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Standing outside the Ministry-rented ballroom, Ron dug his hands into the pockets of his corduroy trousers and sighed. He’d been dreading the Ministry Gala since the little purple invitation dropped through the window in his flat, extravagant cursive requesting his presence at the annual event. The ninth of May, Saturday, beginning at 9 p.m., London. Formal attire. Free to bring a plus-one.
He’d gotten the letter back in late March, but the ninth of May managed to creep up on him with not so little as a warning. Ron pulled out the crumpled letter from the depth of his pocket, running his eyes over the ridiculous scribbles of black ink once more. Free to bring a plus-one. A frown spread across his freshly shaven face. At the Ministry Galas, bringing a date was an unspoken expectation. It’s like the Yule Ball all over again, Ron had thought when he’d attended his first gala.
Ron stuffed the crumpled letter back into his corduroy pocket. For last years’ Ministry Gala, Ron had gone with Hermione, but now…
Now they had been broken up for months, and she was dating Draco Malfoy, of all people, and would no doubt be attending the gala with him.
Ron willed himself to begin trudging up the rows of stairs to the open doors of the ballroom. He had gotten over Hermione, by all means, but that didn’t mean that the thought of her dancing with Draco Malfoy while he stood against the wall alone didn’t make him feel queasy. At the last step, Ron stopped himself. The bright lights of the ballroom shone from the open doors; he could spot couples already dancing to the slow tempo of the orchestral music. Turn around, Weasley. You’ll just be making a fool of yourself, Ron pounded the thought into his mind, clasping the end of the stairs’ railing.
“Ron!” A gentle hand brushed his shoulder from beside him.
Ron swore under his breath. He’d recognize that prim voice from anywhere. “Hermione.” He turned to face his ex. A friendly smile was on Hermione’s glowing face, her normally untamable mane of hair combed into an elaborate updo of luscious caramel curls. She donned a violet gown – her favorite color, Ron recalled – that was off-the-shoulder and covered in thin lace décor. Ron suddenly felt remarkably underdressed in his corduroys and patterned button-up.
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight!” Hermione started into the ballroom, Ron reluctantly following. The ballroom was as big as the Great Hall had been, with white walls adorned with elaborate, curved crown molding and off-white marble tiles forming the dancefloor. Against the walls, tables of champagne and desserts stood with silk tablecloths and a few plush sofas were spread at different ends of the room. Chandeliers draped in diamonds and amber gems hung from the ceiling, filling the room with a warm, golden light. Hermione and Ron stuck to the side of the room, avoiding the dancers taking up the center of the floor. As they kept walking, Hermione added, “You always loathed these events.”
“I didn’t,” Ron insisted, though he couldn’t honestly recall ever enjoying himself at one. “And I expected to see you here with Malfoy.”
He watched her face carefully, but Hermione didn’t so much as blink at his statement. “Oh, he’s on his way. He forgot his pocket square at the Manor, but he’ll be Apparating here soon.”
His pocket square. Merlin, Ron hated him.
Hermione led Ron to the table of champagne to the side of the dancefloor, handing him a glass of the pale-yellow drink. “And you? Is your date on her way?” Hermione picked up a glass of champagne for herself, taking a tiny sip and eyeing Ron suspiciously.
Ron wondered if it was too late to change his mind about coming here in the first place. He tugged at the bottom of his overcoat as Hermione swallowed her sip and began to grin. “It’s Emma from the Auror Office, isn’t it? You always fancied her, haven’t you—”
“No, no, definitely not,” Ron interjected, setting down his glass of champagne at the edge of the table. If he had a Sickle for every time her or Harry teased him about Emma from the Auror Office, he’d be as rich as Malfoy. “She’s taken, ‘Mione. I’m here… Well, I’m here without a date.”
Hermione’s powdered face fell. Her mouth opened, almost beginning to reply, but Ron rushed to speak first. “I invited Elsie from the flat below me, but she’s swamped with Obliviator work after that sixth-year flew through Oxford Street on his broom.” In truth, Elsie had moved into a different complex two months ago, but it wasn’t like Hermione would be privy to that fact.
A small smile returned to Hermione’s otherwise distressed face. She looked like she was about to reply to Ron, but her eye caught someone entering the ballroom. Soon she had hurried into the arms of Draco Malfoy (now properly dressed, pocket square and all), entrapping him in an embrace. Ron swallowed a gag.
Ron could see it now: Hermione would return, forcing him to stay for a minute, and he’d have to pretend to tolerate Malfoy, while that prick would make all sorts of thinly veiled insults about his lack of date. Before he could come up with a cleverer idea to avoid the undoubtedly awkward exchange with Malfoy, Ron sped across the room.
He squeezed between his dancing coworkers, angling his body sideways to avoid coming in between someone’s slow dance. His trip across the floor was uninterrupted until a server carrying a tray of champagne glasses crossed in front of him.
Ron ducked underneath the tray. He continued his stride, looking back to shout a “sorry” to the server, who hadn’t seemed to notice him at all.
He’d made it across the floor, and slumped into the nearest green, plush sofa against the wall with a huff. He could spy Hermione on the other side of the room, who looked around at the spot that he’d deserted, confused, before accepting Malfoy’s outstretched hand into a dance. And I’m alone on a sofa. Ron thought, wishing that he had brought his glass of champagne with him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark-haired woman sit beside him on the sofa. “Hello, Weasley.”
A low, feminine voice had escaped from the woman beside him – from the way she snarled his name as if it were a slur, Ron was abruptly hyperaware of who he was sitting next to.
“Parkinson.” Ron cursed, sitting back on the sofa and crossing his arms. The corners of Pansy Parkinson’s red lips were upturned into a smirk. Her black hair, in its typical short bob, shined almost as much as the delicate golden chains around her wrists and on her pronounced collarbones. Her dress was pure black silk, thin straps holding up the top, which scooped down to show her cleavage; the skirt of the dress had a large silt, exposing nearly her entire leg in her seated position. Pansy’s dress made Hermione’s look like it belonged in a convent.
Ron tried to think of a clever jab, but stopped and reminded himself that this wasn’t the Yule Ball, this wasn’t Hogwarts, and the age-old rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin no longer mattered. “You look… lovely, Parkinson.” The words struggled out of his tight jaw.
“Why, thank you, Weasley.” Pansy outstretched her bare leg, the heel of her black stilettos trailing against the marble flooring. “I’d say you look lovely, too, but corduroy? Really?”
Ron bit back a pointed response, forcing his mouth into a tight-lipped smile. She made being civil quite difficult. “Thanks,” Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Ron continued, “Who’re you here with?”
Pansy brushed nonexistent dust from her lap. “No one, this year. Humiliating for me, isn’t it?”
Her voice was even, filled with its normal venom, but her face betrayed the neutrality of her words; her eyes – brown, Ron had always thought, but up close had a ring of green around her pupil – locked with the floor. She looked like one of the girls who got ditched at Madam Puddifoot's by their date, all downward glances and crossed arms, trying their best not to break down into a sob.
Ron stifled a laugh; ridiculous, the only people here without a date being him and Pansy Parkinson. He sighed, replying, “Well, you’re not the only one. Seems we’re both dateless losers.”
Pansy’s eyebrows furrowed as she looked back up at Ron. “Dateless, yes, but speak for yourself with ‘loser’, Weasley.”
Ron shook his head. Trying to hold a respectful conversation with Pansy was hopeless.
The orchestra began a new song, more melodic than the last, and Ron’s eyes fell to Hermione and Draco. They danced in graceful circles, their eyes never leaving each other’s. It was obvious – no one else existed when the two of them touched. Ron felt a pang of jealousy tear at him. It wasn’t that he imagined himself in Malfoy’s place, but rather that he wanted his own date, to dance in the center of the ballroom with someone whose eyes never left his.
Pansy’s voice startled Ron back into reality, but her eyes were lost on them, as well. “What ever happened with you and Granger?”
Ron sighed. It wasn’t the type of question that he wanted to answer, especially when that answer was in reply to Pansy Parkinson. “I dunno,” He mumbled, just as Draco spun Hermione, catching her in his arms. “Left me for Malfoy, I reckon, cause he’s a better dancer.” The memories of last year’s Ministry Gala were still unfortunately fresh in Ron’s mind; he’d stepped on Hermione’s feet so much that they had to take a break from dancing. “And he’s more ambitious, with a better job, and he’s got a face like a ferret – Hermione’s always had a thing for ferrets, you know—”
A giggle escaped from Pansy as she began to shake her head, her dangly, golden earrings moving with her. “Feeling inadequate, are you, Weasley?”
“No,” Ron replied. Out of all people, Malfoy was the one he least wanted to be like. “I’ll believe Hermione when she tells me he’s changed after the War, but he’s still a pretentious git. Less of a blood purist, sure, but still a git.” He’d expected Pansy to be at the very least annoyed, but her angular brows merely raised in amusement. “What happened with you and Malfoy, then?”
Ron noticed Pansy’s smile twitch at the ends. “Nothing happened,” She drawled, taking an empty look at her pointed, golden nails. “We were never truly in a relationship, we just spent time together for the… for the benefits.”
Ron blinked. “Benefits—?"
“Sex, Weasley.”
“Oh.” Ron muttered. Having only been with Hermione, he supposed he was much more inexperienced in casual relations than someone like Pansy was.
“I was always a bit in love with him, though.” Pansy continued, her eyes blankly watching Draco and Hermione’s perfectly synchronized dancing. “He never saw me that way. I suppose part of me thought – Merlin, this is going to make me sound like a loser – I suppose part of me thought that if I came to this Gala tonight, in this dress, he’d see me.” Pansy sounded wistful as her gaze refocused on Ron. “But I don’t think he’s looked away from Granger once, has he?”
Ron took a deep breath. He felt a bit bad for Pansy, whose posture was now slumped, as if all the confidence she’d sat down with had escaped her in moments. “It is a nice dress.” Ron mustered, focusing on the shiny silk draped over her leg. “Black blends in a bit, though,” He joked. “Maybe you’d have been better off with a bright red or something, if you wanted to catch attention…”
Pansy met his eyes, her nose scrunching, and her mouth in a tiny smirk. She looked almost cute, Ron thought, before she started to speak again. “Is a Weasley seriously trying to give me fashion advice right now?”
Feeling the edges of his mouth begin to tip into an involuntary smile, Ron replied, “Perhaps you need it.”
Pansy’s mouth dropped in mock shock as she hit Ron on the arm with her tiny clutch. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Looking her extravagant outfit up and down, Ron started, “The heels are a bit much, don’t you think—”
Pansy giggled, shaking her head and interjecting, “Weasley, you’re wearing a vest that looks like it belongs to my great-grandfather—”
Ron interrupted, “I’m pretty sure Ginny wore that dress to a Slug Club meeting in her fifth year—”
“Your shoes literally have a hole in them—”
“Look at your nails! They could scratch my eye out—”
“I can see your wool socks!”
Just as Ron was beginning to chuckle, Pansy laughed, really laughed, and he couldn’t help but stop and stare. Her voice had always sounded low, mischievous, a hiss that assured you that she was planning to deceive you in some malicious way, but her laugh… Her laugh was free, high-pitched, with no secret intentions waiting behind it. And it was ridiculous, Ron thought with a smile playing at his lips. Her laugh was ridiculous, it was squeaky, loud, and he was sure he’d heard her snort at least once.
It was cute, he had to admit to himself.
Pansy’s laughter ceased. She spared him a look, and by the way her hazel eyes suddenly jolted down, Ron knew he’d noticed him staring.
But as quickly as her mask had fallen, she regained that domineering confidence of hers. “So, you’re a man with a sense of humor who can actually take a joke,” Pansy started, pulling a flask out of her clutch that looked far too big to have fit inside of that tiny purse. “Your fashion taste is a drawback, I’ll admit, but I’m sure Granger didn’t care for that sort of thing. Remind me why she left you in the first place?” Pansy passed him the flask. “For Draco?”
Ron took a swig of the flask, taking a quick look around the room to make sure none of his higher-ups from the Auror office were watching. The Firewhiskey burned as it ran down his throat. “That was a joke.” He handed the flask back to Pansy, and she begun to take a sizable sip of it. Pulling on his cuffs, Ron continued, “Really, I… Well, I sort of left her.”
Pansy gagged on the Firewhiskey, holding a fist in front of her red lips so that she wouldn’t spit any of it out. Holding her chest, Pansy choked out, “You left Granger? The woman who’s this close to becoming the youngest Minister of Magic to ever—”
“I told her I was going to quit.” Ron said, suddenly realizing that he hadn’t gave anyone the details of their breakup until now. “Being an Auror, I mean, once summer begins. She didn’t agree, wouldn’t let me – she thought I was being rash – so I broke it off. Suppose I was tired of constantly being told ‘what’s best’. Not that I expected her to move on so quickly, with Malfoy of all people, but it was my call.”
Pansy was silent for a long moment, making Ron wish he hadn’t said anything at all. She must have been thinking the same thing Hermione had, that it was unfathomable to leave a job that paid so well. Or perhaps she thought it was unfathomable for someone like Ron to leave someone like Hermione, especially when Hermione had just been trying to do what she thought was best for him. Ron was about to speak, somehow try to justify himself further, but Pansy spoke first.
“Wow, Weasley.”
Her tone had a lilt to it, an approving lilt. Her face was bright, her hazel eyes looking right into his. Ron’s jaw fell slack. “I had no idea you had such a backbone.” Pansy said, continuing, “Or any backbone at all, really.”
Even with the backhandedness of her words, Ron couldn’t help but sigh in relief at her response. He leaned back against the sofa, and whether it was the Firewhiskey or Pansy’s compliment, the pit in his stomach felt a whole lot fuller.
He shook his head and chuckled, taking the flask back and chugging down another drink. It was like it had no bottom; bewitched, he guessed. Pansy snatched the flask from his hands, screwing the cap back on. “If you don’t mind my opinion, I think you’re right about quitting being an Auror, if that’s really what you want. Throwing caution to the wind, finding what you want out of life. It’s admirable. If you can keep a secret, Weasley…”
Ron was hanging onto her every word, but Pansy slowed her speech, hesitating before her next words and giving him an expectant look. Not sure how to respond, Ron offered a quick nod and closed his slack jaw, which he realized moments too late had been hanging dumbly.
“I’ve been thinking about quitting my job, too.” Pansy admitted, playing with the golden bracelets on her wrists. “Since forever. Being a secretary, it’s fine money and all, but I’ve always had this… I’ve always had this ridiculous, stupid dream of opening a robes shop.” A pink blush passed across her face as she paused. “More modern stuff than they would usually sell in Diagon Alley, for young witches and wizards. Something to rival Madame Malkin’s.” There was a quiet power to her words, like she had repeated them a thousand times in the mirror, never quite having the strength to repeat them to someone else. Until now, Ron realized.
Ron sat up, waiting for her to continue, but Pansy tightened her jaw as if to stop herself from saying too much. As she shoved her flask back into her clutch, she muttered, “Mad, I know. But it’s just a dream. Not like you, already set on quitting.”
“No, your plan is brilliant.” The words escaped from Ron naturally as soon as they had crossed his mind.
Pansy wouldn’t meet his gaze. She looked off into the distance, as if she was preoccupied by something else. But her hand wasn’t nearly as aloof. It laid between them on the soft surface of the sofa, tapping its fingers incessantly. Ron wasn’t sure what to say. Any reassuring response he could’ve managed melted like butterscotch candy in his throat. So, instead – on his strangest of impulses – he placed his hand on hers’, ever so lightly.
At his touch, Pansy’s head whirled to face Ron, and for a second, he was worried she’d tear away her hand in disgust. But her expression wasn’t disgusted at all, and the only movement her hand was making was its nervous shaking, which was slowing to a complete halt. Ron couldn’t begin to describe Pansy’s expression. Her eyes were big and bright, her mouth in a soft line, her eyebrows tense. Relieved, maybe, but like she was still waiting for something, expecting something…
Ron gave her hand a squeeze and let go, scratching the back of his head. She stared at him with that curious expression for a moment more before shaking it off. There was an awkward pause of silence between them then, as if the air in the ballroom had suddenly gotten heavier.
Crossing his fingers that he could salvage the conversation, Ron spoke, “Well, I was just thinking of going to work with my brother, George, at his joke shop. He needs an extra set of hands since… Since he’s been on his own. But you’ve got a real idea there, Parkinson. You should go through with it.” Ron managed a lopsided smile. “And maybe I’ll run into you working at Diagon Alley – could help with construction, even. If you pay, of course.”
Pansy sat back casually, a small smile playing at her scarlet lips. “You wouldn’t give me the tipsy-and-lonely-Ministry-Gala-friend discount?”
“Friend, Parkinson?” Ron felt himself grin. He had an odd sense that he shouldn’t have let go of her hand so quickly. “We’re friends? Already?”
Pansy looked down, her smile growing the tiniest bit. “Dateless losers should stick together, shouldn’t we?”
He liked seeing her smile. He liked seeing Pansy Parkinson smile. Ron wondered if the Firewhiskey was getting to his head. He replied, “I’d say.”
Pansy’s eyes drifted to his mouth for a split second, then back to his eyes with an intense focus. She gazed around the ballroom for a moment, then lowly asked, “Want to get out of here?”
Ron was glad that he was seated because if he’d been standing, he would’ve fell straight down. He felt his face get hot as he stuttered, “What?”
Her lips in a dimpled smile, Pansy rolled her mascaraed, hazel eyes. She dangled an unlit cigarette that had spontaneously appeared between her fingers, “For a smoke, Weasley.”
. . .
The air outside felt much chillier than it had when Ron had entered. A crisp breeze jostled the tips of his ginger hair. The sky was darker, too, nearly black; if it weren’t for the yellow shine of the streetlights, he wouldn’t have been able to make out the sharp lines of Pansy’s face.
The two of them stood at the bottom of the stairs. Pansy took a step closer to Ron, making him catch his breath. He hadn’t noticed it when they were sitting, but he had to be a head taller than her.
From her lithe fingers she handed him a cigarette. Ron swallowed as he took it. This is ridiculous, Ron thought, I’m a full-grown adult and I’m worried about smoking a cigarette.
Pansy pulled out her wand out of her inexplicably deep clutch, casting a silent spell to light both of their cigarettes. She pressed it to her lips, breathing in the burning chemicals and breathing out grey smoke.
Ron didn’t mind the smell. He took a drag of his own, coughing out the grey smoke rather than gracefully breathing it like Pansy had. She giggled, and Ron held up his hands in defeat, “I don’t really do this.”
“Smoke?” Pansy asked as she took another drag. “Why, would your mummy be mad?”
Ron nodded, laughing as he pictured his Mum’s face had she known what he was doing. “Furious.”
Pansy let out a small laugh, but her smile faded as another cold breeze passed through. She shuddered and rubbed her bare arms. “It’s freezing out here.”
“Aren’t you meant to be a fashion genius?” Ron inquired, shaking off his tan overcoat.
“Of course, I am.” Pansy insisted, spreading her arms to show off her magnificent dress and then quickly regretting the motion as another wind passed. She readjusted her arms to fold themselves with swiftness, trying to dull the chill.
“And you forgot to bring a coat?” Ron grinned, waltzing behind Pansy, and draping his coat over her shoulders. His fingers accidentally brushed her collarbone – her damned, delicate collarbone – and he quickly backed away from her, allowing her to adjust the coat while he walked back to face her. The cool air of the night combined with his jittery nerves made him shiver.
The coat was far too big for her small frame. The oversized, boxy fit of it made her appear so much tinier, so much more unassuming; almost innocent. That is, if it weren’t for those angular cheekbones and deep crimson lips of hers. “Thanks, Weasley.” Her voice was small, almost a whisper, and she looked up at him with those startling, hazel eyes, the green bits in them shining yellow under the streetlights. Ron abruptly realized just how close they were standing. If he’d been her height, they’d be practically nose-to-nose.
“I reckon it looks better on you.” Ron replied quietly, surprising even himself with the sincerity that he spoke with. His tone had changed completely; there was no teasing lilt, no interspersed laughs. He just said what he meant, how he felt.
Pansy’s face managed to turn red through her makeup. It was clear to Ron – she’d noticed the change in his voice, too. She took the smallest step forward, her eyes locked on his.
Ron’s stomach started doing somersaults. He forgot everything for a moment. He forgot Hermione, Draco, the Gala, everything. He was just with Pansy, someone who he had thought nothing of until this night, someone who looked beautiful in his coat, someone that moved towards him like she wanted to kiss him…
Guests began to exit the doors of the ballroom. Ron pulled back, completely disoriented. Right. The Gala, he reminded himself. Pansy seemed to be reminding herself of the same thing, brushing her hands over the sleeves of his coat and avoiding eye contact with the leaving guests. Ron spoke on impulse. “Uh, should we head back inside?”
She frowned, her manicured eyebrows drawing together. “Just as everyone’s leaving?”
Ron peered into the ballroom, observing the couples sparsely decorating the ballroom. “Well… I reckon there’ll be at least one more song.”
. . .
As soon as they reentered the ballroom, Pansy took off his coat and returned it to him. All the innocence his coat had granted her disappeared instantly; she was a seductress again, her black dress clinging to her body to precisely accentuate her figure, her posture almost intentionally jutting out her curves.
Ron’s face felt like it was burning, but he managed to keep his eyes focused on hers as he outstretched his hand. “Would you give a fellow dateless loser the honor of dancing with you?”
Pansy had already laid her hand in his when she pursed her lips and asked, “Do you even know how to dance?”
Ron shrugged. “Not really.”
For a moment, Pansy squinted at him, almost a glare, but a laughing smile broke her false frustration. “Good enough for me.”
Ron’s fingers clasped around her hand, pulling her towards him. Their bodies were so close, too close, just one move away from being pressed against each other. Pansy moved her hands to the back of his neck, the cool touch of her fingers against his skin and the beginnings of his hair. Ron could feel every hair on his body go stiff.
Toughen up, Weasley, he told himself as he wrapped his arms around her waist. His hands landed on her bare back, exposed by the low reach of her gown. He felt Pansy shiver at his touch. Merlin, he thought, biting his lip, this woman.
They swayed to the slow melody of the orchestra’s song, less focused on their steps than their interlocking eyes. Her stare was intense, but there was that bit of insecurity in her gaze. Like it was hard for her to look at him so intimately. Like she was nervous, when Ron was the one hoping his hands wouldn’t start to sweat.
Her grip on his neck tightened. Ron’s breath came quick. She smelt like cigarette smoke and expensive perfume and Firewhiskey – scents Ron had thought he would hate, but created such a pleasant, enticing aroma when he inhaled them up close.
He felt like he would jump out of himself. His nerves were electrifying his body, sending jitters through his limbs. Ron couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this nervous. Had he ever felt this nervous? There was something about Pansy’s big eyes looking up at him that made him uniquely conscious of every micro-movement he made.
Ron readjusted his hands on her back, making Pansy blink. She moved, and her exposed leg pressed against his upper thigh, so close to his… Ron stiffened, while Pansy’s next breath came as a sharp intake. He looked down at her flushing face. She caught his eye and offered him a shy smile. Pansy Parkinson, smiling shyly. Ron would’ve laughed if it wasn’t so charming.
. . .
“That’s an odd pair.” Draco whispered in Hermione’s ear, covertly motioning to the other side of the ballroom with his chin.
Hermione looked and was surprised to see none other than Pansy Parkinson dancing with Ron. It was an odd pair, indeed – Pansy certainly wasn’t sweet Emma from the Auror Office or shy Elsie from his building. She was quite the opposite, really. Certainly, she wasn’t someone Hermione would’ve thought to pair with Ron.
As she watched them dance, watched their obliviousness to their surroundings, watched how their eyes became lost in each other’s as if they were the only pair in the room, Hermione wondered if her initial impression had been wrong. No one would’ve thought to pair me with Draco, either, she thought, smiling in spite of herself and replying, “But they look good together, don’t they?”
. . .
The last song seemed to end as soon as it had begun. Through the entirety of their dance, Ron had managed to not step on Pansy’s toes once.
As he led Pansy back outside, he let her borrow his jacket again. It did look better on her, anyways – and it would give Ron an excuse to see her another time, even if it was just to retrieve his coat.
Pansy held onto his arm as she carefully sauntered down the stairs in her high heels. Both of them hadn’t spoken a word since their dance, an awkward layer of thick quiet sitting between them. It was the end of the night, the end of the Ministry Gala, and it was the end of whatever they were, or whatever they could’ve become. Ron wondered what he was going to say to her. He had to say something. “That was fun” or “you’re a splendid dancer” or maybe “you’re not half as bad as I thought – actually, you’re not bad at all.”
But before he could decide, they reached the pavement and Pansy spoke, “We should do this again sometime.”
Ron stopped moving. He knew his next question was going to sound stupid, or at the very least, incredibly clueless, but he had to ask it. He had to hear her answer. “Do what again?”
Pansy’s smile was lopsided. She wrapped his coat around herself tighter. “Another date.”
Ron’s breath caught in his throat. He choked out, “This was – this was a date?”
Pansy took a large step towards him, her voice full of that clever confidence that she excelled at as she replied, “We drank liquor, chatted for hours, went outside for a smoke, and finished off the evening with a dance. Sounds like most of my dates, albeit without the shagging in the coat closet.”
Ron’s body was warm despite the outdoor chill. Stopping himself from making a crude joke about how he wouldn’t have minded if the evening had ended with shagging in a coat closet, Ron asked, “So, this was a date, and you want to do it again?”
It the oddest thing to hear from Pansy’s mouth, that she wanted to go on a date with him, Ron Weasley. He could hardly believe he’d heard her correctly until she placed her delicate hand upon his cheek. With her hazel eyes locked on his lips, she asked, “How much clearer would you like me to make it?”
Ron felt like he was on fire as Pansy leaned up to press her lips against his. He was in frozen shock for a moment, but soon he returned her kiss. It was a chaste kiss, a quick kiss, but it was soft and warm and made Ron feel like he was floating. He was just beginning to taste the sweet cigarette flavor of Pansy’s lips when she separated from him, her cheeks reddened either from the cold or from their touch. “Strange as it is, I like you.”
Pansy watched him carefully, a small smirk on her lips but her gaze wavering as she waited for his response. Ron grinned back at her, and he could see all her tenseness fade in a second, her shoulders relaxing and her eyebrows lowering. “Want to know something even stranger?” Ron asked, his voice softer than he thought it could be.
He pressed his lips against hers’ this time, holding her by her waist and pulling her against him. Pansy wrapped her arms around his neck, taking a hot breath and deepening their kiss. Their lips weren’t hesitant, weren’t quick to release like they had been the last time, they were just determined, spreading into each other, opening ever so slightly. She clutched onto the back of his head, her fingers catching between his strands of hair. Ron could feel her heat, he could taste her fully. He almost ran his tongue along the inside of her mouth, but he stopped himself and released their kiss instead.
Nearly out of breath, he said, “I like you, too.”
Pansy’s lipstick was smudged, and her eyes were spread wide as she stared at him for a moment. Almost as if she was suddenly remembering their surroundings, Pansy shook herself and took a single step back from Ron. Simply, like she was reciting a fact, she said, “Our date - Next Friday.”
“Dinner?” Ron asked, his mind still reeling from their kiss.
Pansy smiled and nodded. “At eight?”
“My place?”
“You’ll cook.” Pansy said through the smallest of giggles.
Ron’s cheeks hurt from his constant grin. “I’ll wear a more stylish outfit?”
“And I’ll wear something that’s more attention-grabbing. A red dress, perhaps?”
Ron laughed, shaking his head. He held up his hand, giving her a small wave goodbye. “Goodnight, Pansy.”
Pansy began down the street, walking backwards so she could still see him. “Goodnight, Ron.”
She turned around, striding down the street. Suddenly all Ron could think about was next Friday – what he would cook, if he would have to clean his flat, whether he’d get to kiss Pansy again, and how it was five long, long days away. His body had that jitteriness again, but not from nerves – only anticipation.
“I must be going mad.” He whispered to himself through his smile as he watched his coat disappear down the street corner. For the first time since he’d broken up with Hermione all those months ago, Ron was going on a date. With Pansy Parkinson. After one night of drinking, smoking, and dancing. And it felt right.
For the first time since he’d broken up with Hermione, Ron was looking forward to the next day.