An Ostensible Invitation
Ninnik Nishukan
Summary: In which a hurt Hermione confronts Ron, trying to find out why he's suddenly giving her the cold shoulder after she'd invited him to Slughorn's Christmas party and he'd seemed to accept. Just because I wondered why she didn't.
Half-blood Prince what-if. Some dialogue in the story taken from book six out of necessity (and some slightly altered), but not, I believe, enough for it to be bothersome.
Harry had already gone downstairs to meet Luna, and for Ron, still standing in front of the mirror and critically examining himself, the loss of another person to keep him company and distract him in his misery made him feel like his stomach was rolling around in his body.
He'd showered, shaved, brushed his teeth, dressed, and combed his hair, which meant he'd run out of excuses to dawdle. Even so, his feet refused to move, which was probably why Harry had eventually given up on waiting for him.
Ron suspected Harry had also wanted to avoid having to discuss whatever was going on between Ron and Hermione, or worse yet, being asked for advice about it. Harry might be a powerful, famous wizard and a talented Seeker, but when it came to these sorts of things, he was nearly as useless as Ron himself.
Ron groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. He should've gone downstairs with Harry. With Harry and Luna there, he wouldn't have had to worry about making conversation. What was he supposed to say to her? How unfair was it that he suddenly had no idea what to say to this person he'd been talking to practically every day for the last five and a bit years?
Despite having invited him to the party, she'd hardly spoken to him earlier that day, not to mention her expressions and behaviour had been strangely neutral, so he had no clue as to how she felt (all right, so she'd left the common room in a strop the previous evening, but she'd invited him to the party, so why wasn't she speaking to him?). There seemed to be a yawning chasm between the moment she'd invited him and the moment he would be forced to go downstairs and meet her, with absolutely nothing bridging it, no smiles and no words (except perhaps 'Ron, please pass the toast') to indicate how he should feel about this evening or how he should behave.
"Shit," he said out loud, opening his eyes again to stare at his own reflection. His voice sounded scratchy, small and helpless in the empty room, only emphasizing the fact that he was completely on his own with this. Maybe he could feign some sort of injury (yeah, living up to the Gryffindor name indeed).
No, better just take his gangly old self downstairs and face the music.
Have I always been this pale, wondered Ron; and was that a developing spot on his chin? Not that anyone would notice, of course, considering the massive onslaught of freckles on his face. At least, he supposed, his hair was more manageable than Harry's, who'd deemed it hopeless after spending a mere minute on it with his comb. Now if only his hair was also a different colour than this embarrassingly bright shade of red…
And if only, he thought, panic tinkling in his heart like falling icicles as he noticed it was nearly fourteen minutes past eight, if only I'd kept my eye on the time instead of on my stupid face!
Hermione had promised him she'd leave for the party at ten past eight at the latest. What with their strained relationship as of late, he couldn't blame her for assuming he'd decided not to show up.
Almost tripping over a pair of Neville's shoes on his way out the door, which might've resulted in a couple of broken teeth as he'd have hit the flagstones in the hallway (and he wouldn't even have had to feign that injury), Ron righted himself as best he could and hurtled down the hall and down the stairs with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.
When he'd reached the common room, his heart was threatening to leave his ribcage, his breath coming in shallow gasps. For a second, his vision seemed to almost blur in his disorientation, as he looked wildly around the large room for Hermione.
After what felt like an hour, but was most likely only about two seconds, he caught sight of her sitting in a chair by the window, looking at him. As she stood up, the delicate layers of her dark red, sleeveless dress fluttered about her, the colour of her cheeks brightening to match it.
Relief and elation rushed through him. He was late, yet she'd waited. Ron knew he was lucky, though, and that she might not give him the same leeway a second time. Sometimes, he reflected, feeling a wave of fondness for her, it was rather fortunate that she knew he could be a great prat about some things.
"Hermione, I'm sorry I'm late," he hurried to say, or rather pant, crossing the floor in three long strides. "Thanks so much for waiting," he added just as quickly, his hand hovering nervously by his face for a second before he forced himself not to fuss with his hair.
"That's all right," Hermione said lightly, her cheeks still glowing, "I did consider leaving, but Harry said he reckoned you'd be along, and I thought…perhaps…" she mumbled, surprising him by looking faintly embarrassed. Ron found himself wondering exactly how long she'd have been willing to wait for him, a shiver of nervous joy going down his back, making him feel like an idiot for even considering not going.
"Really, thanks for waiting," he repeated, aware that he might be overdoing it (and sounding like a tosser), but determined not to mind. Whether he was succeeding in his determination was another matter. He'd planned on arriving on time, calm and cool, and perhaps on even asking her about her behaviour, but since the silent, almost aloof Hermione from earlier that day appeared to have utterly vanished, so did the question from his mind.
For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other. Ron had been so certain she'd take the lead (considering she'd invited him, and considering she was…well, Hermione) that he suddenly felt just a bit panicked.
"You look great!" he blurted out, at once cringing slightly. Not only could that have been handled with a bit more finesse, but he barely even sounded like himself. He knew he must also sound like he was merely overcompensating (again) for being tardy, but because he meant it (she did look good), he soldiered on: "You've got new dress robes, right? They look nice, must've cost— and, and I like your hair like that, it's— wow, I hadn't quite realized how long it'd got—"
Appearing somewhat overwhelmed and puzzled, Hermione patted her hair experimentally, which did look a bit longer than usual, because she seemed to have done something to sleek out her curls a little, but otherwise more or less the same. "Uhm, yes, I was packing for tomorrow and didn't quite have time to— I suppose I should've put it up…"
Ron wasn't sure what to think about that. Had she left her hair down because she didn't care what he thought (unlike international Quidditch star Krum, whom she obviously had to get dolled up for)? Had she worried that he might read too much into it if she changed her look too drastically? Or was it just not such a grand occasion after all, this party?
Or maybe Hermione was Hermione and really had just got caught up with her packing and organizing. "No, it's fine the way it is," he assured her.
Her hand was subsequently removed from her hair, her shoulders descending. It seemed he'd managed to say the right thing. "Thank you," she replied, smiling carefully at him, "and I like your new dress robes…that blue tie looks smart on you."
Ron felt absurdly grateful that she didn't want to know how he'd been able to afford them.
"Far cry from fourth year, you mean?" he quipped, trying to grin; getting the lurking subject of the Yule Ball, the last formal occasion they might've attended together, out of the way.
"I hope so," she replied quietly, which pretty much said it all, he felt.
As they started towards Slughorn's study, Ron wished he could simply ask Hermione herself whether he was supposed to hold her arm or not. Even if there had still been any party-going couples left in the common room to watch and emulate, he still wouldn't have been sure what to do. This was Hermione, after all, and when it came to her, he was about as much use as a chocolate hammer.
Perhaps he'd pluck up the courage to do so on the way back. If they actually ended up leaving together as well as going to the party, that was. Knowing the two of them, practically anything (good or bad, often bad) could happen between now and then.
The party location was…not how he'd expected, but considering Slughorn, really how he should've expected it to be. It was larger than any other teacher's study he'd ever seen, so Ron naturally suspected the Potions professor of using an Enlargement charm to impress and accommodate his guests— either that, or Dumbledore had given him the largest office as part of his attempts at persuading Slughorn to come out of retirement.
Emerald, crimson and gold hangings covered the spacious room, reminding Ron of some of the fancier tents he'd seen at the World Cup. The party was bathed in a dreamlike, red light cast by an ornate, golden lamp hanging from the centre of the ceiling; there were even real fairies fluttering about up there, like living specks of light. The mandolin music wafting up from a corner and the house-elves scurrying about, laden with platters like mules with saddlebags, completed the picture of heavy luxury, and especially when compared to the drafty, stone-floored corridor they'd just left, it was like being smacked in the face with a different and much more la-di-da dimension.
"Very posh," Ron deadpanned, already feeling out of place.
"It's a bit stuffy, but it's nice, yes," said Hermione in a somewhat strained tone, waving away some pipe smoke that was emanating from a group of elderly warlocks.
Slughorn chose this moment to descend upon them, giving the impression of a silk-encased glacier moving at high speed, or a well-to-do hippopotamus, ready to pounce. "Ah, Miss Granger!" he greeted loudly, and with great cheer. "I knew you wouldn't fail me! I congratulate you on finally persuading our boy Harry to join us! Rather modest fellow, isn't he? And naturally, I'm delighted that you've decided to attend as well! Oh, who's your friend, Miss Granger?"
Hermione smiled politely. "Thank you, Professor. This is—"
"Ah, wait, don't tell me, it's Rupert Wallenby, isn't it?" Slughorn guessed (incorrectly, yet confidently), as if he was playing a party game. "Harry's best friend!"
"Ron Weasley," Ron gritted out, beyond caring if the old walrus would be offended or not.
Hermione looked uncomfortable, but hurried to defuse the situation. "Ronald's keeper for Gryffindor, Professor Slughorn," she interjected diplomatically.
"Oh? Ah, yes, I saw you in the opening match against Slytherin. Ver' good work, ver' good work, you were really on form that day," said Slughorn, nodding sagely. "Bad luck for my house, of course, but then we can't always win, I suppose."
"Thanks," Ron muttered, wondering if he should take offence at 'that day'; wondering if it was a nice way of saying he was rubbish most other days.
"Ronald's father works for the Ministry, Professor," Hermione went on, obviously determined to impress Slughorn somehow. Ron had to admire her efforts, somewhat flattered even if she was clearly just trying to make him feel better, but mostly he just wished he could Disapparate.
"Really? Splendid, splendid!" Slughorn enthused. "May I ask what post?"
Ron ducked his head. "Uh, he's the head of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects, Sir," Ron recited the long title in a mumble, scowling at his shoes. Mum had certainly mentioned it more than enough times for him to know it by heart.
"Ronald's father was recently promoted by the new Minister for Magic, Professor," he heard Hermione adding helpfully. Her voice sounded slightly higher; there seemed to be a somewhat concerned, apprehensive edge to it now. Like she was afraid he'd say something daft, probably.
Ron treated his shoes to a scoff.
"Really? Splendid!" Slughorn repeated, his voice taking on a slightly preoccupied air. "Now if you'll excuse me, an old friend of mine just arrived— you know how it is, duties of the host, and so on—"
When Slughorn had left their company, Hermione rounded on Ron.
"I know this isn't exactly your element, Ron, but since you've accepted my invitation, and since you've been doing nothing but prattling on about this party lately, the least you could do when you're finally here is mind your manners and not act so…so sulky!" she admonished, putting her hands on her hips. "You were really rude to Professor Slughorn just now!"
"Oh, come off it, Sluggy's so pompous he probably didn't even notice!" Ron retaliated at once, his expression twisting with angry humiliation. "I don't like standin' about and bragging about my 'connections', Hermione, it makes me feel like Percy! And I'd thank you to stop constantly referring to me as 'Ronald'!"
Hermione treated him to a sardonic arching of her eyebrow. "Well, that's your name, isn't it?"
"You're making it sound all pretentious!" Ron accused hotly.
Hermione drew a deep breath. "Look, Ron, I don't care about connections, I just thought you'd feel better if he stopped getting your name wrong," she murmured, assuring and imploring him with her eyes. "Professor Slughorn's…odd like that, but he's not a bad person, really…it's just that he only seems to have room in his head for people who can help him climb the social ladder, so to speak."
His anger towards her faded with her plea of understanding, but the dull, itchy grudge against the Slug Club didn't, and neither did the usual insecurities that always seemed to be simmering beneath the surface of him somewhere. "Yeah, well, that's not me, is it, so stop pretending like it is."
He got an explosive sigh in response. "You know what? I'm going to go talk to somebody else for a while— perhaps then you'll have a chance to decide if you want to stop acting like Moaning Myrtle!" Hermione announced, sweeping away, her gossamer skirts billowing out behind her.
Glaring sullenly after her, Ron was glad when Harry showed up next, so he wouldn't have to stand there alone like a pathetic sod.
"Something wrong?" asked Harry, indicating the retreating Hermione.
Considering there were just too many available answers to that question, Ron decided to ignore it. "What d'you reckon, mate?"
"About what?" Harry replied, glancing curiously at him.
Ron inclined his head towards Hermione, across the floor, who was now chatting to Professor McGonagall. "Hermione asking me to the party."
Harry grimaced, looking down into his drink. It looked like he'd been right when he'd thought Harry had wanted to avoid being asked for advice about Hermione earlier; the problem was that Ron didn't really have anybody else to ask. "I reckon, Ron, that you'd do better asking Hermione about that instead," Harry replied, still with that awkward look on his face. "I'm afraid I'm just as rubbish at Legilimency as I am at Occlumency."
Ron frowned. "So she hasn't talked to you about it at all?"
"Hasn't mentioned anything, no," said Harry, shaking his head.
"How about you and Luna, then?" asked Ron, prodding Harry's side with his elbow.
Harry waved a hand, shrugging. "Oh, we're just going as friends, like I said."
"You sure?" Ron insisted, lowering his voice in confidentiality. "I mean, she gave me quite a start, for one— didn't see that one coming at all—"
"No, she said she'd love to go as friends," explained Harry calmly, before adding, with another shake of his head: "Don't think she gets invited to a lot of parties, Luna."
Ron mirrored the head shaking, but for a different reason. "Luna's a great girl and all, but I can't say I'm surprised."
Harry raised his eyebrows at Ron, giving him a crooked grin. "Considering I used to have to hide under the stairs and pretend not to exist whenever the Dursleys had a dinner party, which was fairly often, I can't really judge her, though."
"Sorry, mate," Ron said sympathetically.
Harry's grin didn't fade. "No problem…the Dursleys threw lousy parties."
Ron stared at Harry as something caught up with him. "Wait, does that mean…everybody's just bringing friends? Is that the policy at the Slug Club? Am I just here as one of her mates, then? I mean, not that I think she meant— it's just— good to be clear— know her intentions—"
Harry cleared his throat, cutting through Ron's ramblings. "Don't think so, mate. Not unless there's been a recent redefinition of what 'friend' means, in which case I'm afraid I can't see you anymore," Harry joked, pointing surreptitiously at a corner, where Blaise Zabini and a Slytherin girl Ron didn't know were locked in a passionate embrace, thankfully half-obscured by some gauzy drapes. "I think a few people have brought dates."
"Ah," squeaked Ron, his mind racing; immediately going places it had no business going. He'd only be fooling himself if he thought Hermione had something even remotely like that planned for them this evening, anyway.
"I better, uh…go keep Luna company," Harry said, gesturing at the unfortunate situation that seemed to be developing between an obliviously chatting Luna and a creepily staring, oddly vampire-like bloke in a corner of the room.
Ron produced some choked sound of agreement and moved jerkily towards the table of refreshments, lifting a trembling hand to grasp a bottle of Firewhiskey.
Just as he was about to pour himself a glass to steady his nerves, the cause of said nerves appeared at his elbow as if she'd Apparated there.
"You're a prefect, Ron!" she hissed with reproach, grasping his arm. "You need to set an example, you can't just—"
"It's a party, Hermione, and there are no ickle first years here who'll—" he began irritably, but abruptly reconsidered; perhaps having a go at the stronger stuff wasn't such a good idea. After all, he didn't have any experience with it, not to mention he might end up saying some things he'd regret later. Although he'd like to leave the party, having at last understood why Harry had been trying to avoid it all this time, he didn't want a row with Hermione to be the reason. Besides, if he actually made her cry at a festive occasion again, she might refuse to come to Bill and Fleur's wedding. "You're right, sorry," he said matter-of-factly, putting down his drink and picking up a Butterbeer instead.
For a moment, she looked stunned; then a flustered smile lit up her entire face, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink colour. "Thank you, Ron."
"Don't mention it." Even though he cleared his throat, his voice still came out hoarsely.
Her hand came up to rest on his arm, the look in her eye sweet and confidential. "Ron, listen…" she began, leaning closer and all but whispering now, "I only thought…you've got every right to be here as more than just a guest! You've been right there with me and Harry in every one of those dangerous situations— the mountain troll, the shrieking shack, the Ministry— not to mention you went into the Forbidden Forest despite your intense arachnophobia and— and so much more, and you're every bit as brave and clever as Harry and as talented as Ginny, and I just hoped…if Slughorn remembered you and liked you, he'd invite you to become a member of the club, because…" He felt her determined puff of breath just barely tickling his Adam's apple, caught her frowning in concern. "…because believe it or not, Ron, it hasn't been fun for me or Harry, knowing you feel…that you don't…look, I just don't see why you shouldn't be a member, all right? And if you aren't going to be, I'm inclined to stop going, because I don't want another row about this silly club. There are far more important things to think about, and I'm getting sick of…of this."
"Come off it, Hermione…" he tilted his head back with a groan, feeling somewhat overwhelmed all of a sudden, both by her relentlessness and the close contact. She might not be aware of it, but her support, while flattering, came with a sense of pressure and performance anxiety that was simply too much for him. "…you know, between you and Harry constantly trying to cheer me up lately, I've never felt more miserable." Bending his back so his face was almost level with hers, he met her eyes; he was resolved to sound serious and neutral, but a little bitterness still found his way into his voice: "And I don't want you to stop going to parties on account of me. I don't need any pity."
"Ron!" Her fingers tightened a bit on his arm, the fabric of his new dress robes bunching up. "Did you even hear a word I said?"
"I heard plenty," he said darkly, putting his untouched Butterbeer back on the table.
Hermione let his arm slip from her grasp. "I've known you for ages, Ron. If anyone's got the right to and the basis for pointing out your good sides, it's me. The only one who knows you better has to be Harry, or your parents, or—" she interrupted herself when she noticed he seemed to be staring at the ceiling. "What?" she asked impatiently.
"Mistletoe," he mumbled.
She looked up.
Next, they didn't speak at exactly the same time, but the words were the same: "You don't have to."
They both redirected their attention to the floor. Out of the corner of his vision, he could see her wringing her hands.
He opened his mouth to speak, to somehow repair whatever damage had been done by this dangerous moment—
As it turned out, Slughorn did it for him. "How are you two getting along?" he boomed, sounding much like the jolly Spirit of Christmas Present from that Muggle story Dad had told him once. Slughorn now had a large mince pie in one hand and a goblet of mead in the other, not to mention he'd managed to become noticeably inebriated in the short time since they'd last spoken to him. His large, hammy face was flushed bright red with festivity. "D'you need some more drinks? I could fetch a house-elf—"
Ron honestly didn't know whether to feel grateful or annoyed.
Hermione flashed a nervous smile. "No, that's all right, Professor."
"Do forgive me for asking, by the way, and do ignore an old man like me, if you please, but I'm curious…what exactly is the nature of your relationship?" Slughorn asked good-naturedly, smiling at them before taking a delicate sip from his gold-laced goblet, spilling a few drops of mead on his smoking jacket without noticing.
Ron was sure all the blood was draining out of his face. What was he supposed to say? And why did Slughorn want to know, anyway? Was he keen on finding out if he was establishing an important connection with a future celebrity couple or something?
"Ron and I are prefects together, Professor," Hermione piped up, however, never missing a beat, "and we've been friends since first year."
Slughorn raised an intrigued eyebrow. "Oh, really? Keeper and prefect, are you? I shall have to keep an eye on you, shan't I, Weasley?" he teased, chuckling foolishly.
Ron gave him a wan smile in return. If he had to endure another helping of joviality, he was going to heave, even if the geezer had got his name right in the end. When Slughorn spotted Harry, Luna and Trelawney by the punch bowl and excused himself, therefore, Ron felt too relieved to care about the fact that somebody was overlooking him for Harry again.
It was when Slughorn had left them alone and none of the other party guests seemed to take much notice of them that they began to talk together properly at last, chatting about the food, the room and the guests, particularly their teachers, in the easy sort of way only somebody who's shared a class for quite a while can do, laughing at Professor Flitwick's semi-inebriated singing and commenting on Snape's unsurprisingly glowering, antisocial party behaviour.
Ron was starting to relax, and finally had the time and the presence of mind to finally look at Hermione, happily studying her as she answered his questions about the time she'd met Gwenog Jones. She'd even giggled at his impression of Snape being the life and soul of the party (performed carefully, and despite great risk of detection), which had helped his nerves in a way he doubted Firewhiskey could.
Whenever they went to Hogsmeade, Ron reflected, she usually took more care than usual about dressing and doing her hair, and sometimes she even applied some shiny sort of lip stuff, but apart from the Yule Ball, he really hadn't seen her in full make-up before. Her already dark brown eyelashes were now sooty, further enhancing her brown eyes, there was a dusting of something pearly shimmering on her eyelids, and she wore a shade of red lipstick that matched her dress.
Her neckline didn't plunge, like with a few of the other dresses here, but rather hinted enticingly at the gently heaving roundness beneath. The fact that he was a good head taller than her, or more, provided him with fascinating little glimpses of her every so often. He knew she'd hex him if he was caught, but it wasn't as if he was openly staring or not listening to what she was saying; he wasn't trying to be rude, after all, it was just his height…and if she got angry, he intended to apologize, but not before informing her that a teenage boy who didn't think about tits at least once a day would be an abnormality. Unless she cursed his mouth shut before he'd even been able to finish speaking, that was.
When he courteously leaned down to hand her a goblet of mead, his eyes inevitably raking across the swell of her breasts, lingering on the small valley of exposed, fair skin, therefore, she stupefied him when she did catch him at it, but merely responded by accepting the drink and lowering her lashes, her mouth twitching with what seemed to be a suppressed, nervous smile, her cheeks and hairline colouring. It was clear she wasn't at ease with the idea of being ogled by him, yet she wasn't entirely displeased, either.
Ron's hand shook a bit as he drank his mead. "Hey, isn't that one of the Weird Sisters?" he hastened to ask, pointing discreetly at a long-haired, skinny, young man in a dragon skin jacket that resembled the ones Fred and George wore sometimes.
Hermione craned her neck to see past a tall, old wizard. "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if it was."
"Merlin's beard, is there anyone Slughorn doesn't know?" Ron said, half in complaint, half in awe.
"Bet he'd love to hear you say that," Hermione remarked with a small smile, before adding wistfully: "It really is a pity he didn't invite them to play, though. Dancing would be lovely, but I suppose it's just too crowded in here…"
Just as Ron started wondering, a sort of fear-joy bubbling through him, if she meant she wanted to dance with him in particular, there was a commotion on the other side of the room.
"Professor Slughorn," Ron heard Filch calling in a loud sort of wheeze, "I discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party and to have been delayed in setting out. Did you issue him with an invitation?"
A flash of platinum-blonde hair told Ron, filling him instantly with exquisite schadenfreude, that the 'boy' in question was Malfoy. A glance at Hermione confirmed that she'd noticed this, too, and was just as intrigued. Absentmindedly, she put her half-empty goblet of mead down on the nearest table; he did the same. "All right, I wasn't invited!" Malfoy exclaimed angrily. "I was trying to gatecrash, happy?"
"No, I'm not!" said Filch, although the old codger sounded as if he was on cloud nine. "You're in trouble, you are! Didn't the Headmaster say that night-time prowling is out, unless you've got permission, didn't he, eh?"
Ron and Hermione weren't the only ones who'd had their curiosity piqued by the uninvited guest and the caretaker, however, and as the other guests gradually flocked towards the scene, blocking the way, it became harder to follow the situation. Ron managed to catch a glimpse of Harry and Luna, standing next to Slughorn, but couldn't quite make out Slughorn's response to the gatecrashing, although unfortunately it sounded forgiving.
Pushing at his arm, Hermione tried to lead them both closer, but it was a slow trek, as people bumped into their shoulders or got in their way, queuing up to see what was going on. Ron tried his best to shield Hermione from the forest of elbows.
Eventually, Ron saw Snape, his long, black cloak flapping behind him, leading a surly, pale-faced Malfoy past them. By the time he and Hermione had made their way through the clump of gathered on-lookers, even though it only took a minute or so, Harry was no longer there, and neither was Slughorn.
"Oi, Luna, where's Harry?" called Ron as they reached Luna, who was standing next to Professor Trelawney.
"Oh, hi, Ronald— hi, Hermione. Harry said he was going to the loo, he'll probably be back soon," Luna informed them, adding dreamily: "You'll want to try this cake, it's wonderful!"
Staring down at the pudding table he'd impossibly managed to miss so far, Ron momentarily forgot about Harry. "Isn't that the same chocolate gateaux they served when Beauxbatons and Durmstrang were visiting?" he asked, unable to keep the abrupt gastronomic lust from entering his voice and expression. It wasn't as if Hermione wasn't accustomed to witnessing his enthusiasm for all things culinary, anyway; in fact, he caught her hiding a giggle behind her hand at his shameless glee. So she did find it charming after all, did she?
"Cake!" scoffed Trelawney, drunkenly gesturing with her goblet. "I sushpect Dobbin's in his shtable, eating hay right now! Perhaps my job's being th-threatened by a domesticated amin— animal, but at leasht they know who to invite to parties and who, or should I say what, not to, hmm?"
Ron made it easy for himself by putting this rant in the 'barmy' category, therefore deeming it safe to ignore. He concentrated instead on the cake, leaving Luna to derail Trelawney's anger by picking up a conversation about a conspiracy theory having to do with dental hygiene and Aurors. Ron concluded not to comment on this, either, but while Trelawney's babblings just made him wish somebody would recommend her a short holiday at St. Mungo's, Luna's lunacy made him grin.
His mouth blissfully stuffed with cake, he turned back to Hermione, satisfied.
Then he saw what she was eating. "Come on, Hermione, don't tell me that out of every delicious thing on this table, that's what you're havin'!" This muffled protest was said with an air of scandal, as well as with a short spray of crumbs.
"Don't be a pig, Ron," said Hermione, daintily popping another grape in her mouth.
"But this cake's bloody mouth-watering!" he insisted, making sure to favour her with a look that told her she was barking. Didn't care much for Quidditch, said no to chocolate cake…didn't she know it was important to appreciate the finer things in life?
"I can see that," she remarked dryly. "Anyway, dinner wasn't that long ago. I'm not that hungry."
Ron rolled his eyes. "Everyone knows not to eat too much at tea if they're going to a Christmas party— never mind, at least try some of mine, then, if you don't want a whole slice—" he offered, already steering a fluffy, dark pastry cloud, lovingly pinched between his fingers, towards her objecting mouth.
"No, really, Ron, I don't—" Hermione began, jerking her head to the side, tense; she immediately fell silent when he pressed his other hand gingerly against her jaw to coax her face towards the cake. Looking faintly flabbergasted, she opened her mouth, allowing him to feed her the sugary morsel.
Chewing, she let out a diffident sort of giggle, trying to cover her mouth with her hand, as if eating was something obscene. He responded by gently pushing her hand away and sneaking some more cake into her mouth, studying her now noticeably pinker cheeks.
"Good, right?" he prodded hopefully, nodding in encouragement.
"Mmmpph," she grunted, which appeared to mean yes; he grinned. Next, she brought him into a state of complete shock as she, seemingly unaware of what she was even doing, took two of his fingers into her mouth and cleaned them off with her lips and tongue.
Sharp, rolling pleasure spread from his fingers and up to his scalp, before shooting all the way down into his toes. He had to force himself not to wobble on his feet.
His nostrils flared, his breath seeming to get stuck in his throat as if he was choking on it, his stomach fluttering with the warm wetness of her mouth on his skin.
"Oh, you're feeding her cake," he heard Luna saying in an airy, yet intrigued tone, but there was a roaring in his ears that made her sound far away. "I've heard they feed each other cake at Muggle weddings, is that true? Should I be feeding somebody cake?"
Ron felt Hermione exhaling softly before she drew herself back, releasing his fingers.
"You know what they don't do at Muggle schools?" interjected Trelawney loudly. "Hire horses as teachers!"
The short, but tense earlier moment under the mistletoe was forcing itself to the forefront of Ron's mind now, from where it had been lurking ominously in the back. His fingers were twitching slightly. Hermione's eyes travelled up to meet his. She was licking her lips self-consciously.
Ducking her head, she then handed him a napkin, presumably to clean his fingers with— Merlin, he hoped he didn't have cake all over his face like a child— and he tried desperately, again, to think of how to break the tension, to tell her she didn't need to feel embarrassed, that she hadn't done anything wrong, bloody hell, not anything even remotely wrong—
"Hello, Granger." It was Cormac McLaggen, materializing out of the throng to loom over Hermione, smirking. Right. That was the thing about parties. There was always somebody available to interrupt you. But couldn't it have been anybody except him? Even Trelawney raving about centaurs would've been better than him, except she seemed to have wandered off now; possibly in search of more sherry, of which she'd been reeking.
"Hello, Cormac," Hermione greeted, in a rather frosty manner that gratified Ron immensely.
McLaggen didn't seem to notice her disinterest, however. "How did you get invited to this party, Weasley? Your famous friend Potter help you again or what, hmm?"
"Not still harping on about the Quidditch tryouts, are you, Cormac?" Hermione drawled, sounding impressively disdainful. She deserved a medal for that one, Ron decided. "I wasn't aware you were such a sore loser."
Cormac kept his mouth shut for the moment, his lips pursed, but Ron noticed his jaw muscles jumping as he gritted his teeth; he was clearly furious. "Oh, I see, Granger," he said coolly, "so it's you who've pitied the Weasley boy this time. Very noble of you, but you don't have to hang around him all night, you know," he purred, moving forward with what looked to be the intention of putting his arm around her.
Her delicate eyebrows knitting with disgust, Hermione simply took a step back. Cormac paused, frowning at her in perplexity. Apparently, he hadn't expected this.
McLaggen was a slimy git, yes, and there was no way Ron would let him get his greasy paws on Hermione, but that wasn't the only reason Ron found himself backing up a further couple of steps, surreptitiously attempting to steer Hermione with him by the crook of her arm. McLaggen was also, apart from being a complete wanker, even taller than Ron himself and nearly twice as broad, as well as possessing a handsome face and sandy blonde, wavy hair that appeared to allow him to get away with more of his terrible behaviour towards girls that he should, which was none. Ron did not want to stand next to him in Hermione's presence and have his awkward, lanky frame, freckled chaos of a face and clown-like, orange hair compared to this smug, good-looking bastard, no matter how blessedly sensible Hermione was about McLaggen.
"Really, Granger, how about you ditch the ginger and we go find ourselves a private corner, eh?" Cormac suggested smarmily, still not giving up. "I'll let you lick my treacle tart," he offered, picking up a piece of the pastry from the table they were standing at and giving the dollop of clotted cream a slow, seductive lick; an action that Ron knew he himself wouldn't have been able to replicate without merely looking ridiculous.
Ron's face went an unflattering maroon at the extremely inappropriate insinuations, his insides seeming to boil, his fists clenching. That bastard couldn't speak to Hermione like that, never, never, and especially not in front of him—
"Ron," Hermione announced, a bit shrilly, "we're leaving! Bye, Luna, see you!"
"Goodbye, Hermione," sing-songed Luna, "you can tell me about the cake later."
He was distracted from the urge to punch McLaggen as, to his great surprise and exultation, Hermione looped her arm through his and tugged gently, so his legs automatically began to follow her sweeping exit out the door. Which was just as well, Ron supposed, seeing as McLaggen would've probably flattened him.
As they left, Ron thought he could hear Luna speaking to McLaggen in her unmistakable breathy, detached sort of voice, making what Ron considered a very accurate observation: "That was rather silly of you, wasn't it?"
Author's note: To be concluded.
About as much use as a chocolate hammer: I think this expression belongs to Terry Pratchett, although I've seen very similar expressions other places.
Edit (07.08.2011): I'd accidentally written the spirit of Christmas past instead of the Spirit of Christmas Present. Thanks for pointing that out for me, Liselle129. :)
Hermione's hair was left down for the party both in the book and in the film, so I just kept it like that.
Is it just me, or do cakes seem to pop up a lot in my stories? Eh, serves me right for writing so many frickin' Christmas fics, for one thing, I guess.