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Ronald Weasley had tried everything.
Flowers (rejected). Compliments (misinterpreted). Awkward hovering near the coffee machine next to Pansy's desk (reported to HR).
So when he found himself standing outside Theodore Nott’s office, clutching a crumpled note that read “Theodore Nott – Matchmaker Extraordinaire” (someone had charmed it to sparkle), he knew, deep in his soul, that this was rock bottom.
He knocked.
“Enter,” came Theo’s voice, smug and musical, like a man who had never known failure.
Ron stepped in.
Theo was reclining behind his desk, boots up, silk cravat artfully undone and a programme from the West End floating lazily above his head. A glitter cannon sat ominously in the corner.
Theo peered over the rim of his mug. “Ronald Weasley. To what do I owe this… inevitable visit?”
Ron swallowed. “I need help.”
Theo beamed. “Say less.”
“No, I mean… proper help. With—” Ron gestured helplessly. “Pansy Parkinson.”
Theo slowly set down his mug.
The room went very, very quiet.
“Oh,” Theo said reverently. “Oh this is going to be delicious.”
✗♡✗♡
Pansy Parkinson did not attend mysterious invitations.
She attended curated events. She attended functions with a detailed guest list. She attended things she could leave whenever she pleased.
So when an envelope arrived bearing the seal of the Department of Cultural Magical Preservation, inviting her to a private theatrical preview, she was suspicious. But intrigued.
Especially since the note at the bottom, written in familiar handwriting, read:
It’s not a trap. I swear.
- Hermione
Pansy trusted Hermione Zabini, née Granger.
That was her mistake.
The theatre was empty.
Velvet curtains were drawn open on stage. Candlelights were spread across the floor and an orchestra pit was humming softly to itself.
Pansy stopped halfway down the aisle.
The doors slammed shut behind her.
Spotlights flared and a familiar, far-too-pleased voice echoed through the hall.
“WELCOME, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, TO TONIGHT’S PERFORMANCE!”
Theodore Nott appeared in the centre aisle, dressed like a West End conductor, baton in hand.
Pansy closed her eyes. “I’m going to kill you.”
Theo bowed. “After the show.”
Her gaze flicked to the front row.
Ron Weasley sat there, hands clasped looking like a man awaiting trial.
“Oh,” Pansy said flatly. “You.”
Ron shot to his feet. “Hi.”
Theo clapped once.
The orchestra struck a familiar opening chord.
Pansy’s spine went rigid.
“No,” she said sharply. “Absolutely not.”
Theo beamed, waving his wand. “You know this song.”
The magic hit her like a shove.
Her breath pulled in. Her foot stepped forward and against her will, she began to sing.
Her voice was sharply and controlled, irritation wrapped in perfect pitch.
🎵 If there’s a prize for rotten judgement… 🎵
She froze, horrified.
Ron’s eyes went wide. “Is she—”
Theo whispered gleefully, “Act one.”
Pansy tried to scowl but it came out melodic.
🎵"No man is worth the aggravation…"🎵
She gestured dismissively toward Ron without looking at him.
Ron swallowed. “I think she’s insulting me,” he whispered.
Theo nodded. “Affectionately."
The set shifted around her, transforming into columns and painted clouds, producing an atmosphere vaguely mythic.
Ron got pulled by Theo's magic to centre stage and slowly was transformed into a statue.
Heroic and ridiculous. Shirtless in a way that was absolutely Theo’s doing.
Ron made a strangled noise. “Why am I made of marble?”
Theo, now reclining on a floating chaise like a decadent Greek god, lifted a goblet. “Symbolism.”
Pansy stalked around the statue, heels clicking sharply against the stone floor, her voice quickening.
She circled Ron’s stone likeness, flicking imaginary dust from his sculpted shoulder.
🎵 "Oh...No chance, no way.
I won't say it, no, no." 🎵
Theo sprang to his feet and waved his wand. Suddenly he was flanked by shimmering projections of himself - five Theos now - draped in ethereal robes, snapping their fingers in perfect harmony.
🎵 “She won’t sigh!
She won’t swoon!” 🎵
🎵 “She won’t lose her cool!” 🎵
Ron stared helplessly at Theo. “Why do I look like this?”
Theo-as-Muse #3 leaned toward him. “Artistic licence.”
Pansy stopped in front of the statue, jabbing a finger at its chest.
🎵 "It feels so good when you start out
My head is screaming "Get a grip, girl!"
Unless you're dying to- "🎵
The Theo chorus chimed in, delighted and smug:
🎵 "You keep on denying
Who you are and how you're feeling
Baby, we're not buying
Hon, we saw you hit the ceiling
Face it like a grown-up
When you gonna own up
That you got, got, got it bad?" 🎵
Pansy scoffed, throwing her hands up dramatically as the clouds behind her darkened, then brightened again.
🎵 “No chance—” 🎵
Theo snapped his fingers.
🎵 “No way!” 🎵 the chorus of Theos echoed, spinning.
She turned away from the statue, voice sharp and fast now, almost tripping over herself.
🎵 "This scene won't play
I won't say I'm in love." 🎵
Then, without warning, the statue moved, just slightly.
Ron blinked, suddenly very much real again. “Uh. Hi.”
Pansy froze.
Her voice faltered just for a breath.
Theo’s chorus slowed, quieter now, less triumphant.
🎵 “…I won’t say I’m in love.” 🎵
The words landed softer this time.
Ron watched her, he did not speak or move. He was just letting her have the space.
Theo, the original one, murmered “And now,” eyes glinting, “we get to the interesting part.”
The last note faded.
The clouds dissolved back into the velvet curtains. The columns sank quietly into the stage. The marble sheen bled from Ron’s skin until he was just… Ron again. Freckles, red hair slightly mussed, standing exactly where the statue had been.
Silence settled - real silence this time, not enchanted.
Pansy stood very still, one hand clenched at her side, as if daring either of them to comment on what had just happened.
Theo, for once, said nothing.
Ron cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
She glanced at him sharply. “For what?”
“For… all of that.” He gestured vaguely at the now-empty stage. “I didn’t know he was going to—well. That.”
She studied him for a long moment.
“You didn’t enjoy it,” she said, finally.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I was turned into a shirtless statue, Pansy. I think I’m entitled to mixed feelings.”
That earned him a reluctant curl of her mouth.
She walked closer to Ron. With each step, he swallowed, his throat working nervously. They were now chest to chest.
“You realise,” she said coolly, “that if I wanted you gone, you’d already be ash on the floor.”
Ron nodded. “I know.”
She looked up at him then, properly.
“And yet,” she continued, softer now, “you stayed and kept coming back.”
He shrugged, uncomfortable. “I like you, Pansy.”
“You’re not subtle,” she said. “You never have been.”
“I tried subtle,” Ron admitted. “I just… I didn’t want to be another person who assumed you didn’t need anything or anyone.”
That stopped her.
Her gaze flickered with unguarded emotions.
She folded her arms. “I don’t.”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I just… wanted you to know I’d show up anyway.”
The silence stretched.
Theo coughed delicately from somewhere in the shadows.
Neither of them looked at him.
Pansy exhaled slowly. “I hate that he made me sing.”
Ron smiled faintly. “You were brilliant.”
She shot him a look. “Do not.”
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Just honesty.”
A beat.
Then she sighed, the fight easing out of her shoulders.
“Dinner,” she said abruptly.
Ron blinked. “What?”
“Dinner,” she repeated. “Not because of the theatre. Not because of the song. Because I want to see if you’re less infuriating without an orchestra.”
Hope flickered across his face, careful and contained. “I can do that.”
She turned on her heel, already walking toward the doors. “Don’t make me sing again.”
Theo’s voice floated cheerfully through the darkness.
“No promises.”
She paused just long enough to throw a glare over her shoulder. “You are never allowed near a stage again.”
Theo sighed dreamily. “The stage is my life.”
Ron went up to Theo, grinning like a child. “Mate… your methods are questionable. But very effective.” He patted Theo’s back. “I owe you one.”
Theo smirked. “One hundred percent success rate.”
Ron left, following Pansy. The doors shut softly behind them.
Silence settled over the theatre once more.
Theo remained exactly where he was, surveying the aftermath with deep professional satisfaction.
He glanced at his watch.
“Well. I do have this space rented for another hour.”
He lifted his wand and flicked it lazily and the four Theos muses appeared again around him, each dressed in a different variation of Greek Gods.
Theo #1 adjusted his collar. “Encore?”
Theo smiled. “Obviously.”
Theo #2 stretched his arms. “Audience of one?”
Theo #3 shrugged. “Best kind.”
Theo #4 grinned, already snapping his fingers to an unheard rhythm.
They lined up effortlessly, a well-rehearsed chorus born of pure narcissism.
Theo raised his wand like a conductor.
“Sing it, boys.”
The first Theo stepped forward, voice rich and smooth.
🎵 “We are the muses…” 🎵
The others joined in immediately, harmonies sliding into place as easily as breathing.
🎵 “Guardians of love and chaos…” 🎵
🎵 “Keepers of meddling tradition…” 🎵
Theo spun, cloak flaring dramatically.
🎵 “When hearts are stubborn and words fall short—” 🎵
🎵 “—we trap them in set pieces and emotional torment!” 🎵
They snapped in unison.
Glitter rained from nowhere.
Theo laughed, delighted.
🎵 “So heed our tale, oh lovers lost—” 🎵
🎵 “If you won’t speak, we’ll make you sing!” 🎵
The orchestra pit flared briefly back to life, adding a triumphant flourish.
Theo struck a final pose, arms wide, basking in applause that did not exist but absolutely should have.
The music faded and the other Theos vanished in a shimmer of gold light.
Left alone again, Theo straightened his cravat, utterly pleased.
“Honestly,” he said to the empty theatre, “I don’t know how they ever managed romance without me.”
The lights dimmed.
Theo’s grin widened.
✗♡✗♡
Epilogue – From the Desk of Theodore Nott
My dearest readers,
if you had told anyone a year ago that Ronald Weasley and Pansy Parkinson would be engaged, the betting odds would have been abysmal.
But the groom-to-be was smart enough to ask for my service, so here we are.
The ring is tasteful (I advised). The proposal was private (against my advice). Ron Weasley is insufferably happy.
As for me, you ask?
I attended the engagement dinner as a guest, not a facilitator. I did not sing. I did not summon muses. I did not deploy glitter.
This time.
But let the record reflect: every great love story requires a catalyst.
Some people write letters. Some people make speeches.
I rent theatres.
On a more interesting note, at the engagement dinner, I noticed two Aurors making unmistakable googly eyes at each other across the table.
One reached for the bread. The other passed the butter far too carefully.
I am nothing if not observant.
When I mentioned it, purely academically, of course, to Hermione Granger-Zabini, she sighed into her wine and said that getting Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy to declare their painfully obvious feelings for one another would require nothing short of a miracle.
I considered this. I took a thoughtful sip of champagne.
And then I replied, quite calmly: “Challenge accepted.”
The look she gave me suggested I would not be invited to the next dinner.
Worth it.
After all, miracles are simply theatre with better timing.
Sincerely,
Theodore Nott
Matchmaker Extraordinaire
✗♡✗♡