Word Count: 607

"You look amazing," Ron says.

And she really does. Pansy looks like she was made for this night. Then again, maybe she was. After all, she's the one who grew up attending these pretentious parties. It's natural for her to look so elegant and beautiful in her emerald dress.

Ron, on the other hand, is terrified that he sticks out like a sore thumb. His suit is nice. Pansy had made sure he would look perfect for the party at her father's. Still, even if he looks the part, he feels like an imposter. At the end of the day, he is still a Weasley. After the war, that name came to mean something among most. Some, though, still cling to their pureblood values and call him a traitor.

Pansy pulls out a golden compact mirror, touching up her lipstick. When she snaps it shut and returns it to her purse, she's all smiles. "And you look like you might vomit," she notes.

Ron snorts. Pansy is as blunt as always. It's one of the many reasons he fell in love with her during that strange and wild time after the war. By all accounts, they ought to hate each other, but they don't. Really, he's more grateful than he'll ever admit.

"Your dad hates me," he reminds her.

She shrugs. "And your sister hates me," she says simply. "They will get over it."

She doesn't give him a chance to respond. She links her arm with his and leads him inside.

It's beautiful. After the war, Ron and his friends had been invited to various formal events. None of them compare to the Parkinson estate. It's like someone decided to hold a party in the middle of a museum. A party for only the wealthy and influential. A party Ron Weasley has absolutely no hiskness being part of.

And yet he is. He should hate it, but he doesn't. Not really. Pansy smiles as she guides him along, grabbing something from a tray held by a passing waiter. "Try this."

It looks like a bunch of black balls in a nest of slime on top of a cracker. Ron's stomach churns violently at the sight of it. He takes a bite, nearly choking. Too salty. "That is disgusting."

Pansy laughs. "I suppose caviar is an acquired taste," she muses.

"You knew I would hate it. You just wanted me to suffer."

Instead of an answer, she just smirks and grabs two glasses of champagne. At least it's sweet enough to get rid of the taste in his mouth.

"It really doesn't bother you that I'm so…"

Ron trails off, searching for the right word. It's so easy to feel sorry for himself, to fall into self-pity. He forces himself not to go there.

"I don't fit in," he says after several moments of silence.

She smiles at him, resting her head on his shoulder for just a fraction of a second. "That's what I like about you. The blokes I grew up with?" She waves a dismissive hand. "But you? You're different. I like it."

"Aren't you a little old for teenage rebellion?" he teases.

"Dance with me."

And he does. He is awkward where she is graceful, but they make it work somehow. That's just how they are, really. They clash, and they shouldn't fit together at all, but they do, and somehow they make it work.

Maybe he doesn't belong here. Maybe he never will. But it doesn't matter. As long as Pansy is by his side, Ron will be okay. He will always feel right at home.

And that's all he really needs.