When Ron Weasley looked at his reflection that evening, he didn't see his usual reflection. He didn't see the gangly, red-haired teen that he had become so used to seeing in the mirror.
Yes, he still had his red hair, and it was almost the same as was normal. A bit less messy, perhaps, but nothing to completely alter his appearance.
He stood straight and tall, unlike his usual slouched posture. It wasn't out of pride – he was exceedingly uncomfortable, and his expression reflected that as well. He felt as if he were a marionette with his strings being pulled so taut that they were in danger of breaking.
What was the discomfort caused by? Dress robes. Why did he have to wear dress robes, anyway? They were uncomfortable, they were a hideous color, and they had enough lace for two wedding dresses.
When Ron Weasley looked in the mirror at that figure that had to be him and yet couldn't possibly be, he was horrified.
He supposed he didn't look particularly bad, but he didn't look very good, either. He looked like himself, yes, but he was so very uncomfortable in the hideous dress robes – glad rags, somebody had called them, since they were apparently his best clothes (he wasn't sure whether or not that was an insult). Yes, they were formal, and yes, that was what was expected of him tonight, but he wished that it wasn't necessary. He looked like a fool already, and he'd look like even more of a fool in a crowd of people.
He did have a date to the Yule Ball. Granted, he hadn't exactly asked her himself, and she wasn't the person that he'd hoped would say yes, but he still had a date. He was hoping that they wouldn't have to spend a lot of time together. Padma Patil was nice, yes, but they hardly knew each other. He knew that the girl he'd have liked to go with supposedly had a date, but he couldn't think of who it could possibly be. Perhaps she was lying.
He sighed, gave up on making his dress robes look any less hideous, and went to the Great Hall.
He didn't have much fun, especially not after he saw Hermione. She was at the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum? She was here as Viktor Krum's date? It was bad enough that she had a date, why did it have to be someone from another school, Harry's competition, someone famous…something that ordinary Ron Weasley could never hope to be?
He couldn't help himself – he kept looking at her. Once or twice, he fancied that she might have been looking back. He found himself wondering: Why didn't I ask her? He wished that it was him that was dancing with her, not Krum. She seemed happy, though. Why couldn't he be making her smile like that? Instead, he was hiding in the corner like some long-forgotten uninvited guest. Padma had left a while ago, dancing with some boy from Beauxbatons. He didn't really mind.
After a while, he found himself becoming not only regretful of the things that he never did, but angry – at himself, at everyone. He didn't want to pinpoint that the fault was his own, even though there was no point pretending that anyone else was to blame. He tried to keep all of the anger in, he really did. He didn't want to get into an argument.
But when the ball ended, he just couldn't hold in the anger any longer. He knew that he was yelling at Hermione, and the rational part of his mind was telling him to stop, but the emotional part didn't have any of this logic and kept going. He saw the tears running down her face, the tears that she was trying so hard to hold back, and still he couldn't stop. It wasn't her fault, he knew that, but he couldn't stand blaming himself any longer.
He stormed back up to the Common Room by himself, leaving Hermione alone in the Great Hall. He was shaking in his anger, and he knew that his eyes were watering with tears that he didn't want to admit were there. Once he got to the Common Room, he crashed into the nearest chair and put his head in his hands.
He felt as horrible as he was sure that he looked in his hideous lacy dress robes. He couldn't even feel the discomfort from the robes anymore; his emotions seemed to overpower all physical feelings. He was sure that he looked almost the same as he had when he walked into the Great Hall earlier that evening, but he felt so much worse. At least the a few hours ago, all of his emotions were the relatively easily dismissible embarrassment and discomfort. Now he had guilt and anger and regret plaguing his thoughts.
He bit his lip, didn't bother to straighten his dress robes, and returned to his dormitory.