This is the first in a series of loosely-connected Ron/Millicent vignettes which I shall post as I write them. (I will write them as they occur to me. I have no schedule here, nor agenda.) Read at your own risk, as this may do crazy shit such as:

a) worship canon one moment and chuck it out the window the next

b) jump arround in narrative time

c) contain het sex

d) contain very very slashy het sex

e) not take itself seriously at all

BUT! If you do read, please do leave feedback. This is the rarest of rare pairs, and I do so love hearing whatever readers have to say. :)

Disclaimer: None of this is mine.

The year after the war was kind of a joke. Most of them had come back to Hogwarts to make up their seventh year, minus the torture and mayhem - and in Ron's case, the incessant camping - but really, academically, not much happened. There were parties in the halls every weekend and the professors just looked the other way, reluctant to stifle any signs of life after everything that had been lost.

House divisions, too, had fallen by the wayside - their simply weren't enough eighth-year students, as they were calling themselves, in each house to warrant separate parties. And the parties were a must - everyone packed into an out-of-the-way corridor with plenty of firewhisky and music to go around; Ron hadn't had more fun in all his previous years at Hogwarts put together. The Slytherins were pretty decent people once you got to know them, and the stuffiest Ravenclaws didn't party anyway.

Ron was making his way through the crush of bodies in front of Seamus's makeshift turntables, in search of more crisps, when he felt a hand fall on his arse and unmistakeably grope it. He half turned, a glare forming on his face, and nearly ran into Millicent Bulstrode.

"Sorry," she said, not looking sorry at all.

"Did you just grope me in the arse?" Ron asked, indignant.

"Sorry," she repeated. "Just, I rather fancy you. Give us a kiss?" Her speech was slurred and Ron was sure she'd had just as much to drink as he had, if not more.

He didn't have time to speak before she whirled him into a corner and pressed her lips against his in a messy, closed-mouth smash. It occurred to him, in one foggy corner of his mind, that she had been presumptuous and he should try to get away, but her rather substantial bulk was pinning him to the wall quite effectively. Were they kissing? He couldn't quite tell.

Suddenly Millicent was prized from him and he was standing face to face with Draco.

"All right there, Weasley? Thank goodness I saw you."

"Right... thanks," Ron said, running his hand through his hair.

"Don't mind Millie," Draco said. "She gets that way after she's had one too many. She doesn't mean anything by it - will do it to anyone unlucky enough to get in her way at the wrong time. Come on, Daphne said she'd flash us if this song came on; take your mind off it..."

Ron followed Draco numbly, trying to process what he was saying. What if he hadn't minded, after all?

He caught Millicent's eye one time, while he was trying to avoid Daphne's bust, but she just let her glance slide away and moved to awkwardly dance outside a circle of Hufflepuffs. Maybe Draco had been right; maybe it meant nothing.

But he hoped not.