?”
But Harry quickly tucked the box under his bed. “I’ll open it later,” he said. “Let’s head down to breakfast, I’m starving, can’t wait to see what kind of food they have to impress Beauxbatons and Durmstrang for Christmas.”
“What?” Ron exclaimed. “Open it, go on!”
“Later,” Harry insisted, already out of bed and pulling on clothes. It only took a minute or so of talking about how the house elves were probably outdoing themselves yet again until Ron’s stomach growled and the subject of the box was dropped. Ron didn’t even mention it at breakfast, perhaps sensing that Harry didn’t want to discuss it in public, or he was simply too busy stuffing his face with food.
As soon as they returned to the common room, however, Ron was upstairs like a shot. Harry followed to find the box back on his bed, Ron waiting impatiently.
“C’mon,” Ron said, “Let’s see what you got, and who sent it!” Ron obviously hadn’t forgotten the last time Harry received a mysterious Christmas gift it turned out to be the Invisibility Cloak. Harry reckoned that only deeply ingrained manners had kept Ron from tearing the box open himself. Harry hoped his friend’s apparent good mood, helped along by a trunk full of presents and a tummy full of food, would last after the box was opened.
“Go ahead, then,” Harry said, working to keep his voice even. “It’s for you.” Ron’s confused face went from Harry to the box, then back to Harry again. Then Ron sat down on the bed, unknotted the string holding the box shut, and opened the lid.
The dress robes and trousers were a striking shade of royal blue, draped across a crisp white shirt accented with a waistcoat and bow tie, both a soft black. The material looked and felt like a combination of silk and satin. There was even a pair of smart shoes inside, black and polished to a high finish.
“What the –”
“I hired them.” Somehow it seemed the most pertinent thing for Harry to say. “They go back to Madam Malkin’s tomorrow.” To anyone who didn’t know Ron that would sound harsh, especially on Christmas, but Harry had banked on that bit of information quelling Ron’s anger.
He bet wrong. The speed at which Ron’s face went from pale to pink to red would have made anyone else lightheaded. “What’s the matter,” he growled, finally making eye contact again with a look that made Harry want to shrink into the wall, “worried I’ll make you look bad in the other ones?”
“What? Ron –”
“This must have cost a bloody fortune, I don’t care if it’s hired or not! How much did you spend on it?” Ron demanded, then again when Harry stayed silent, “How much?!”
“It’s not import-”
“More than I’ll ever see, I reckon,” Ron let out a bitter laugh. “More than I’ll ever make in a lifetime! Maybe one day my grandchildren will be able to pay you back –”
“I don’t care about the money spent, you prat!” Harry had had about enough of this, of feeling like he was walking on eggshells every time he wanted to buy Ron something, even for Christmas, because he might spend more than Ron’s pride could handle.
“I care!” Ron exploded, “I don’t want to walk out there in something that everyone can tell with one look that I didn’t pay for, that no one in my family could have afforded! I – we – bloody hell, Harry, we’re not your bleeding charity case!” Ron’s fists were clenched again, and he looked for all world like he wanted to punch Harry, but his eyes were swimming.
“When have I EVER treated your family that way?!” Harry bellowed. “I’ve never done that to any of you, yet every time I pull a single Galleon from my pocket you act as if I’m boasting or something! What the hell do you want me to do, apologize for my parents leaving me money?!”
By this point, Harry had his hands in fists as well, hoping Ron would throw a punch. That’s how Ron believed Harry saw him, how Ron thought Harry regarded the family he’d grown to love more than his own? For the second time that year, Harry wanted to chuck something at Ron’s head. Where were those stupid POTTER STINKS badges when you needed them?!
“You know what, wear whatever you want, I’m with your mum – you can go starkers for all I care! This was supposed to be a way to thank you for going with me, because without you I would be the one looking like a bloody idiot tonight, getting laughed right out of the ball, and the robes on my back wouldn’t make a bit of difference!”
Ron’s eyes narrowed. “You’d still show up with me even if I wore the robes Mum gave me?”
Harry nearly shouted yes, when a months-old image flashed through his head, and he suddenly fought a small urge to smile. “Borrow old Archie’s nightdress from the Quidditch World Cup if you like, just get me through that opening dance, alright?!”
It took Ron a moment to work past his current emotional state and pull up the memory; when he did, he gave Harry an almost bemused look, as if he couldn’t believe Harry was bringing up something that ludicrous at a time like this. Just like that, the angry tension in the air was broken, if not completely dissipated. Ron looked down at the box again, then over to his closed wardrobe where they both knew the antique dress robes hung. Then he huffed out a small laugh. “Well,” he began, “as pleasant as a ‘nice breeze around my privates’ sounds, I think I’ll stick with the choices I’ve got.”
“Great,” Harry said, relieved. Ron’s face was still a rather deep pink, and Harry’s own breathing was still returning to normal, but at least they weren’t shouting anymore. And Ron hadn’t broken their da- agreement, so that was something.
The rest of their day went well; apparently leaving the final decision on his attire solely up to Ron was the right move. Only at seven o’clock, with the sky darkening and the Yule Ball an hour away, did things begin to get tense again. Sweaty and dishevelled from their afternoon snowball fight, Harry and the Weasleys headed for the showers. Harry couldn’t help feeling nervous, as he would soon have the eyes of the entire student body upon him, and not because he’d caught a Snitch or even captured a golden egg from a Hungarian Horntail, but because he’d be dancing. Truth be told, he’d rather face the Horntail again.
The usual shower room banter didn’t happen that night, as they were eager to just get clean and get ready. Well, the twins were, at any rate. Fred had Angelina waiting for him, and George had scored a date with the very same fifth year girl who’d earlier asked Harry, the one he’d declined because she was a foot taller than him. Quite ironic now, considering who he’d be dancing with instead.
Once the twins had left, Harry looked over at Ron, who moved as if it were the last shower he’d ever take in his life and he aimed to make it last as long as possible. Harry, soaping his own stomach for the third time, had some idea how he felt. As much as he told himself what they were about to do was no big deal, they were just going as friends, straight friends, it wasn’t a date or anything, the fact remained that he was about to invite a room full of people to observe as he was swept across a dance floor in the arms of another boy. That had to be a statement of some kind, Harry just wasn’t quite sure what the statement was, or if he entirely wanted to make it. Apparently Ron felt the same trepidation.
It suddenly occurred to Harry that he had no idea how gay people got on in the wizarding community. Were they embraced, barely tolerated, ridiculed, shunned? Would the same people who knew of phoenixes and unicorns, who accepted the existence of stones that grant immortality and hourglasses that turn back time, still close their minds to two men kissing … or two boys dancing?
“What?”
Harry couldn’t remember how long he’d had his head turned in Ron’s direction, but his musing must have gone on a little too long. “Sorry,” he said, fixing his gaze on the tiles in front of him. Rule number one of communal shower etiquette, keep your eyes to yourself.
“No, what?” Ron repeated, and Harry realized his friend was grasping for a distraction, an escape from his own train of thought.
“I was just …” Harry began, and decided to share an earlier thought, “I was just thinking that you’re tall enough for me to tuck my head under your chin.” Harry attempted a smile. “How do you think people would react if we did that on the dance floor?”
Ron’s eyebrows crawled up to his hairline before he smiled, too. “I’d think you actually wanted to make the front page of the Prophet!” and, pointing at Harry’s chest, “You just make sure Skeeter spells my name right, got it?”
“I’ll make it a condition for the exclusive interview.”
“Cheers, mate.”
With a bit of the tension broken, and his hair squeaking as he ran a hand over it, Harry finally had to admit he was as clean as he could possibly get. He left the shower to towel off, Ron following shortly after.
“You know,” Ron said, his back to Harry, his tone suggesting he was testing the waters, “under normal circumstances, this would probably be a bloke’s ideal date.”
“How do you reckon?”
“Well, I haven’t taken you to dinner yet, or taken you dancing yet, or even dressed up.” At this point Ron smiled over his shoulder at Harry, “but I’ve already seen you naked.”
Harry heard himself snort out a laugh. “You’ve seen it all in the showers for years now, actually!”
“Yeah,” Ron considered. “You’re a bloody excellent date, mate!”
“Well, don’t get too excited,” Harry warned, waggling a finger at Ron as they headed back to their dormitory, “letting you have a peek is as far as I’m prepared to go!”
Ron mock whined and called him a tease.
• It was never mentioned in the books, but communal showers at Hogwarts makes sense, doesn’t it? It would also explain why the prefects having their own private bathroom, complete with a tub, is such a big deal.
Chapter Three
Seeing Ron in his underwear lately made Harry think about, of all things, genetics. Aside from their red hair and freckles, Arthur and Molly Weasley were physical opposites. Where Arthur was tall and skinny with narrow shoulders, his wife was short, with a wider frame to carry her naturally heavier build. Uncle Vernon had called her dumpy, but really Molly was what would be considered curvy, and she probably caught many a man’s eye in her day. Arthur, Harry believed, was and always would be a beanpole, not weak or fragile, just extremely lean.
As a result of their union, their children were an interesting mix: various eye colors, unpredictable freckle patterns, and, between Arthur’s fiery orange and Molly’s deep auburn, every shade of red hair under the sun. As far as physiques went, however, their kids had clearly chosen sides. Bill and Percy, tall and thin, took after their father, while Charlie and the twins, with their average heights and thickset builds, paid homage to their mother. With Ginny it was too soon to tell, but in her Harry envisioned a tall, willowy female version of her father.
Ron, though, was another matter altogether. Several inches taller than Harry since the day they met, Ron had continued to shoot up over the years, with no signs of stopping anytime soon. Since he’d also been thin all his life, smart money would have pegged him as an ectomorph like Arthur. Puberty, however, begged to differ. Ron’s shoulders had broadened considerably recently, and whatever time he’d spent at the Burrow riding his Cleansweep Seven and swinging gnomes had left him with solid legs and arms that, with some conditioning, could easily grow into muscle bulk, so Molly’s genes were making their presence known. Putting his envy aside (why couldn’t his growth spurts be that dramatic?), Harry felt glad for his friend. Ron would definitely be turning some girls’ heads soon, if he wasn’t already.
Ron, completely oblivious to Harry’s observation, stood facing his open wardrobe. On opposite sides hung the robes Mrs. Weasley had bought and the ones Harry had hired. He didn’t seem to be looking at either article, just staring at the wardrobe’s wall.
“Ron?”
“She’ll expect me to wear it,” Ron said quietly, turning to face Harry. His look was pure guilt. “She didn’t have much gold, we never do, but she spent all we could afford on it. She probably spent hours combing through charity shops trying to find the best ones, too. That’s what she does, see. That’s why she got so upset when I complained about it, it was like I was saying her best effort wasn’t good enough or something.”
And this, thought Harry, was just one of the reasons Ron deserved the expensive robes, because he would chuck them in the nearest bin with hardly a second thought if he believed wearing them would hurt his mother’s feelings. He didn’t tell Ron this, of course; blokes didn’t do things like that.
Ron turned back to the wardrobe, frowning at the ugly frock and determinedly not looking at the sleek robes on hire. Then he clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders, and started pulling the older dress robes on. The mouldy lace cuffs barely reached his wrists, making it painfully obvious that even this, along with just about everything else he’d ever owned, was the wrong size for him. Ron stood before Harry, his ears already turning pink. “I suppose I’m ready.”
With no idea what to say to his friend, Harry simply nodded and focused on getting himself dressed. Unable to remember his mother and hardly caring what Aunt Petunia thought of him, he’d never had the experience of a guilt trip from a mother figure before. The closest he’d ever come was the time Mrs. Weasley sent a Howler to Ron for the flying Ford Anglia he and Harry had both commandeered to travel to Hogwarts. But even that guilt-by-proxy was enough for Harry; he couldn’t begin to guess how to ease Ron’s.
Soon Harry was ready as well, his own brand new, shimmering green dress robes bringing out his eyes, just as Mrs. Weasley had predicted.
“You look good, mate,” Ron managed a small but genuine smile.
Harry wouldn’t insult Ron’s intelligence by returning the compliment, so instead he said, “Thank you again for this.”
Another quick little smile, and then Ron proffered his arm. Harry took it, both of them ignoring the lingering odour of whoever owned those dress robes before Ron, and they headed down the staircase to the common room.
Among the sea of excited, chattering students, their multicoloured robes such a jolt from the usual mass of black that it nearly hurt Harry’s eyes, the red hair of the Weasley twins still stood out. Harry and Ron, in a silent mutual decision to get it over with, made a beeline for them.
“Evening,” Harry said, doing his best to tune out the gasps and exclamations of the Gryffindors around him.
“Hi,” Ron said, the arm not linked with Harry’s extended as if to say, do your worst.
Harry waited for the ribbing to start, but nothing came. What he did get were identical looks of surprise, puzzlement, and then … annoyance?
“You git!” Fred said, his eyes roving distastefully over Ron. “You actually chose these robes?”
George fanned the air. “The ones that make you smell like an old woman, yes, obviously the clear winner.”
Ron opened his mouth, but Fred cut him off. “You really think we’d be upset Harry thinks you’re worth new robes? Envious, more like.”
“You don’t think we’d be a bit more embarrassed our prat of a brother would rather go out there looking like Great-Aunt Muriel?” George added.
“Reckon if they were here, Mum and Dad would have some choice words for you about showing proper gratitude when someone gives you a gift,” Fred declared, his twin nodding.
Harry’s head whipped around to Ron. “You told them?!” But even before he finished the question, he could tell by Ron’s face he hadn’t said a word.
“Oh, we heard your little spat about the robes this morning,” George supplied. “We were on our way up to drag Ron back downstairs. Christmas, family day, you know.”
“Didn’t say anything, thought maybe he’d come to his senses on his own,” Fred mourned, shaking his head. “Clearly we underestimated how thick he is.”
“Oi!” Ron had finally found his voice.
“We apologize, Harry,” said George, as each twin hooked a hand under Ron’s armpits and began bodily dragging him back towards the boys’ staircase. “But your date’s not quite ready yet. He’ll need a few minutes.”
“Gerroff!” Ron protested, but the Quidditch Beaters were as brawny as Ron was tall, and he was no match for their combined strength.
“Might have a little chat with him ourselves, sort him out a bit,” Fred added as the crowd, enjoying the show, easily parted for the Weasley trio.
“B-b-but –” Harry stuttered.
“We’ll have him pretty in no time!” they chorused, taking the steps two at a time, Ron still sputtering in indignation as he was unceremoniously dragged along.
Harry stood there, now unable to block out the hundreds of shocked and intrigued eyes upon him.
“… It’s not a date,” he finished weakly.
• I think I remained mostly faithful to Rowling’s description of the Weasleys’ physical features, though I may have filled in a few blanks. With Ron, however, I definitely took some liberties. I just picture him as well built, especially since he ultimately became a Quidditch Keeper. Harry, on the other hand, was malnourished for ten years of his early childhood, and that should show, too (which, coincidentally, is why he’s the perfect build for a Seeker).
• Since Fred and George burst into Harry and Ron’s room to make sure they all spent Christmas together in the first book, I figured it was a family tradition.
Chapter Four
Harry stared into the fire, trying not to panic as the Gryffindor common room steadily emptied. Eight o’clock was fast approaching, and though Harry wasn’t exactly looking forward to the clock chime before, he positively dreaded it now that Ron wasn’t beside him. Harry realized he had underestimated until this moment just how much easier this whole situation had been when he could just turn his head and see Ron dealing with similar stress.
The Weasleys had been upstairs for nearly fifteen minutes, a lifetime it seemed. Meanwhile Professor McGonagall might have wanted the champions to show up early. At this rate, Harry might arrive a few minutes late.
Suddenly one of the twins came bounding down the stairs. “Can’t keep Angelina waiting,” he said, thus identifying himself as Fred. “Go on to the entrance hall, Ron will meet you there.”
“What’s taking him so long?” Harry demanded.
“Like I said before, he needed a right talking to, but don’t worry, George is finishing up. See you there!” With that, Fred disappeared through the portrait hole.
Great, just walk out there and have all those people, half of whom had probably heard what happened in the common room, see him showing up alone. But somehow, sitting there until he was quite possibly late was worse; Harry never was one for staying put and doing nothing. So he walked toward the portrait hole, straining his ears with each step for the sound of Ron’s feet on the stairs. Hearing nothing, Harry left the common room.
The entrance hall was jam packed with students, but Harry could see the Triwizard Tournament champions lined up along one wall like they’d been arranged there. Standing with them was Professor McGonagall, who glanced rather nervously up the stairs. Upon seeing Harry, her face quickly switched to impatient. Raising her bony hand, she beckoned him down the stairs with a look that promised detention if he didn’t hop to it. Harry saw several people look up at him, the Slytherins sniggering loudly at his lack of a date, the Gryffindors craning their necks to locate Ron. At times like this there was always a small part of Harry that wanted to curl in on itself, but he never gave in; if anything, it made his back straighten and his chin raise a little higher. Sometimes he wondered if that courage was some genetic holdover from his parents, or if life with the Dursleys had instilled a bone-deep belief that he could handle anything after surviving them. Either way, it served him well that night as he walked down the stairs looking as calm as if he were strolling down for breakfast.
He did nearly trip over his own feet, however, as he noticed Krum’s date. Hermione didn’t even look like the same girl. Everything, from her dress, to her hair, to her makeup (makeup!), to the way she carried herself spoke of a womanhood she had kept well under wraps until that night. There was no other word for it, she was stunning. Harry doubted he would ever see her the same way again after this. Then gasps sounded all around Harry, someone said “Whoa,” and for a moment he thought they’d all recognized Hermione at the same time he had. Then he noticed they were all looking up the stairs he had just descended. Harry turned around, and if his mouth hung open at the sight of Hermione, now his jaw hit the floor.
Had he just regarded Hermione as stunning? Ron was … well, “Whoa” pretty much covered it. Like Hermione, it wasn’t just the clothes, or how Ron must have gotten his hands on some hair gel. It was the way Ron stood there, like he knew the proverbial spotlight would be on him and he’d decided to revel in it. Yet his stance wasn’t cocky, just confident, forcing Harry to realize how seldom he saw that in his friend. Unable to take his eyes off Ron as he descended the stairs, Harry also noted that Dobby had done his job well – the dress robes draped Ron’s body as if he’d been personally fitted for them. His broad shoulders made the robes look even more regal, his wider chest and tapered waist were accentuated by the cut of the shirt and vest, and the newly formed muscles in his legs filled out the trousers nicely. Any other colour might have clashed dreadfully with Ron’s bright red hair, but it turned out that the perfect complement to a vibrant orange is an equally vivid blue. On the whole, Ron looked … he was just … he was … standing directly in front Harry, waiting for him to say something.
Harry fumbled for words – somehow “you look good, mate” didn’t quite cover it – and ultimately all Harry could manage was a whispered, “Wow.”
Apparently, that worked. Ron’s face split into a nervous, grateful grin. Harry’s eyes traveled over him again, intending to simply tell Ron the robes fit him well, and suddenly an image of how Ron looked underneath those clothes, disturbingly accurate as Harry had seen him in the nude not thirty minutes earlier, superimposed itself: the new definition in his arms, the light dusting of hair across his chest, the barest indentations of a six pack, all leading down to –
A small thrill of emotion raced through Harry, familiar and unmistakable. Yet it confused and frightened him beyond anything he’d experienced thus far, because until this moment that feeling had only sparked when Harry, late at night and alone in bed, undressed Cho Chang in his mind. Desire. One could even go so far as to call it lust. And he’d felt it for Ron.
“Mr. Potter,” McGonagall cut into his thoughts, in a tone that suggested her patience had worn thin.
Harry tore his eyes away from Ron with effort. “Y-yes, Professor?”
“Is your dance partner in the vicinity?”
“Yes, I am,” Ron answered as Harry, a bit overwhelmed, could only look up at him in response. Harry barely heard the ripples of conversation that radiated from their spot through the crowd at this confirmation.
“Very well,” McGonagall replied without missing a beat – if she was surprised, she hid it well – and gestured to the wall. “Do line up with the other champions, please.”
Again Ron crooked his arm towards Harry. His bicep, no larger than it was yesterday, held a new fascination now; Harry had to resist the urge to squeeze it under his palm. He also had to suppress the wave of panic in him at this new turn in his thoughts.
This was a stupid idea, a horrendously bad idea. His brain wouldn’t even be entertaining thoughts like this if none of this had happened, if he hadn’t ever been forced to think “Ron” and “dance partner” in the same sentence! He wouldn’t be getting confused, going mad, picturing his best friend naked! What was wrong with him?!
As if on cue, Ron leaned into his space to whisper, “Alright there, Harry?” And god, the twins had even convinced Ron to use aftershave. Harry had no idea what it was, but it made him want to bury his face in Ron’s neck, maybe leave a love bite to show his appreciation. Where in the hell were these thoughts coming from?!
“Yeah,” Harry managed, “just nervous about dancing.”
Dancing. Harry still had to dance with Ron, with everyone scrutinizing them, trying to discern if there was anything between them. And he had to keep this newfound burst of strange feelings tightly buttoned down so Ron wouldn’t notice and get freaked out. And after all that, they still had to be friends afterwards.
Ron’s handsome face (when did he become handsome?) softened in understanding. “Don’t worry, mate,” he assured Harry, flexing his arm to squeeze Harry’s hand against his side, “we’re going to be fine.” Harry felt his face flush.
Yes, this truly had been a horrendously bad idea.
• I can certainly understand and appreciate Rowling not going into graphic detail concerning the effects of puberty, but I personally think there’s just no way a fourteen year old boy isn’t undressing attractive people with his eyes yet. Harry’s still a good kid, just one with hormones.
• I submit that if Ron can suddenly notice that Hermione is beautiful just because she got all gussied up for the ball in GoF, then Harry can suddenly realize Ron is hot as soon as he gets cleaned up, too.
CONTINUE TO PART 2