There was less than a quarter of an hour before the Yule Ball was to begin as Harry sat on his bed on Christmas Day and finished fastening his dress shoes. When he had straightened back up, he gasped audibly at the sight of Ron’s reflection in the mirror across the room. His friend looked as if he’d been attacked by a werewolf, or at least a Kneazle gone mad “ deep, raw scratches covered most of his cheeks and chin, some extending down onto his jaw and neck.
Harry hurried to his side. “What happened to your face?” he demanded.
“Well, I was shaving, wasn’t I?” Ron retorted, his ears and the parts of his face that were unmarred flushing a bright red.
“With the Sword of Gryffindor?” Harry cried. “The Shaving Charm’s not supposed to harm you. It just shrinks the hairs! It looks like you used Sectumsempra on yourself.”
“I know,” Ron moaned, staring at his reflection with disgust. “What am I going to do? I can’t go down there like this.”
“Well, why didn’t you just heal it?” Harry asked, puzzled.
Ron raised his wand hand to show Harry how much it was trembling. “Tried that, didn’t I?” he said. “Just made it worse.”
Harry shook his head and taking pity on him, drew out his own wand and promptly performed the simple first aid spells to get rid of the ugly gashes. As he worked, he marvelled at how agitated Ron was. Although Harry knew the cause of his friend’s anxiety, he never imagined that he would be, literally, shaking in his shoes.
“There,” he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. The cuts were almost completely healed, with just the slightest of pink lines visible where the deepest scratches had been. “Now,” Harry went on, “where did you put it?”
Ron was still staring into the mirror, warily eyeing the results. With a shrug he began tugging at his tie, trying to get it to form a recognizable bow. It didn’t work. Harry smacked his hand away to tie it for him. Seeing that Ron was making no indication of ever responding to his question he prodded, “Well?”
“Well, what?” Ron replied.
Harry exhaled forcibly, trying to maintain a degree of patience. “Where’s the ring?”
“Oh, right ...” Ron patted the front of his dress robes for a few seconds before a look of absolute terror fell across his face. “It’s gone!” he screamed. “Where’d it go? Where is it?” He frantically scanned the floor then flew across the room to rip back the hangings on his bed, tearing apart the covers in a desperate search.
Harry clamped a hand on his shoulder to halt him, then calmly raised his wand. “Accio engagement ring!” he commanded and instantly the little velvet box holding the precious item soared out from under Ron’s bed and flew over to Harry, who snatched it out of the air and tucked it into one of the outer pockets of his robes.
Just then Neville entered the room, resplendent in his own navy blue dress robes. He was attending the Ball with a very pretty yet dreadfully-clumsy seventh year from Beauxbatons. She had been the one girl who had not danced at the opening ceremonies upon the delegation’s arrival at Hogwarts. After seeing her around the school, tripping over specks of dust on the ground and inadvertently crashing into people at inopportune times (such as when both were on a long flight of stairs), Harry and Ron hadn’t needed to ask why.
Neville drew up to the other young men and beamed at them both. “It’s all in order, Ron,” he said. “Got the ring?”
Harry passed it over without a word.
Neville pocketed it before saying, “I’ll set everything off as soon as I see you enter the garden.” At the look on Ron’s face he added, “Don’t worry, I’ve put a identifying sensor on the garden perimeter. It’ll alert me instantly when you and Hermione head through the trees.” He consulted a list in his hand. “Well, I think that’s everything. So I guess I’m off,” he announced. “Mustn’t keep Debula waiting ...” He turned and strode from the room without waiting for a reply. “Enjoy the evening,” he threw over his shoulder as he disappeared through the door.
Harry watched him go before turning back to his friend to see that he had turned an awful chalky colour. Ron burped loudly. “Going to be sick ...” he gasped, and ran for the door.
Later, Harry couldn’t believe the change. Ron looked remarkably calm, and well, as he twirled around the dance floor with Hermione, the faint marks on his face no longer visible in the candlelight flickering down upon them all in the Great Hall.
Harry didn’t realize he had been staring until his attention was diverted back to his own dance partner when he felt Ginny’s breath on his ear and she whispered, “You’d better just be admiring the Tinting Charm I put on her hair. Otherwise, considering the amount of time you’ve been watching her, I just might have to get jealous.”
Ginny’s eyes were dancing with amusement when Harry slid his gaze back to her. “Tinting Charm? What?”
Ginny lifted her eyes to the magically-enhanced ceiling before nodding her head towards Hermione. Harry followed her glance and noticed, for the first time, that there were auburn accents intermittently streaked throughout Hermione’s usually-uniform brown hair.
“Oh. Auburn,” Harry remarked. “Suits her.”
“I gather you weren’t watching her, then?” Her eyes were laughing at him again.
Harry shook his head. “Your brother.” Before she could make a joke, he quickly added, “He was so nervous earlier, he was actually shaking. And he might have been sick. He’s like a different person now.”
Ginny pretended to think deeply about it. “Perhaps,” she mused, “after Hermione flew down the dormitory stairs, saw the bunch of flowers he’d conjured for her, and in gratitude snogged him senseless in front of half the Gryffindors, it loosened him up a bit ...”
Harry laughed. “Could’ve had something to do with it.”
“Why was he so nerv “” Ginny began.
“Speaking of which “”
They shared a quiet smile for speaking at the same time. Harry was somewhat relieved when Ginny, apparently disregarding her own question, asked, “Speaking of what? Flowers? Or snogging?”
Harry’s grin was sly as he tightened his arms around her. “What do you think?” he retorted and kissed her before she could reply.
When they eventually came up for air, it was only to discover that the waltz had ended and they were now the only couple on the dance floor still in each other’s arms. With a sheepish glance around, they broke apart, Ginny murmuring something about having to use the loo. Harry offered to get them something to drink while she was gone.
As Harry poured the drinks a few moments later, he saw Ron and Hermione step off the dance floor and make their way over to the refreshment table; Hermione’s face was flushed with pleasure and the exertion of dancing. She beamed at Harry when she saw him.
“Hi,” she said. “Having fun?”
“Yeah, I am. You?”
Harry watched as Ron solicitously passed her a glass of pumpkin juice without a word which she took eagerly, peering at him closely for a moment or two. “Very much,” she finally answered Harry, and he thought he could detect in her tone just the slightest hint of surprise.
Ron downed a glass of juice himself before asking, “When you’re finished, did you want to dance some more, or take a walk outside?”
Hermione finished her drink, too, and considered the question. “A walk,” she replied. “Might hurt my feet a little less.”
With a nod, Ron relieved her of her glass and offered his arm. Again, Hermione peered at him but he seemed not to notice. Harry, knowing full well Ron’s reason for suggesting a walk, tried to catch his eye, but his friend’s gaze remained fixed on Hermione, and Harry could only watch as Ron led her towards the doors.
Harry shrugged, and picking up his two glasses, went to find his date.
As Ron guided Hermione through the doors of the Great Hall and into the Entrance Hall, he felt the cool evening air wafting in through the open front doors. Steering Hermione to the cloak check area, he claimed her wrap, placed it gently around her mostly-bare shoulders, and led her out into the night.
Descending the main stone steps of the castle, the two of them had a clear view of the elaborate garden Professor Sprout, Neville, and the seventh years had created in honour of the occasion. Over 300 feet long and fifty feet wide, it was smaller than a Quidditch pitch but not by much. It was oblong-shaped and so thickly-treed that it gave the impression upon first entering of stepping into a forest. Once inside, though, that illusion was gone and all you saw were the flowers. Ron wasn’t sure if he could name even a few of the species surrounding them, but he did know the Herbology students under Professor Sprout’s direction had outdone themselves.
Impeccably-trimmed hedges, whimsically-shaped bushes, overflowing beds of the most exquisitely-formed blooms “ every artfully-designed feature was breathtakingly-beautiful. The colours were dazzling: vivid reds, blazing oranges and yellows, brilliant blues and purples; and the fragrance, even the slightest inhalation guaranteed the sweetest of olfactory sensations as the blooms’ aromatic delights filled the air. But it was the sound Ron couldn’t get over: he could just discern the faintest tinkling of bells, barely resonating on the edge of audibility, as if the very air surrounding them was chiming. Each sigh of the evening breeze causing the blooms to sway and sending their soft jingling into the night. Ron didn’t think he had ever seen, or heard, anything more beautiful, even the air was warmer within this enchanted space.
He turned to Hermione to see her reaction and the look on her face told him she was just as enthralled as he. “Ron,” she breathed, awestruck, “it’s so lovely.”
He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Yeah. It is.” Facing her, he brought his hand up to cup her cheek. “About as lovely as you.”
Her snort of objection was lost as he bent down and his mouth descended on hers. A few moments later, Hermione’s face flushed once more, he straightened up, just in time to see Neville approaching.
“Oh, Neville,” Hermione cried, “the garden is wonderful! Everyone did such a beautiful job.”
He smiled at her. “Glad you like it,” he said simply, but Ron could see the pleasure that had lit his features at her words.
“Well, good night,” Neville murmured, as he passed on Ron’s left. Unseen by Hermione, one of his eyes closed in the slightest of winks. Ron, placing a hand behind his back, shot his friend a thumbs up before turning his attention back to Hermione who had just seen something else.
“Oh, Ron, look!” she squealed. Directly in front of them was a bower, formed completely from entwined tree branches and vines, and housing a small white marble bench, made for two. As they watched, the pale pink blossoms festooning the sides of the structure swirled briefly and changed from their original arch shape to a large, rosy heart.
“Oh, Ron,” she said again, “isn’t it“ It’s ... It’s so ...” Still astonished, her voice trailed off, unable to complete the thought.
Not able to stop the grin splitting his mouth, Ron remarked, “Rather romantic, wouldn’t you say?”
Hermione wheeled around to face him. “Ron? Did you“”
“C’mere,” he said, cutting her off and grasping her hand again, his own trembling ever so slightly. It was now or never. He led her to the bench and motioned for her to take a seat upon it, which she did, but promptly opened her mouth to speak.
“Shhh...” he murmured, “I wanna get this right.”
Her forehead creased in confusion, it was clear that she was dying to ask questions, but somewhat surprisingly, Ron thought, she held her tongue.
“Now,” he began, “I’ve already had a chat with your dad ...”
“With my dad?” Hermione repeated, obviously unable to stifle the query, her forehead creasing again. “But why“” She broke off abruptly as Ron shook his head at her.
“So that just leaves ...” His voice trailed off and, still gripping her hand tightly, as much for emotional support as anything else, he lowered himself to one knee before her, his heart pounding madly in his chest.
With a gasp, Hermione’s free hand flew to her mouth, comprehension dawning on her startled face.
At the sight, Ron’s heart thumped even more insistently, somewhere near his Adam’s apple, making him wonder if he would be able to force any words out past it. He swallowed hard and took a steadying, though somewhat ragged, breath.
“Hermione,” he said, plunging in, his eyes on the hand in his. “Oh, blimey, wait. I almost forgot...” Releasing her hand, he stood and, reaching into his robes for his wand, he drew it out, and tapped one of the flowers above them. It broke free of the others and floated down to them. Directly in front of Hermione, it seemed to blossom before her, opening to reveal an engagement ring nestled inside.
Hermione gasped again but before she could speak, Ron had plucked it from its bed of petals and, dropping to his knee again, held it out to her. “I’ve been mad about you for ages, Hermione.” He paused to look up at her and saw that she was smiling at him. She was gripping his free hand with both of hers.
“Since the day we met, I’d reckon, although I would never have admitted it back then. But all that time, I didn’t think you could ever fall for a git like me.” He could feel her give a little squeeze at that. He squeezed back.
“But you did. I still don’t know how. But you did. And that ...” He swallowed thickly again, letting out a self-conscious laugh.
“We fight,” he went on, “about everything and anything ...”
“Oh, honestly, Ron, how can you say that?” Hermione interrupted. “We don’t. Not really.”
“Oi!” Ron cried. “Could you let me finish here, Woman?”
“Ron!” Hermione shouted, giving his shoulder a shove, but she was laughing.
“Right, where was I?” he asked, feigning exasperation. “We never fight, then,” he continued, the sarcasm obvious, and glowered at her from under his fringe.
She stuck out her tongue in response.
Ron glared again, and made a big show of clearing his throat before continuing, “So, what do you say, Hermione? Will you marry“”
She had flung her arms around his neck, nearly knocking him backwards and almost sending the ring flying, before he’d even finished the question.
“For goodness’ sake, Ron,” she said, “you know I will.”
It was some time later before the two of them made their way back to the Yule Ball. Hermione was admiring the ring, now on her left hand, as they strolled towards the castle, arm in arm. The setting was simple, yet elegant: a single pearl, surrounded by six tiny diamonds.
“Why a pearl?” Hermione asked.
Ron stared straight ahead, his face unreadable. “Well, you do know how they’re made, don’t you?”
“What d’you mean?” Hermione was frowning again.
“You know ... a grain of sand or dirt gets into the oyster and irritates the hell out of it, until it makes a“ OW! Blimey, Hermione. That hurt!”
“Good,” Hermione said, looking vindicated, having just pinched him, hard, on the arm. With a smirk, she lifted the skirt of her dress, quickened her pace, and flounced to the stairs of the castle three steps ahead of him.