AN: Good morning! I know you all were expecting an update yesterday, but due to my new fic posting as part of Romione Trope Fest (check it out on Tumblr), I wanted to wait. I've taken the date change into consideration with this chapter, and I hope you enjoy it.

Everyone has forgotten Ron's birthday, and he fucking hates them all for it. Will a quiet drink at the Leaky change his mood?

Ron

Ron is twenty-nine years and one day old today. Not that he's counting, of course. It's hard to give a shit when the people he loves the most don't even make the effort to send him a text. Do birthdays even count if you don't get a chance to celebrate them?

Yesterday was gross; one of the worst days of this year so far. Because it was a Friday, he'd hoped to have an easy one, but Robards sent Ron and Harry on a last-minute mission, and by the time he got home, Ron didn't have the energy to order himself takeaway. Instead, he warmed up the suspicious-looking tub of leftovers he found in his fridge and fell asleep watching some stupid Marvel movie. He didn't even finish his bottle of beer.

Happy fucking birthday.

By the time he woke up mid-morning, his sour mood hadn't improved. Ron has no plans for the weekend (minus roast dinner at his mum's tomorrow evening, obviously) and the constant reminder that he is all a-fucking-lone is pushing him into a deep depression. Harry cancelled their usual game of pick-up Quidditch because the weather was shit, and when Ron sent a mass text out to try and find someone to spend the day with, nobody bothered to reply.

Spending a normal weekend by yourself is hard enough, but the one after your birthday is the fucking worst. What had Ron done to deserve such shit? He should be out partying, watching the Cannons, doing all the things he loves. Instead, he'll have to tackle the massive pile of laundry he's allowed to pile up in the corner of his bathroom.

Whoop-de-fucking-do.

Shovelling the last mouthful of Coco Pops into his mouth, he lets the spoon fall to the bowl with a clatter and gulps the last of his juice before picking up the morning's edition of The Daily Prophet. The Auror team arrested six copycat Death Eaters last night, three of which had been because of him, yet it's Harry's name in the headlines. Again.

"I'm the most underappreciated man in the world," he laments to himself with a heavy sigh, as he stretches beyond the parchment for his coffee. Despite his malcontent, he absorbs every line of the article, wanting to make sure the reporter used the official line released by the MLE press office. It's been years since the Battle of Hogwarts, yet the press still loves to glorify Harry-fucking-Potter. He barely has to lift a finger, and they all cry about how he's the saviour of the magical world.

Fucking git.

By the time Ron finishes reading the paper from front to back, his coffee mug is empty. He debates Accio-ing the rest of the jug over, but too much caffeine is bad for him nowadays. Any more than two cups, and he gets palpitations—never mind the shits it gives him, too. As he seeks out his wand to perform the charm anyway, his phone dings, distracting him from his mission. Shifting onto one buttcheek for better access, he digs the device out of his jogging bottoms pocket and lifts it to his face to unlock it.

"Hermione? What the fuck does she want? Better be grovelling or I'm not interested." Ron opens the message and reads it out loud, imitating her in a prissy high-pitched voice. "Fancy a quiet drink in the Leaky later? No I do fucking not. At least, not with friends who forget it's my birthday and don't apologise. And especially not with someone I had a fucking agreement with. Where were you last night, Hermione Granger? Too fucking busy sucking up to the Minister, I bet."

His thumb lingers over the screen, desperate to bash out an angry retort and tell Hermione to piss off and leave him alone. But the silence of the flat rushes to his ears, causing a pang of loneliness to tug on his stomach and bitter bile to creep into his mouth.

He doesn't want to be alone this weekend. It fucking sucks. And with the news about Lav and Seamus' pregnancy still haunting his nightmares (especially now it's been officially announced on Facebook), he's feeling more isolated than ever. Everyone else gets to have a nice time, to have babies and get married and enjoy life. Where's his happy ever after?

But perhaps he can use the invite to his advantage? He should get Harry out too and guilt-trip the pair of them into feeling ridiculously shit for the way they've treated him. He does a lot for his friends, and this is how they repay him? After a bit of whining, they'll be desperate to make it up to Ron, and he can milk that for free drinks all evening if he's clever about it.

Maybe he can find some woman stupid enough to want to come home with him so he can finally get his birthday shag. Although, as soon as the image ventures into his head, he pushes it away with a shudder. It's pure bravado or loneliness speaking. Ron isn't keen on one-night stands. He enjoys commitment and having a girlfriend far too much for that.

Still, the original sentiment stands. His friends are shit and they must pay for being dicks. His plan is forming nicely and a lop-sided grin spreads over his face as he texts back:

Abso-fucking-lutely! Are you inviting Harry, too?

Ron collects his dirty breakfast things and moves them to the sink. He'll sort them out at some point today. By the time he's whistling his way towards the shower, his phone pings again.

Of course :) See you at seven?

Seven is perfect. Gives him enough time to be ridiculously lazy for most of the day. He may even play a bit of his newest video game. Treat yourself, you deserve it. He'll do a quick tidy up of his flat before heading out.

Just in case.

⁂

When Ron saunters into the Leaky Cauldron, his long arms swinging at his sides, he's almost twenty minutes late. Although timekeeping isn't a strong point of his, he stretched out his arrival time for as long as he could to piss Hermione off. She hates it when he's tardy, but Ron prefers to only show up when he knows the others will be there.

Sitting alone in a pub is fucking miserable.

But the bar is quiet, even more so than usual, and for a moment he worries he might have the wrong day. Perhaps it wasn't even his birthday yesterday? Maybe he's been surly for the wrong reasons? Had he been hit with a Confundus on his mission yesterday?

He checks the messages on his phone to confirm. Hermione said later, meaning today later, not later in the month or the year. If that's what she'd meant, she would have set a date. Hermione is nothing but precise. Frowning, he tucks the device back into his pocket before stepping up to the bar.

"Alright, Hannah?" Ron rests both arms on the sticky wood before leaning over to check what's on tap tonight. If he's going to be buying his own drinks, he can at least have the good shit. "Have Hermione and Harry shown their faces yet?"

Hannah finishes drying the glass in her hand and tucks it back into its home before replying, "Nope! Haven't seen anyone all day. Apart from Nev, of course. But he lives here."

Without waiting for Ron's order, she fills a tankard with his favourite drink. The sound of the liquid swirling in the glass is music to his ears and his mouth waters as the amber liquid foams the perfect amount. As she slides the mug towards him, a smile appears on her face. "I did get an owl earlier though. It said as soon as you show your face, I should send you upstairs."

Upstairs? The pub is quiet, there's no indication of anything going on, but the hairs on his arms prickle anyway. Memories of the pretend Death Eaters from yesterday's mission invade his mind, causing the brain scars on his arm to ache in sympathy. Ron's fingers itch to reach for his wand.

"Did it say who the note was from?" he asks, his mouth going dry in terror.

Giving him an empty glance, Hannah shrugs before getting back to tidying behind the bar.

"Well, thanks."

He takes a long draw from his drink anyway, smacking his lips together as the bitter tang travels down his throat. If he's going to die tonight, it might as well be with a small buzz on. Ron's had few joys in life, but a good pint in his favourite establishment is one of them.

Curling his hand around the glass, he takes the stairs up to the function room one by one, utilising all of his Auror skills. His heart pounds, but he tries to train his ears to listen over the thump, thump, thump in his chest for any indication of what might be waiting for him at the top of the steps. To an outsider, it might look like he's focusing on the liquid sloshing in his glass, but his eyes swivel around the pub for anything out of place. Ron's spare hand is in his pocket, where he stowed his wand before leaving his flat, and it vibrates with the potential duel ahead.

He fills his mouth with another gulp of beer before pushing open the battered wooden door. The hinges wail like the old ghoul at The Burrow, the noise vibrating down his spine. Ron doesn't want to die aged twenty-nine years and one day. He still has so much left to achieve.

An explosion of light and sounds frightens the drink out of his hand. It splashes onto the floor, seeping through his trainers and soaking his socks. Millions of faceless strangers shout 'surprise' in his face as indoor fireworks explode and magical cameras ignite.

It's not a moment he's keen to have immortalised in a picture.

When the attack doesn't come, and his pulse returns to its normal rate, Ron is surprised to see his family and friends staring back at him.

"What the—?"

"Careful!" Harry warns as he peels the half-empty tankard from Ron's hand and replaces it with a full one. "Your mum and dad are here, and you don't want a clipped ear during your birthday party. You know what Molly is like!"

"My birthday party?"

He can't comprehend it. Ron was sure everyone had forgotten. He hadn't received so much as one card, not even off Aunt Muriel yesterday.

The liquid of his fresh pint calms his nerves and as he steps further into the room, he notices it's decorated in orange. The table cloths, balloons, the massive banner hanging on the furthest wall are all in his favourite colour and everyone in attendance is wearing something orange.

Hannah has even dyed the drinks to match the decor.

"You didn't think we'd forgotten about you, did you?" Hermione emerges from the crowd, wearing a form-fitting orange dress that reaches her knees and holding some sort of orange cocktail. "We've always celebrated your birthday. Well, apart from the year you got poisoned."

Ron's jaw drops and his heart pounds again as he takes in the appearance of his female best friend. Harry hovers in his peripheral, yet Ron only has eyes for Hermione. She looks fucking amazing, and the smile on her face sends tingles racing all over his body and blood straight to his cock. It's a good job he swallowed before she appeared, or he might have dribbled.

It takes another mouthful of beer for him to get his thoughts in order, and he gulps it down hard before saying, "Did you two…?"

Harry shakes his head. "Nah, this was all on Hermione." He pauses, cupping his hand to his ear in an over-the-top demonstration of listening before frowning. "I think Ginny is calling me. I'll be back soon."

Once Harry disappears, Ron turns his attention back to Hermione, trying his best to ignore the persistent flutter of Thunderbird wings in his heart. Why is he getting all sentimental over this? Ron doesn't have feelings for her, right?

"Y-you did this for me?"

"After the treat you gave me for Valentine's Day, I knew I had to pull out all the stops for your birthday."

Too speechless to say thank you, Ron reaches over and squeezes her empty hand, his stomach swooping in delight at the burn of electricity from their contact. It has to be the excitement of the party.

It's like she can read his mind as she continues, "You're welcome. I have to go and make sure the buffet is ready, I suspect everyone is getting hungry. Why don't you go and mingle? I'll come and find you later."

Ron doesn't want her to leave. He wants to spend all night showing her how grateful he is for all the effort she's put in. "You promise?"

"I wouldn't be a good Holidate if I left you all alone, would I? Anyway, I want to dance with you at some point."

⁂

An hour and two drinks later, Ron finds himself propped against the upstairs bar, chatting away to Neville and Dean. Hermione did not invite Seamus, and for once, Ron is happy he decided to spill the circumstances around his break-up with Lav. Seeing the two of them together tonight would have spoiled his party.

The start of his night has been a whirlwind of greeting everyone. There are so many people here to see him and a pile of presents and cards wait for him by the door. Half an hour ago, Hermione announced the food was ready but Ron hadn't even had a chance to sample the tasty treats on offer. It was his next stop once he'd finished catching up. He's been eyeing up the plates of food that keep on magically replenishing every time they're empty all evening.

As their conversation runs out, Ginny wriggles between the friends, beaming at her brother. Her cheeks are already flushed pink, a sign she's been enjoying the orange drinks a little too much.

"So," she drawls, her brown eyes glittering with mischief. "Hermione organised this party for you?"

Ron frowns. "Yeah. She's my best friend, you know? And at least someone did something for me."

"I was going to cook you dinner," Ginny argues back. "But Hermione invited us here instead. So are you two fucking now?"

What the fuck, Ginny? Ron coughs as he chokes on a hard lump of beer, his eyes watering as he struggles to catch his breath. His sister has never strayed from the point and is the brashest and most direct out of all the Weasley siblings. But he wasn't expecting that question from her. What has Hermione been gossiping about?

Once the air returns to his lungs, he squeezes out, "No. We're not sleeping together."

"I thought you were friends with benefits?"

"Who the fuck told you that?"

Ginny's eyes flit to Harry, who is yet again hovering on the edge of their conversation, pretending not to listen in. Ron glares at his best friend before rolling his eyes and turning his attention back to his sister.

"It's a strictly platonic situation. Holidays only."

"So, what's the point?"

"Well, since Harry is the world's worst fucking wingman and the dating pool seems to have dried up, Hermione and I have an agreement that we'll attend all the big holidays and events together so neither of us have to be alone. Easter, Percy's wedding, birthdays. It makes it a bit more fun, and this way, I don't have to sit at the fucking kiddie table again."

"Oy! I'm not the worst wingman," Harry argues as he wanders over to the pair.

"Yeah, you are. And the world's worst best friend, too. Telling your wife Hermione and I are shagging."

Harry's jaw drops. "I did not! Anyway, on the wingman thing. When you have a kid, you lose touch, you know."

Ron bursts out laughing as Ginny's eyes narrow. "You have two kids, you dick. What, did you forget about Albus? 'Cos I'm pretty sure I'll never forget him after squeezing him out of me. Fuck the Potter big head gene." Venom laces through her words as she spits them out before swivelling back to face her brother, a sweet smile back on her face. "Harry might be an awful wingman and an awful father, but I'm good. I've got your back."

Ron cocks an eyebrow at her, his stomach churning. "What have you done?"

"I'm not saying Annalise is recently single, and I definitely didn't give her your phone number, but if I had, would it be a bad thing?"

"Uhm, I, I don't…"

It's a predicament to be in. Sure it would be nice to have a girlfriend again, but he's not sure how he feels about his sister setting him up, and with a Holyhead Harpie, at that. Would it be a betrayal of the Cannons to shag someone on the opposing team?

"All I'm saying is maybe give it a try," Ginny says as she pushes herself off the bar and takes Harry's hand. "It might not be the worst thing to happen. Especially if you're positive you're not interested in Hermione."

As the couple wander away, Ron's stomach grumbles. He downs the last of his pint before weaving his way through the crowd to the buffet table. Maybe Ginny's right and she's done him a favour? If nothing else, Annalise might be up for a bit of fun. And he and Hermione did promise to keep their options open. After all, they're not dating.

Hermione

Hermione is having a great time at Ron's party. It was worth all the hard work she put in making sure it was the best night ever. The orange wine is flowing freely; the small dancefloor is continuously packed with amber figures, bopping under tangerine lights; and all her favourite people are in the same room, which she decorated perfectly in satsuma banners and balloons.

What more could a girl want?

Most importantly, the birthday boy seems to be enjoying himself. It's been a while since she last saw him, yet her heart skips a beat as he approaches her now, his stupid lop-sided grin covering his face.

She reaches for another carrot-coloured sandwich as he stops in front of her.

"Having a good night?" she asks before nibbling on it. Hermione needs to eat more, as her words have the smallest of slurs, almost joining together in a series of syllables. How many glasses of wine has she had tonight? She lost count after three.

But she must be making sense, as Ron's smile widens, stretching to fill his deep-blue eyes, making her knees go weak. Yeah, you should eat more before you pass out.

"I'm having a fucking brilliant night. I know I couldn't say it earlier, Hermione, but thank you for this. It's well beyond your Holidate responsibilities."

Remembering their arrangement, Hermione shrugs. Tonight's party has nothing to do with their holiday agreement. Ron deserves it after an awful start to the year and some of the hardest missions he's ever had to face. And that's what best friends do, right? Spoil each other, especially when there's nobody else around to do it.

"You're welcome," she replies. "Did you honestly think we'd forgotten about you, though?"

He looks sheepish, his attention dropping to his beer-stained trainers. "Well, I did wonder…"

Pouting, Hermione throws her arms around Ron, spilling wine over his shoulder although he doesn't seem to notice. "We would never! I wanted to do something special for you. Anyway, now you owe me two Holidate favours."

"What?" Ron pulls away, frowning at her. "How is it two?"

"Well, I saved you from Seamus and Lav. And now tonight."

"Uhm, no. I took you for chicken on Valentine's Day, remember?"

Hermione laughs as she lets go of him and helps herself to more food. "Fried chicken does not count as a date, Ron."

"Whatever, it's only one favour I owe you."

Desperate to argue back again, she abandons her quest for nourishment as her hands curl into tiny fists by her side. But it's not in malice. Hermione loves a good fight with Ron, and despite the venom that used to be laced through their words, there's only joy in their sparring now.

But she doesn't get a chance as Fred yells over at them, "Oi, lovebirds. Stop snogging and get over here. It's time for shots."

The rest of the Weasley siblings, their significant others and their friends linger by the bar, and there's a massive tray of glasses waiting in the middle. Hermione winces, and she's about to protest when Ron takes her hand and drags her over. The feel of his palm flush against hers gives her a confidence she never even knew she was missing and despite his lack of words, he assures her everything will be alright.

And maybe it'll be okay to let loose this once. She's in a safe environment surrounded by friends. One shot of Firewhiskey won't hurt, right?

⁂

White light burns behind Hermione's eyelids, waking her from a fitful slumber. Why didn't she close the curtains last night? And why is her bed so hard?

She runs her hand over her face, not wanting to open her eyes and face the bare light of day. But her mouth is full of cotton wool, sticking her tongue to the roof of it, and there's a dull thump at the front of her head. Everything aches and she is not okay.

How much did I drink last night?

Visions of her final hours race through her mind. Her stomach churns like a bag of booze-soaked Flobberworms has been emptied into it. The twins wanted to do shots. Percy threw up after one. Molly and Arthur were shaking it like a polaroid picture. She'd been dancing with Ron, or was that Charlie? Why do all the Weasleys look the same?! Colin and his blasted camera had been everywhere. Had she told him to fuck off?

Peeling one eye open, she stares at the white ceiling above her, unable to move for fear of emptying those pesky Flobberworms all over herself. Wait, that's not right. The lampshade in view is grey, not blush-pink, and there are stains above her she can't remember being there before.

Hermione's heart races as she takes her time moving into a sitting position, gulping back the sour bile as it rushes into her mouth. The room she's in is not unfamiliar; she recognises the grey battered sofa, the blue curtains and the round wooden table where she's eaten countless takeaways and gossiped about all of their friends. Turns out Hermione didn't make it home last night.

And to make matters worse, she slept on the floor.

"Morning, 'Mione."

Ron's voice is thick and coming from somewhere above her. She spins her head towards the noise, regretting her decision instantly as another wave of nausea takes over her. He's lying on the other settee, his old knitted blanket over his body. But he's too long and wide, and the cover is too holy and old and does an awful job of concealing the slither of bare thigh peeking out from the edge. If Hermione adjusts her gaze ever so slightly, she'd be able to see…

Letting out a thick gasp, she splutters, "Why are you naked?"

Her eyes widen as she scrambles for the duvet she'd slept under last night, panic coursing through her veins. Is she naked too?! Her heart pounds. How could she have let herself get into this sort of mess? There's no way they… They absolutely didn't… Did they?

But as she risks a glance at her body, she recognises the t-shirt she slept in as the one he had on last night, and she's pretty sure the soft cotton protecting her modesty isn't the lace thong she wore under her dress.

"Oh, am I?" Ron lifts the blanket to peer under it, an amused smile appearing on his face. "So I am. Have you been perving on me, Hermione? Did you take a sneaky look?"

"I did not!" she scoffs. "Please be serious, Ron! We didn't…you know…did we?"

Hermione jumps to her feet and Ron's grin grows bigger, taking up almost all of his face as he stares at her. "I don't know, but you're wearing my boxers."

"What?!" She pulls his top down to try and cover herself up. "There's no way we did, I mean, we'd remember, surely?"

"I don't know. There were a lot of shots last night. I can't remember much after Mum and Dad coaxed us onto the dance floor for the Macarena. I didn't even know where they learned the moves, but it looks like Dad got his Muggle radio working, after all."

Groaning, Hermione's face burns up. Had she danced, too? How could she have let herself get this out of control? Sure, there'd been a few glasses of wine last night, but she'd only had one shot, right?

A flash of the packed bar obscures her vision, a pile of empty glasses filling the sticky wooden counter. Panicked, present Hermione tries to count, but there are far too many for her to keep count of, especially in her hungover state. Her embarrassed flush takes over her entire body, as she squirms further away from Ron's naked, prone body. I have to get out of here.

Sensing her shame, Ron sits up but the motion almost lets the blanket drop to his lap, forcing Hermione to avert her eyes. She doesn't need to see that when she's already feeling so ill. Her headache is seeping down her neck, threatening to take control of her whole body, and she needs coffee and a banana before she throws up. Trying her best to keep everything together, she concentrates on counting the freckles on his chest.

Yeah, that helps.

"Well, is there any evidence?"

"What do you mean by evidence?" Hermione shrieks, regretting it instantly as her hangover doubles its effort in protest at her tone.

"Well, I don't know. You're the one with a vagina."

I am not having this conversation with my best friend. How did I let it get this far?!

"I don't think so." She gestures at his lap. "Surely you know."

"Nah, he's looking alright. A bit tired, but that's normal after a party. I don't think we did, you know. I'm sure I'd remember it."

The fact they're having this conversation about Ron's penis increases Hermione's humiliation tenfold, but relief floods her body at his admission. Yet underneath there's something else. Is she disappointed they haven't had sex? No, no way. There's nothing between them. Their missed opportunity at New Year was exactly that, something that didn't happen for a reason. They're friends, nothing more, and all this doubt is the hangover talking. If they were supposed to have sex, they would have done it after the Ministry party, right?

Maybe she should forgo the banana and go straight for a McDonald's?

As if sensing her conflict, Hermione's stomach grumbles. All the embarrassment disappears as Ron grins up at her. How does he have that ability to immediately calm all of my feelings?

"You hungry too, huh? Why don't you pop home and get showered and I'll take us for breakfast. Dinner's not until this evening and I owe you one anyway."

"For the party…" Not for the sex, which we definitely didn't do.

"Yeah, sure, the party."

Nodding, Hermione locates her orange dress which she must have abandoned over the back of a breakfast table chair last night. "Alright, I…. Can you look away so I can get changed?"

"Sure. But what if I saw it all last night, anyway?"

Ron winces as Hermione throws her shoe at him, but he closes his eyes and covers them with his hands to be sure. After making sure he can't see, she pulls her dress on and apparates away without saying goodbye before any more nuggets of information come to light.

What even happened last night?