5A/N: Hello there! I'm back! This story is nowhere as great as "Then the Terrorists Win" (it's a Romione this time), but please bear with it and if you hate it, please review; if you like it, please review.
Disclaimer: I'm a bit too young and dark to be Queen J.K., although I do quote her in bold.
Ron Weasley had always hated dancing. A little more than Malfoy (because he was so bloody good at it– prat) and a little less than spiders (eight bloody legs!). But tonight, Ron didn't have to worry about Malfoy. Or the spiders. Tonight, Ronald Weasley will be to dance. In public.
It was a chilly evening, Ron could tell by the delicate frost painted on the windows of the corridor. Flitwick must have cast a complimentary heating charm for the guests. Bloody Krum, Ron thought bitterly, he gets everything; International Quidditch Cup, fame, birds, he's probably taking Fleur to the bloody ball. His mental ranting was cut short when Padma tugged on the sleeve of his robe, creating a dust cloud and laceration. Oh bloody hell! Ron pulled out his wand, muttered a "Reparo", and led Padma down the corridor. As they advanced, Ron heard the steady tempo of the opening Waltz. When he took an audible gulp, Padma shot him an exceptionally hard glare. Merlin, be merciful. Where's Harry?
Hermione Granger had always loved dancing. A lot less than books (of course) and a little more than Charms. Hermione loved how graceful dancers are; the way they seemed to float to the music and how when their skirts caught the air, they twirled with a sense of superiority and elegance. Hermione, however, did not have that grace. Instead, she had her father's two left feet and a sublime library with mountains of theory books. And tonight, Hermione was going to put her weeks of studying and primping to the test. Tonight, Hermione was going to exude elegance and grace and twirl with a sense of superiority. If only she had someone to help with her hair.
It was a crisp evening, Hermione could feel the electric excitement and brisk anticipation. She briefly admired the ice crystals, dancing in the light and absorbing the night's high spirits. As the stars winked at her through the corridor windows, she quickly gathered her skirts and made her way to the Great Hall, where she'd be meeting Viktor and the other victors. Okay Hermione, you're only attending your first ball with the most eligible champion in the entire castle; keep your wits about you, she swiftly reminded herself. As she neared the entrance, she hummed to the soft tempo of the first Waltz. As she gulped large breaths, she remained completely oblivious to the eyes and whispers that followed her. Merlin, be merciful. Where's Harry?
After their first dance, Ron hauled Padma to the seats behind the excitement. Unknowingly to him, this was an ever better view of Hermione and Viktor. When Hermione first entered with the Bulgarian bloke, the entire room flipped for Ron. He didn't know that someone could be that beautiful or enticing without being some part Veela. After he came to his senses and realized he was looking at Hermione; the bossiest witch of her age, the bucktoothed igénue, his only female mate; it surprised him that the spell still wasn't broken. He was completely beguiled— until he saw who was accompanying her. Viktor Krum, in all of his glory, had the belle of the ball on one arm, and his fist raised in a salute to his victories in the other. He doesn't deserve her, Ron sulked. Does he know her favourite colour? Has he seen the way her eyes brighten when she rambles on about some bloody book? Or the burning intensity when she discovers a house-elf is mistreated? Has he stayed up with her when she feels homesick? Or counted the freckles that dust her cheeks when she's shouting herself red? Has he ever had to convince her that Quidditch is perfectly safe? Or reminded her she's not Harry's bloody mother and should stop doting over his every move? Who the bloody hell does he think he is? Moving in on my Hermione? Who's going to have to mend her heart once he crushes it? Or be the twit that reminds her that the bloody tournament is half over and, soon enough, he'll pack up and leave her without even a letter? Why does he g— Padma cleared her throat. "Oh for the bloody love of Merlin!"
She had never felt this much elation in her life. The last time she felt this alive was when she punched Malfoy last year. She was doing it! Lowly, Mudblood, nose- always-stuck-in-a-book, completely graceless Hermione Jean Granger was dancing better and having more fun than the trained, pseudo-elegant Pureblood bimbos. Normally, Hermione would hate the noise that the audience considered music; hate how crowded the dance floor was; hate being the centre of attention because of her looks, instead of her smarts; and hate how hated she was because of whom she decided to rendezvous with. But tonight? Tonight, Hermione Granger warmly welcomed the attention, danced to the babel, oozed attention, and relished her first date. As Viktor spun her one last time, Hermione noticed her friends, sulking, in the far of the room. Wishing to share her good spirits with them, she speedily consulted with Viktor and trekked to her friends. Upon reaching them, she waved to Pavarti, whom looked exceptionally pitiful. She secretly hoped the two of them learned their lesson. Harry, for some reason, looked extraordinarily disappointed, while Ron was livid. "It's hot, isn't it?"
Harry Potter was torn. Ron and Hermione always had pretty toxic fights; however, this one seemed particularly brutal. Harry noticed that Hermione seemed different tonight. Maybe it was the lack of books on her arm. Or the significant downsizing of her teeth. Perhaps her sleek hair made her look less prudish and foreboding. It could have been the light robes, which made it easier for her to swish and glide across the floor, instead of tramp invisible rodents. Maybe it was her newfound air of confidence or superiority. Whatever it was, it told Harry that he best do whatever she says, for her appearance may have changed, but her wrath hasn't. As Harry plodded to his dormitory and loosened his tie, he wondered what Ron and Hermione would be like in a relationship. As his legs carried him to his bed, he imagined a Crookshanks-Hermione chasing a Scabbers-Ron, screeching and clawing at his tail. They would never work, Harry mumbled unintelligibly. They're like fire and ice. They'd kill each other and I'd have to Vanish the bodies. Right before Harry drifted into unconsciousness, he noticed that Ron's snores were absent. "Oi, Ron" was the last thing he remembered before his slumber.
After their explosive quarrel, Hermione and Ron went at it all the way up to the Seventh Floor. Hermione, unwittingly, left Viktor waiting for her with drinks and a blank expression on his face, searching for her in the Great Hall. Ron had given up on his date ages ago. As the couple made it to the left corridor of the castle, Hermione paced before the wall.
"Next time there's a ball pluck up the courage to ask me before someone else does! And not as a last resort!"
As Ron spluttered, looking for a response, he noticed the wall changing. "Hermione—?"
But she was still mumbling rants. As she continued to pace, a door emerged from the wall. Ron looked for an alternative, but he found no other way. "Pluck up the courage" sparked something inside of him, resorting in something completely impulsive. As he grabbed Hermione's shoulder with one hand and shut her mouth in another, he led them into the room. He checked the hallway before closing the door and actually seeing the room. Unlike any other chamber he'd seen, this room was by far the most magical. Instead of regular decor, there were fairy lights in a sort of luxurious sprawl on the ceiling and ice crystals hung as streamers. Ron was allured by the room before Hermione made her presence known— by biting his hand.
"What the bloody hell was that for?"
"Did you just kidnap me, Ronald Billius Weasley?!"
"Huh?"
"Kidnap; abduct, capture, snatch, take hostage, take someone illegally by force!"
"No! I just... moved you... you're the one that opened the bloody door with all that bloody stomping! Blimey, you walk harder than a bleeding Hippogriff!"
After thoroughly Stinging Ron, Hermione took in her surroundings. The first thing she noticed was the marble ballroom floor. Ron watched her sigh dreamily. Some force must have possessed him because he did something that he would've never done before: he asked her to dance.
Ginny Weasley stayed up a bit longer than usual. Partially because Neville insisted that they dance all night, another part told her that another hour of consciousness would be worth it. As she practiced her Bat Bogey Hex, she heard rustling behind the portrait. Armed, she stealthily snuck over to the portrait door and peeked through. What she saw was shocking enough to make her gasp and quietly shoot sparks from her wand.
It finally happened.
Ron Weasley plucked up the courage to snog Hermione Granger drunkenly and shamelessly before his sister and the Fat Lady.
A/N: I warned you! But be kind. Please review with any: questions, concerns, compliments, a nice "hello", whateverhaveyou