Cyronald
by Ford Prefect
Disclaimer: Thank you, J.K. for your wonderful, imaginative, funny creation. I bow to you, and waive all rights because these characters and this world? Not mine.
Rated: PG-13? Let's go with the feeling.
Summary: Neville asks a certain long-nosed, ginger-haired wizard for some assistance in wooing a witch with words, and the results? Can you say 'wacky hijinks'? Oh, I think you can.
A/N: Special thanks to my beta-reader, Moey.
Chapter One: A Request
It was well past midnight in the Gryffindor common room and Ron Weasley sat alone in front of the low fire playing himself in a game of Wizard's chess. He reached across the board and, grabbing his black bishop, viciously took a white pawn. Immediately the other white chess pieces took offense, banging their weapons and shouting things that would most certainly cause Hermione to say, "Ron!" had it been him saying it.
"Oi, shut up," he growled. "You're going to wake up everyone in the dormitories."
There was a bit more complaining, but the chess pieces eventually shut up, although they did it sullenly as possible. However, before either side had managed to check a king, Ron gave up the game. It was no fun playing chess when the pieces insisted on being so temperamental.
Pushing the board away, Ron drew up his long, freckled legs onto the squashy scarlet couch and sank back into the cushions, his eyes closed. The fire warmed his ankles which jutted out from his too-short pajamas. He yawned and burrowed deeper into his seat.
"Stupid prats," he muttered. What was wrong with everyone anyhow? he wondered. In Transfiguration class today Professor McGonagall had announced that due to overwhelming popularity and continued harassment from the students, Professor Dumbledore had decided that this year's Halloween feast would also be accompanied by a ball for fourth years and up. Since then, practically everyone had lost their heads about it. Dean and Seamus were almost acting as badly as Parvati and Lavender were. All during dinner they were going on and on about it, to the point where Ron had even lost his appetite for the fabulous Hogwarts's toffee pudding with a side of vanilla custard.
While he was trying to sleep, he could still hear Dean and Seamus discussing methods to ask girls to the dance and, he thought, the fit of their dress robes. Really, Ron thought with annoyance, were they becoming girls or something? Next thing you know, Dean and Seamus were going to start curling their hair.
As for the other fourth year Gryffindor boys, Neville was extra squeaky whenever a girl came near him, and although Harry wasn't acting like he was absolutely barking mad, he'd gone kind of quiet all night long, and Ron had noticed him staring kind of moonily towards the Ravenclaw table.
It seemed like the only one who hadn't cracked, besides himself of course, was Hermione. At least he could depend on her to act normal, or at least normal for Hermione. She continued to nag him about the importance of preparing for the O.W.L.s and occasionally tutting the others when they tried to ask her if she was going to go to the ball with Viktor Buggering Krum.
Ron was grinding his teeth loudly when he heard a chair crash to the ground. He jerked forward in his seat and looking around, saw that it was only Neville Longbottom.
Ron yawned sleepily and stretched out his long arms. He raised an eyebrow in the general direction of the staircase. "What's up, Neville?"
Neville's round face appeared out of the darkness as he stepped into the path of firelight. "I couldn't sleep," he stammered nervously. He twisted his pudgy hands together, and shuffled his feet back and forth.
"Dean and Seamus still going on about the stupid Halloween dance?" Ron asked with a frown. "What's up with everyone being so weird? Honestly, from how excited everyone seems you'd think that England had just won the Quidditch World Cup or something."
"Yeah," Neville squeaked nervously. There was a long silence, and Ron was about to offer Neville a seat when he said, "Hey, Ron? You know about the dance . . ."
Ron made an exasperated noise that wheezed out of both nostrils and became a snort. "Oh no," he groaned, clapping his hand against his forehead, "not you too!" Seeing Neville's face fall though, Ron quickly tried to recover. "No wait, Neville. It's okay. What were you going to ask me?" He gave him a weak smile.
"It's just that . . ." Neville looked around the room nervously as though afraid someone was eavesdropping on their conversation. "Well it's, it's really nothing, that's what it is. It's just that, d'you think that if a person wanted to ask someone to the dance, but wanted that person . . ." Neville trailed off, his cheeks flushing enough to be obvious in the dim firelight. "Nevermind," he mumbled.
Ron watched him physically retract himself, and instinctively stood up, holding up one of his overlarge hands. "No, wait Neville. What's up, mate? Whadd'ya want to ask me?"
Ron wondered if Neville was worried that no one would say 'yes,' but last year Neville had had a date before he had. Granted, it had been Ginny, but still. Anyway, there was always Eloise Midgen, and as a fifth year Ron was sure that if Neville asked any third or forth year that he'd have a date for the dance. It wasn't as though Neville were a disgusting troll like Crabbe or Goyle.
Neville slowly approached Ron and the squashy couch. He stopped by one of the armrests and leaned against it. He was biting his lower lip, and he kept his eyes downcast. Then, in a whispery voice Ron heard him say, "I'd like to go to the Halloween dance with somebody, but I don't want them doing it out of pity. I want them to go because they like me too."
Ron would never know what it cost Neville to admit that, but he felt something like admiration for him upon hearing it.
"Well I'm sure there's someone out there just right for you, mate," Ron boomed, clapping him encouragingly on the back. Ron felt Neville's back stiffen.
"Neville?" Ron asked cautiously as though, like one of his potions, Neville was about to explode, or maybe burn a hole through the common room floor. "What's up?" Neville hesitated again.
"Oh c'mon, Neville. You've said this much so far, just say whatever else you need to say."
"There is someone I actually have in mind. It's just that--"
"Well bloody hell, Neville, who is it? Come out with it, mate."
Neville gave him a strange, faraway look. "Well—it's just that I wanted to ask you something about it first. To make sure if it was okay with you and all."
Ron took a step back. "Hey," he said suspiciously, "what are you going on about, Neville? Do you want to ask me for permission to ask Ginny to the dance or something? Because I didn't really have a problem with it, although if you tried any funny stuff—well, you know. As her big brother," he continued, puffing up a little bit, "I do have certain responsibilities after all. Nothing personal though, mate."
Neville's face turned even redder. "This isn't about Ginny," he stammered nervously.
"It isn't? Then who… what…?" Ron rubbed his head in confusion. What the hell was Neville going on about then? Was Neville going to ask him for permission to ask his mum to the dance now? The image of Neville trying to dance with his mum in puffy purple dress robe popped into his head and he shuddered involuntarily.
Honestly, Neville could act really funny sometimes. Ron sometimes wondered if Neville had landed on his head afterall, when his Great Uncle Algie, reaching for a meringue, had dropped him out of the window.
Ron gave Neville another look, but this time noticed that his friend's face was turning a strange shade of red that Ron was pretty sure that even he had not yet achieved. He was holding his breath, his eyes round with growing asphyxiation. To see him was to think that a Hungarian Horntail was looming over him, a cool drink in one hand, some kippers in the other, and intent on a midnight snack. Seeing Neville's terrified face, Ron was afraid he was going to explode and splatter him with bits of paisley pajamas. He took a step back.
"Neville? Mate?" he asked cautiously.
"HERMIONE," Neville bleated, his face contorting until it relaxed in what was probably relief. He took a deep breath and, as though this outburst had utterly deflated him, Neville sunk to the floor and fell back against the hem of one of the colorful tapestries hanging from the walls. A painting of a maid in a blue frock pouring milk out of a jug gave him a cross look, sniffing disdainfully at the racket Neville was making.
"IsitokayifIaskHermione?" Neville blurted out, looking terrified again.
"Hermione?" Ron asked blankly. He leaned down and looked more intently at Neville. "Hermione Granger?" Neville nodded vigorously.
Ron jerked back, tried to say something but felt no sound coming from his mouth. He straightened, still a little confused. "Why are you asking me? Since when did it matter what I thought about, well… Asking me for permission? Honestly. It's not my place to, you know-- What are you getting at, Neville? "
"Well, I thought maybe you were going to ask her, you know, especially after the ball last year."
Ron blanched. Had everybody heard his row with Hermione after the Yule Ball? But he hadn't said anything to her about—or had he? Did people think that he thought of Hermione like that? So what if she was one of his best friends? Best friends spent a lot of time together, naturally. It could be easily construed that something was going on between the two of them—after all, the same thing had happened with Harry last year, but then there had been that whole sordid business with that Bulgarian bumblehead, Krum…It was true that Hermione was definitely a girl. The way she had turned all weird and girlie at the ball last year was testament to that enough, but honestly…
"Rubbish," Ron finally said with a little more defiance than the situation called for. "We're friends, Neville. Good friends, but just friends."
Neville looked at him skeptically.
"WHAT?" Ron yelled, losing his temper.
"No…noothing," Neville stammered. "I just thought that—well, I didn't want to step on your toes if you and Hermione had an understanding."
An understanding?
Ron straighten himself up to his full height, which was now a good two inches taller than any other Hogwarts student. He had grown tremendously over the summer, his shoulders also broadening, and his face losing some of the baby fat that Fred and George liked to grab and pinch when they would try to tease him by calling him, 'Mummy's baby ickleronniekins.'
"Ron?"
"Yeah? Oh, right."
"So it's okay if I ask Hermione to the ball then?"
"I don't see why not," Ron said, his lips forming a smile, but at the same time, feeling as though one of Hagrid's rock cakes had collided with the bottom of his stomach.
"Will you help me?"
"Help?" Did Neville want him to ask Hermione for him? He could just imagine it now, and he could almost feel his hair being set on fire by the potent Infernus charm they had learned in Professor Flitwick's class earlier that week. He could just imagine her angry face, her bushy brown hair taking on a life of its own and attacking him. Ron cringed.
Neville made a strangled noise. "Oh." He shifted again in place. "Ron, are you really sure it's okay, because if you like Hermione I won't ask her."
"Oi, don't be an idiot, Neville. Ha! Can you imagine me and Hermione like, well, like that?" He snorted and then stared at the dying fire. His face was so ruddy hot. Stupid fire, he thought. He felt as though he had drunk one too many dregs of Hagrid's bad mulled wine.
"Then you'll help me?"
"Help? Neville," said Ron exasperated, "now what are you going on about? You aren't asking me to ask her for you, are you, because you're barking if you think I'm going to do that. Oi."
Neville was quiet "I wanted to ask you if you could help me. . . charm Hermione into wanting to go to the ball with me." He looked up at Ron who towered over him even more now that he had gone through another growth spurt.
Ron considered this. "You think I can help you charm Hermione?" He snorted. "Have you ever seen me charm Hermione? Oi, like everyone says, Neville, all we ever do is fight. I'm probably the last person you'd want to ask about that."
"No!" Neville shouted, "you're exactly the person to ask."
"How's that?"
"You always make her laugh—"
"True, true," Ron said, although he blushed red and could feel his ears burning.
"And when you two aren't shouting at one another you get along really well. Everyone else thinks so, too."
"They do? I mean—why ask me, though? Why not Harry? I know he's got a bit on his mind lately, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind a little distraction. He gets along with her a lot better than I do too. You've seen them? Harry hardly ever argues with Hermione, except for maybe when she's being an unbearable know-it-all."
Neville gave Ron a questioning look.
Ron felt disconcerted, all this staring at him. Being the youngest boy in a family of nine, and to top that off, being one of Harry Potter's best friends, Ron was used to feeling overshadowed.
"You know her best too, don't you Ron? That's what Harry said."
Ron had nothing to say. Instead, he dropped into the couch and let his head rest on the cushions. He stared at the ceiling of the common room. He listened to the crackling of the fire and to Neville's nervous shuffling.
"I'll help you," Ron said eventually and in so quiet a voice that Neville had to step closer and ask him what he had just said.
Hearing this, Neville squeaked with joy. "Thank you, Ron! You're such a good friend. Thank you!" Then he looked around the room, and at the clock. "'spose I should get getting back to bed. You coming up, Ron?"
Ron waved him off. "I'll be up shortly. Get some sleep, will ya, Neville?"
Ron watched as Neville's pajama bottoms disappeared up the staircase. The orange embers in the fireplace soon died out, and the room was cast in darkness. Ron didn't go to bed, though. He sat there in the Gryffindor common room a little longer, eyes wide open in the dark, and thinking.