FIC: A Long Time Coming (Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson)
Title: A Long Time Coming
Author/Artist: persephone33
Characters: Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson
Prompt number: 70
Word Count: 6,897
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: Theirs is a sweeping romance, one they may not realize is even happening, until it does.
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters. I’m not making any money from this. I write only for my own pleasure and hopefully yours, as well.
Author’s Notes: Thank you to the incomparable V & the sweet, darling J. You guys are so good to me, I just want to squeeze ya.
A Long Time Coming
Ron stood amidst the swirling mass of dancers, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the elusive, beautiful brunette in the red silk gown on the opposite side of the ballroom. She’d been dodging him all evening, despite his persistent efforts to reach her. He hadn’t even been able to catch her eye, yet he knew that she knew he was there. He felt it.
It was this sort of frustration, his inability to understand how women thought, that made him revert to his seventeen year-old self, when he’d had no confidence in his relations with the fairer sex.
He was older now, though, damn it all. He knew more.
And just because his marriage had dissolved into nothing salvageable didn’t mean he didn’t have desirable qualities.
He thought he probably did.
Some, at any rate.
Fine. A few. Still, the object of his affection, if you could call her that, (and he did, he thought) seemed oblivious to his charms. She seemed to be ignoring him altogether. Pansy Parkinson was pretending that he didn’t exist.
Ron didn’t care for it. Not one bit.
He approached the bar, having made it successfully through the throng of dancers, and realized that now Pansy was on the other side of the ballroom altogether. His head dropped and he exhaled heavily, ordering a double Firewhisky, neat.
“Troubles, Weasley?” drawled a voice to his left.
Damn it all, he thought. Ron squeezed his eyes together in the hopes that if he held very still, that his brother-in-law would get bored, forget he was there and simply walk away.
“Are you having some sort of episode?” Draco Malfoy persisted. “Your sister wouldn’t forgive me if I let you die here, you know.”
Ron cracked an eye and peered at the blond haired man, who was gazing back at him with an amused expression.
“I’m not going to die, Malfoy,” Ron bit out.
“Cheers, then,” Draco said. This was uttered without any sort of relieved sigh, Ron noted. In fact, Ron thought he might have heard a touch of disappointment in the other man’s voice. “I trust you’re not having a good time at the gala, then.”
Ron took a large gulp of his drink. “No, not especially,” he answered, coughing.
“Easy, old man.” Draco thumped him on the back, an action that Ron thought he did with a bit too much satisfaction. “I think I can probably help you with your trouble, you know.”
“I doubt that.”
His brother-in-law gave him a look. “I know her rather well, after all.”
“Her who?” Ron asked, arranging his face into what he thought might be the picture of confused innocence.
“Good God, Weasley. Does that work on anyone? You really are a spectacularly bad liar.”
Ron scowled. “Some people.”
“Blind and deaf people, perhaps.” Draco waved a hand dismissively. “Pansy, though. Here’s the first thing you should know: Don’t assume that everything she says is the complete truth.”
“So she’s a liar?”
“What if she is? It’s, after all, something you evidently aspire to.” Draco frowned, then continued, “And it’s not lying, per se. It’s more like embroidering the truth for self preservation.”
Ron nodded as if he understood.
Sadly, he did not.
“The second you should know about Pansy...” Draco faltered. Ron didn’t think he’d ever seen this particular man stumble over words, and it made him pay closer attention. “She rather enjoys being pursued.”
Ron nodded again. He actually got that one.
“And the third thing, Weasley,” Draco began, his voice becoming deadly quiet. “If you in any way hurt my dearest friend, I will hunt you down like an animal and eviscerate you, laugh while I let wild animals feast upon your entrails and leave you to die. Alone.”
“Hello, darling! And Ron,” Ginny nodded to her brother while linking her arm through her husband’s. “What are you two chatting about?”
“Quidditch,” Draco answered blithely, and Ron was glad to see the horns retract and the evil flames that had mentally erupted behind his brother-in-law die down. “Care to dance, love?”
Ron watched as the couple spun into the centre of the throng, then knocked back the rest of his drink, immediately holding up his glass for another. He downed that one, too, and then walked purposefully towards Pansy Parkinson, with renewed determination. When he finally managed to reach her, he waited, as she was talking with one of the more elderly members of the Wizengamot, leaning in ever so slightly so she could hear the little wizard.
He watched her, hoping he was being surreptitious enough, and also hoping that it didn’t look like he was blatantly ogling the woman, but in all honesty, it was really hard not to. Her gown was a masterpiece of magical engineering; it molded to her every curve, accentuating the very best of her assets. Her hair begged to be touched; it cascaded over her shoulders and caressed the skin of her back. And her skin, Ron noticed was a flawless, nearly translucent porcelain. He actually had to restrain himself from touching her.
Noticing the glass she held was empty, he picked up a glass of champagne from a passing tray and when she set hers down after the older wizard tottered off, Ron offered her the fresh glass.
She accepted graciously.
One of the aspects about this woman that he really liked, apart from the aforementioned assets, was that she was gracious, something none of the other women in his life had quite achieved. Pansy Parkinson was a lady. She had class. It both excited and intimidated Ron, but he shoved down the second emotion and rallied.
“You’re a hard woman to pin down,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving into an involuntary smile as he gazed at her.
“Am I?” she asked blithely, sipping her champagne. “I’m sure I don’t mean to be.”
“I don’t know about that,” Ron chuckled.
“Pardon?” Pansy asked, blinking, one eyebrow raised.
“I think you know exactly how difficult you’ve made it for me to talk with you this evening, and the past few days, for that matter, despite knowing how much I wanted to,” Ron explained. “That’s all.”
“I don’t presume to know about your wants.”
“But you do, nevertheless,” Ron countered.
Ron swore he saw a tinge of pink creep into Pansy’s cheeks, and noticed her breathing had quickened. Good signs. God, he wanted to kiss her.
Pansy gave a sort of delicate cough, clearing her throat. “I understand that you wanted to speak with me,” she said carefully. “What is it exactly that you wanted to say?”
He faltered, frowned and pressed his lips together, searching for the right words, wishing he were as cool and polished as she was.
Unfortunately, he was Ron Weasley. Polished wasn’t really his thing.
“I want to say that...” Ron began, struggling. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry,” he said, relieved that he’d found the words at last. Saying he was sorry had always worked for him in the past. “I wanted to apologize. For last week.” He gave her another smile, and this one disappeared as he watched the unmistakable look of disappointment cross her features.
Pansy handed him her half-drunk glass of champagne and as suddenly as it had appeared, the fleeting look of sadness was gone. “Yes well,” she said, “ my apologies, as well. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have people I need to see. Thank you for the drink.” With that, she nodded and swept off, the crowded dance floor blocking her from his sight once again.
Ron sighed and leaned against the wall, catching Draco Malfoy pointing first to his own eyes and then to Ron’s in an unmistakable threat.
It appeared as if Ron Weasley had imminent evisceration and death forthcoming.
He’d be damned if he understood why.
Pansy was much easier to understand when they’d been younger. He allowed himself a moment to think back on how he remembered her at School. He’d enjoyed watching her even then, though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone. She was loud and obnoxious, but could also be clever and funny, and Ron had rather enjoyed trading barbs with her.
Hogwarts Library, 1997
She sat at a table alone, something that he noticed rarely happened. She was bent over a book, no doubt committing some information or other to memory for one of their upcoming exams. Her hair fell around her face, one leg was crossed gracefully over another and one shoe hung precariously from the toes on her foot, bouncing in time with some imaginary beat within her. Ron watched her for a few moments before his need to poke the bear became too great to ignore.
He crossed the library, feeling a bit like a bully when his shadow fell over her, but he comforted himself with the fact that if presented with a challenge, this girl could take care of herself.
He was right.
“Weasley, those shoulders of yours cast a shadow as large as that Gamekeeper you’re so very fond of. She looked up at him and arched a brow. “Would you mind terribly removing yourself so that I can see the words on the page?”
Ron puffed up a bit at her mention of his shoulders. “It’s a public library, Parkinson. I can stand where I like.”
She studied him for a moment and then gave him sort of an amused smile. “So you can.” With that, she muttered a hushed Lumos, pointed her wand at the tome and continued her work.
“What are you doing, Parkinson?” he asked, knowing he was annoying her.
“Presently, I’m regretting my decision to revise in public, where just anyone can come up and distract me,” she answered in a bored tone.
“I distract you, do I?” he said, sitting down. “Sorry ‘bout that. Don’t mean to.”
Pansy snorted. “You absolutely do mean to,” she countered. “And I’ve no idea why. You know that your little paramour gets her knickers in a twist when she catches us bickering.”
Ron shrugged. “She’s with Harry in the common room.”
“Ah,” Pansy said. “So you’re safe.”
Frowning, Ron shook his head. “I’m not scared of Hermione.”
“Oh, please,” she said, giving him an indulgent smile.
“I’m not!”
“Are so,” she argued.
“Am not!”
“You most definitely are. She frightens the pants off of you.”
“She does not!”
Pansy laughed, a throaty chuckle that Ron liked more and more every time he heard it. “You’re brilliant at fighting, you know,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “You should join the debate club.” Having said this, she bent her head once more and continued her revision, intent on ignoring him completely.
“Hogwarts doesn’t have a debate club,” Ron pointed out.
She didn’t look up. “Then use all the free time you obviously have and start one,” she suggested. “Anything to get you away from me.”
He grinned. “But I have a hobby for my spare time.”
She looked up and glared. “Bothering me is not a hobby, Weasley.”
“It passes the time,” he said, watching her wand hand carefully. He didn’t want to push her too far, the last time he’d done so, he’d got boils in places that one should never, ever have boils. Ron shifted slightly at the memory.
“Listen, Weasley, “ she began earnestly, leaning in towards him. “I’m not as brilliant as your girlfriend, and I actually need to memorize this information,” she said with a strained note in her voice. “I have to scrape some OWLs so that I can become a productive member of society since I don’t have family and money to fall back on anymore. So if you don’t mind...” she trailed off.
To her obvious exasperation, he took the book from in front of her. “I’ll help you.” Looking down at the book, he realized the tome in his hand was Ancient Runes and How to Read Them.
Ron knew shite-all about Runes.
Still, Hermione had helped him often enough, so he dived in.
Pansy protested at first, arguing that she’d be better off having the lectern in the Great Hall help her study, but after a few minutes, ceased her protestation. After nearly an hour and a half of him quizzing her, it became apparent to Ron, and eventually to Pansy as well, that she knew the information cold.
“So you’re smart,” he said, snapping the book closed with a satisfied snap.
“You doubted?” she asked arrogantly, gathering up her pieces of parchment and making a neat pile.
“You did,” he corrected. “Said so yourself.”
“No,” Pansy argued. “I said I wasn’t as smart as your frizzy-haired partner. But then, who is?”
Ron shrugged. “You’ll get an E on that exam, for sure.”
She sniffed disdainfully. “Of course I will. Here’s where I take my leave, Weasley.” She stood, nodding to him. “Goodbye. Until the next time Granger is otherwise occupied.”
As she walked off, he called, “I’m not afraid of her!”
Her answer was that signature, deep chuckle that he definitely should not have liked as much as he did.
Ron put both glasses in his hands down on a passing tray and followed Pansy. Malfoy did say that she wanted to be pursued, after all. He caught her as she was passing though an open door to one of the balconies.
“Wait, please.”
She turned, her face impassive. “You, again.”
“Well, I noticed that you weren’t speaking with anyone else.”
“It’s rude to carry on two conversations at once.”
“There’s no one else here,” he said, confused.
Pansy gave a barely perceptible sigh. “More’s the pity.”
Ron didn’t understand any of that, but he sallied forth anyway. “I offended you, earlier. You have to know that I didn’t mean to. I wouldn’t purposefully hurt you in any way.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would.”
“But I did.”
“Trust me, Weasely, I’m incapable of being hurt by anyone.”
Ron squinted at her and suddenly realized what Malfoy meant about embroidering the truth. “That’s a bald faced lie,” he stated flatly.
“It’s rude to accuse people of lying,” she countered.
“It’s rude to lie to someone’s face, I should think,” he snapped back.
She was silent a moment, considering him. “Possibly,” she relented, leaning her elbows on the balcony railing and breathing in the cool, night air. She glanced at him sideways and her lips curved up in the barest hint of a smile. “You might have got better at arguing since we were at school, Weasley,” she murmured.
“I’ve always been brilliant at arguing. You just never gave me enough credit,” he said, leaning an elbow on the balcony as well, facing her.
“I should give you credit?” she asked. “The benefit of the doubt?”
“Yeah,” Ron said. “Please.”
“I assume we’re talking about more than your debating prowess,” she asked.
“You know we are.”
Pansy straightened, turned, and with the way he was slouching on the rail, it put them eye to eye. “If you’re looking for someone to bear her soul or to wear her heart on her sleeve, you should know that I have neither a soul, nor a heart. So I think it would behoove you to quit looking for either in me.”
“Lie,” Ron repeated.
Pansy’s nostrils flared. “You’re really beginning to annoy me, Weasley.”
“Ron,” he corrected.
“Whatever,” she dismissed. “Your preference of name matters very little, because you’re about to be cursed, our standing in the middle of a throng of Ministry employees be damned!”
Ron grinned. Anger, he could work with.
Diagon Alley, 1999
There was a huge commotion coming from the place where Twilfit and Tatting’s once stood, and Ron shoved his way through the crowd, flashing his Auror badge when people didn't immediately recognize his face and let him though. Once he got to the center of the crowd, he couldn’t stop the smile from covering his face. It was Pansy Parkinson doing what she did best. Fighting for her own self-preservation.
There were two witches and a wizard with their wands out, taunting the former Slytherin. She was standing in the doorway of what was obviously her shop, the green awning of Twilfit’s were gone, replaced with a deep purple sporting silver lettering that read, ‘La Belle Pensée.’
The Pretty Pansy. Subtle and humble, Ron thought.
Ron watched for a few seconds as Pansy very obviously defended herself and her possessions. She fired off a few curses that Ron knew to be obvious misses, having been on the receiving end of this particular witch’s wand on more than a few occasions.
If Pansy wanted to hit you, you were hit. End of story.
The aggressors in this, however, were doing their best to destroy her shop, and doing a poor job, at that. She deflected their spells easily, despite getting more and more infuriated at each attempt.
Ron put a stasis spell over the group of them and called out, “Alright, then. That’s enough, you lot.”
Pansy looked infuriated, and the others were annoyed, but clearly expected Ron to take their side. When they explained their issue, that one of those people was trying to start a business in their community, Ron frowned.
“She’s got every right to do what she’s doing. You, however, don’t have a right to stop her.”
“I’ll tell you one thing, then dearie,” the witch at the front of the trio said to Pansy. “I’ll never darken your door with my business, that’s for sure.”
“Do you hear that sound?” Pansy said darkly. “That is my heart absolutely breaking.” She gave one loud, artificial sob and let her face go blank once more. “Cow.”
“We’ll get you, Parkinson,” the man said. “Perhaps not today. But one day.”
“No you won’t, ‘cos now you just threatened a member of the magical community in front of an Auror, you berk,” Ron said, gesturing for the other Aurors to take them into custody. The wail from the three was loud, and by the time Ron had got the crowd dispersed and the arses into custody, Pansy had disappeared into her shop.
He rapped on the door, and a bell sounded as it opened for him by an invisible hand. “Parkinson?” he called out, taking note of the beautiful gowns, coats and women’s fripperies on the racks that surrounded him.
“Back here,” he heard her call out.
He found her directing several looms and machines that were making the clothes that she was selling in the shop. He watched the production for a moment, then asked, “You make all these?”
“Yes,” she answered simply.
“Well done,” he said, impressed.
Pansy was silent for a moment, then she indicated to the door and offered, “I suppose I should thank you for that out there.”
“You don’t have to. I was doing my job.”
She bit her bottom lip. “No, I should thank you.”
He waited a moment. “Do you think you will?” he asked.
“I’m working up to it.”
Ron laughed, and shook his head. “Unnecessary.” He gave her his card. “Owl me if you have any more troubles. Meanwhile, I’ll send someone over to help you with wards. It appears as though you’ll need it.”
“No need. I can do it myself. I’ve marked the entrance with runes. Only people that bear me no ill will can enter. The rest are banned. That’s why those people were angry. They wanted to come in and attack me and weren’t allowed. It’s enough to make anyone cranky.”
“I suppose it would be. I’ll still keep an eye on you,” he promised.
“Well, then. I’ll try to give you a good show,” she said with a wink.
He left, then, to go home to his wife, daughter and newborn son, but Ron had the feeling that he’d very nearly been flirted with. And he wasn’t sure what to do with that.
“I don’t suppose you could just tell me where it is that I went wrong?” he asked.
Pansy shook her head, her dark curls blowing lazily in the night breeze.
“Alright,” Ron said. “I’ll tell you what I know. You tell me if I’ve got it right.”
She shrugged.
At least she wasn’t leaving. That was progress.
“So we’ve always had a tenuous relationship--”
“I wouldn’t call what we had a relationship,” she argued. “More of an acquaintance.”
“You say acquaintance, I say relationship,” he reasoned. “In any case, we got on reasonably well, we being who we are.”
“I suppose.”
“And last week, when I brought Rose in to you to be fitted for a dress... and then with what happened after, I thought it was the start of something more.”
She nodded ambiguously. “Could have been, yes.”
“It was,” he argued. “I was there, Pansy. I remember.”
Diagon Alley, two weeks ago
Ron had heard about the fact that Rose needed a dress for the Ministry gala ad nauseum from anyone who could get him to listen for more than two seconds. Hermione had sent a barrage of owls that she couldn’t possibly make time for this, and that she wasn’t going to the ball, at any rate. Ron sighed in relief at this bit of information. They’d been divorced for a while, but he still didn’t relish seeing her in a social setting. And it wasn’t as if he pined for his ex-wife; he’d moved on, dated a few women, but hadn’t found anyone he wanted to spend time with.
Except his children, of course. He loved spending time with them.
Ginny had told him that Rose needed a gown. His mother had scolded him for not taking her weeks earlier. Fleur had mention it once or twice. Or sixteen times. Harry had even mentioned it, and if there was anyone who knew less about dresses than Ron, it was Harry. So, one rainy Saturday afternoon when Hugo was with his Aunt Ginny, he’d asked Rose if she wanted to go shopping.
The resounding squeal had Ron wondering if Rose were actually Hermione’s daughter, at all. She was up, dressed and dragging him out the door before he could even grab an umbrella. He didn’t have a place in mind, but when Rose arrived at her destination, Ron looked up at the Purple awnings and thought, Why not? And then hoped he could pay for it.
La Belle Pensée hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been in; the styles were different, as were the displays, but the store itself was still understated and classy, with very feminine touches. His daughter was thrilled.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Dad? Mum never wants to come in here, says clothes like these are ridiculous and expensive and frilly, but I thought for a ball, for, you know, the gala, it would be all right. Don’t you think?”
Ron smiled at her enthusiasm and nodded. And a sultry voice from behind them said, “If you can’t do frilly at a ball, of all places, where can you do it?”
Ron chuckled as he turned around. “Rose, this is --”
“Miss Parkinson,” Rose finished. “We’ve met at Aunt Gin’s and Uncle Draco’s. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Ah,” Ron said. “Well, then.” He looked from the girl to the woman and back again, a bit at a loss as to what he was supposed to do.
Pansy smiled at Rose indulgently. “You convinced your father to take you shopping, finally, did you?”
“Oh, no,” Rose said seriously. “It was his idea.”
Pansy looked surprised, but pleased. She glanced at Ron, and then focused her attention back on Rose. “Was it? How interesting.”
Ron opened his mouth to point out that it hadn’t been his idea at all to come here, but then closed it abruptly. He rather wished that it had been his idea, now that he thought about it.
Pansy and Rose had moved to a sitting area with large books and swatches of fabric with their heads bent together, talking seriously about what color would look best on her, how the dress would fit, what Rose wanted to be included and how exciting it all was.
Ron felt rather superfluous.
Pansy looked up and gestured to a chair. “Rose? Would you be able to convince your father to join us?”
Ron took one look at the expression of exasperation on Rose’s face and sat. Quickly.
“So, Mr. Weasley, here are the styles that are appropriate for your Rose’s age.”
He looked at the pictures seriously, and Rose said, “You can call him Ron. Everyone does.”
Pansy nodded. Ron spoke up. “Yes, please. Ron. When people say ‘Mr. Weasley,’ I start looking around for Dad.” Pansy didn’t have anything to say, he supposed, because she stayed silent. “In any case,” he continued, handing the pictures back to his daughter. “Choose whatever you like, Rose. I think they’re all lovely.”
This sent Rose into a flurry of planning, holding swatches of fabric up to the patterns and considering each seriously. She finally decided upon an empire waisted gown in lavender, with a delicate lace accent. Having made up her mind, Rose kissed her father’s cheek, thanked him and Pansy very seriously and then announced that she was headed to Flourish and Blotts, and he could find her there when he finished up. That left Ron to settle the bill with Pansy.
“She’s a force to be reckoned with,” he said, chuckling as the bell on the door of the shop tinkled Rose’s exit.
“She’s a darling girl. You and your wife have a lot to be proud of.”
“Ex-wife.”
“Yes, I’d heard,” Pansy said, nodding.
“I think you’re the only person that hasn’t immediately apologized for my bad fortune.”
“I don’t generally say things I don’t mean, Weasley.”
“You really can call me Ron.”
She handed him a bill that seemed low, but he puled out the requisite number of galleons and paid, nonetheless. “Thank you for being so excited about this with her,” Ron said, nodding toward the seating area where they’d sat.
“It’s my job,”she said. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I want to. It means a lot to me.”
Pansy smiled. “Her excitement is infectious. And she’s not spoiled and ill behaved like so many girls her age. She’s actually a delight to be around.”
Ron swelled with pride as she handed him his change. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He turned to go, and then, possessed with a impulse he hadn’t felt in some time, turned and asked, “Would you have dinner with me?”
Pansy closed her register and cocked her head to the side, considering him. “What makes you think I’m available?”
“Are you?” he asked hopefully.
“Possibly,” she replied cryptically. “What did you have in mind?”
“Nothing untoward,”he said immediately. “I- I’d just like to talk to you. Share a meal.”
Pansy raised an eyebrow. “Nothing untoward?”
Ron shook his head. “No.”
She clucked her tongue. “Shame.”
Ron’s eyes widened and he blushed furiously. Pansy merely laughed. “Yes, I think that sounds interesting. You’re many things, Weasley, but you’re never boring.”
“Ron.”
“Yes, alright,” she conceded. “Ron.”
His smile nearly split his face in two. “Good. Friday? At eight? If you give me your address I’ll come and collect you.”
“I’ll be here,” she assured him. “Friday at eight.”
“See you then.” Ron left the shop to find his daughter, feeling better than he had in a long while.
Friday arrived, and he found himself nervous.
He had a date.
A date that he was actually looking forward to.
With a beautiful woman.
Really beautiful.
He’d chosen a nice restaurant, dressed in his second best set of robes, and arrived at her doorstep with what he thought was a pretty arrangement of flowers. The door chimes rang when he walked in, but after looking around the shop, he didn’t see her anywhere.
“Pansy?”
“You came.”
His breath left him at the sight of her. She was wearing a cream colored dress, the neckline of which grazed her delicate collarbones. It fitted her curves and fell to just below her knee, leaving her legs bare and ending in an impossibly high pair of ankle strapped heels that were the same color as her dress.
She was bloody gorgeous.
Ron scrambled, trying to collect himself enough to answer her. “Of course I came. Did you think I was joking?”
She lifted a shoulder in response. “I honestly didn’t know. Such things have been known to happen.”
“I’m sorry for that.”
She shook her head dismissively. “Not your fault. You’re here.”
Ron held out the flowers. “For you.”
She smiled and accepted them, turning to go into the back of the shop. “Want to come in?”
He followed her into the back of her boutique and up a spiral staircase, which ended in a neatly furnished flat. “I didn’t know you lived here, too,” Ron said.
“Yes, well, I haven’t always, but after my divorce, it seemed the prudent thing to do.”
Ron thought hard, not wanting to push her, but unable to recollect who she’d been married to. “You’re divorced?”
She nodded. “I was Pansy Nott for a few years. It didn’t suit me. I like the alliteration of my maiden name better.”
“Me, too.”
She reached up to a shelf that held a vase, toppling it instead of her intent, to pull it down. Ron was quick to move behind her, one hand at her back and one reaching up to save the vase, catching it in one large hand.
“Got it,” he assured her, stepping back slightly as she turned around.
“I should thank you for that.”
He smiled. “Do you think you will?”
Her face tipped up to his. “I’m working up to it.”
He wasn’t the brightest when it came to women, but knew a opening when he saw one. Ron’s head bent to kiss her and rested his free hand, the one not holding a vase, on the curve of her hip. His lips grazed hers once, twice, and then settled on hers more firmly when she wound her arms around his neck. He was pleased that she responded, and even moreso when her fingers curled in the back of his hair, giving him a feeling he hadn’t felt in years, if ever. He pulled her a bit closer, reveling in the feeling of her tongue sweeping against his.
Her hand slipped from around his neck to rest on his chest and he pressed his lips to hers once more, then reluctantly pulled away.
Pansy looked up at him and smiled. “If I’d known you were good for a snog all those years ago, our schooling might have ended differently.”
He nodded in agreement. “Might have.”
He stepped back and allowed her to take the vase from him, watching her economical movements as she cut the stems and placed them in water. She bent her head and inhaled the scent of the rose blooms. “Everyone always brings pansies.”
“It seemed too dead on,” he said.
“I agree.”
This pleased Ron. This date was going to be a breeze, he thought to himself. He brought the right flowers, had already kissed her, and might even get a second date by the end of it all.
“Do you want to see Rose’s dress before we go?”
“Sure.”
She led him to a workroom filled with dresses in various stages of completion. One dress form looked so much like his Rose, he did a double take to make sure that she wasn’t really there. “Lifelike,” he murmured. “Though the mannequin is less serious.”
“I like Rose,” Pansy countered. “She is serious, but she has a playful side, as well. Your sister helps to bring it out in her. Your son, as well.”
“You’ve met Hugo, too?”
Pansy nodded. “An exceedingly sweet boy. I’ve no idea where he gets it.”
Ron laughed. “It must have skipped a generation.” He lifted the lavender fabric of the garment and let it fall again. “The dress is beautiful, Pansy.”
“Thank you. She’s going to be lovely.”
“I have no doubt.” Ron fidgeted a moment. “I know we’ve yet to complete a first date, but are you going to the Ministry ball?”
Pansy raised an eyebrow and cocked her head to the side. “Why do you ask?”
He shook his head and extended an arm to her. “You don’t believe in making it easy for a bloke, do you?”
“Things worth having are worth working for,” she responded.
“Right, then. Would you be my date for the Ministry thing?” Ron asked. “It’ll be a dreary, boring night of work for me, but would be a great deal more palatable if you were there, too.”
“Don’t you want to see how this evening goes, first?” she asked. “I might be a screaming harpy, for all you know.”
“I’m fairly certain you’ve got that in you,” he teased. “But I’ll risk it.”
She nodded, a smile hovering on her lips. “Ask me again at the end of the evening.”
Just before they Apparated, he replied, “Don’t think I won’t.”
The evening went well, by anyone’s standards. They bickered a bit, traded vague insults with no malice whatsoever, ate a fine meal, drank a bottle good wine, held hands, and even kissed several more times, before they found themselves strolling down Diagon Alley, hand in hand.
Ron looked down at her. “You think this is all too bizarre, don’t you?”
She laughed, that same, throaty, dusky laugh he remembered from school. It sent a jolt through to his core, and he couldn’t help laughing with her. “Don’t you agree?” she asked. “I mean, it’s mad, right?”
“Completely mad.”
“Insane.”
“Come home with me,” he blurted.
Her brown eyes widened, and he was sure he’d blown it. She obviously wasn’t easy, but she made him feel so good, so at ease, so perfect that he didn’t want their evening to end. And her kisses had made him want more.
Still, you didn’t go around asking women like Pansy Parkinson home on the first date. He opened his mouth to take it back, apologize, and beg her forgiveness, but just as he was about to begin he heard her say, “Alright.”
She looked up at him almost shyly, which seemed completely out of character, and instead of calling her on it, he kissed her, tucked a stray curl behind her ear and repeated, “Alright,” before Apparating them into his sitting room.
“Drink?” he asked, trying to casually shove some unwashed robes and a sock underneath the sofa.
“Oh, yes.”
He left her to look about his flat as he poured them a drink, and when he returned, she was perusing the pictures propped on his mantelpiece. Nearly all of the subjects had flaming red hair, and his children’s mother was conspicuously absent.
“I don’t have pictures of her, if that’s what you were wondering.”
Pansy turned and accepted the drink he offered her. “I was, actually. You can’t blame me, can you? She was part of your life for quite a long time.”
Ron nodded. “She was. But that part of my life is over. I have two wonderful children as a result, so I don’t regret it, but there’s no chance- none whatsoever- that we will ever reconcile.”
They both took a long pull from their glasses, and Pansy gestured to the sofa. “Could we sit?”
“Oh, of course,” Ron said, sweeping a stack of Daily Prophets onto the floor. To her credit, as beautiful and put together as Pansy was, she didn’t look at all out of place in his lived-in, homey place. He’d wondered about her all evening, and now, with things being the way they were, he decided to dive in and ask.
“What about you? You never answered me when I asked. Is there anyone else? I don’t want to step on any toes.”
“Some toes beg to be stepped on, though,” Pansy countered.
Ron stood firm. “Answer the question.”
“No,” she replied slowly. There isn’t anyone.”
“Nott?” he prompted.
“We divorced,” she said succinctly. “And he’s a bastard. So like you, there’s no reconciliation possible.”
“You are dating anyone?” he asked.
“You’re the first person that’s asked in over a year.”
Ron gaped. “How is that possible?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re an unbelievably beautiful, smart, sexy, poised woman. Who wouldn’t want you?”
Pansy laughed Ron’s favorite laugh. “Well, I could make you a list, if you like.”
“Idiots, the lot of them,” he proclaimed.
When Pansy smiled at him in reply, he was sure he was right.
They had three more dates that week. The kisses and touches and surreptitious brushes against him were nearly driving him mad. So when they sat on his sofa for the fourth time in as many days, Ron reached out to her. And she went to him.
It was easy, Ron thought. Pansy made love like she lived her life. She teased, questioned, argued a bit, worked hard and exuded grace while she did it. It was as if their bodies were having a conversation, a give and take that left them both breathless and sated.
He reached out the next morning, ready to talk to her, touch her, kiss her, ask her what her day held, but instead of feeling the soft skin of her naked back, all he felt were cold sheets.
There was no note.
Ron didn’t panic right away. He owled her. There was no response. He went by La Belle Pensée. No one was in the shop. He went around back and rang the bell there. Nothing.
He didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.
Rose’s gown arrived via owl, again, with no note. But Rose was thrilled and went to try on the gown immediately. She came out again, twirled and exclaimed, “Isn’t it gorgeous, Dad?”
“Absolutely, Rosie,” he replied.
The dress was gorgeous. The woman that made it was amazing, if mysterious. And Ron wasn’t going to give up.
“Where have you been?” he asked, watching as the night breeze gently ruffled her curls. Music from the ballroom drifted out to the terrace on which they stood. “Why did you leave?”
“Those are two separate questions, and they have two separate answers,” she replied.
“I’ll wait.”
“I’ve been working,” she explained. “I made nearly half of the gowns you see here.”
“Aright,” he said, a bit hurt that even though she was busy, she hadn’t wanted to take a second to answer and owl or the door.
“And I left because...” Pansy trailed off, and looked out into the night. “This is ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is that we could have something. We could be something, Pansy, and you’re just throwing it away!” Ron exclaimed.
“How do I know you won’t just throw me away?” Pansy shouted back, surprising Ron. “When you’ve got all you wanted, when I’m not charming, when you’ve heard all my stories and we’ve run out of conversation, when you don’t want my body anymore, how do I know you’ll be there? It’s easier this way. We’re not attached to one another.” Her eyes grew misty as she continued. “You don’t care if I go and I don’t care if you do, so we’ll end it and still be able to nod if we see each other on the street.”
He blinked. For all of her self-assurance and bravado, her beauty and intelligence, this woman was scared.
“I am, though,” he said, running a hand down her am and taking her hand.
“Am what?” she asked, trembling.
“Attached.” He squeezed her hand and stepped closer. “I care if you go. You’ve driven me mad this week. I thought that maybe I’d done something wrong, or that you thought the sex wasn’t any good--”
Pansy laughed. He took this as a good sign.
“--or that you’d met someone else.”
“No,” she assured him, dismissively. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Except apologizing for last week.”
“It was a blanket apology. Meant to cover anything you were upset about. I’m not really sorry for any of it,” he admitted. “It’s been driving me bonkers, not knowing where you were or what you were thinking.”
“Now you know,” she said simply, exhaling.
“Do you really not care? You could take me or leave me?” he asked.
“Again, that’s two questions.”
“I’ll wait.”
Pansy swallowed. “I care. And I’d rather take you, actually.”
“Alright,” he said, deciding to take charge of the situation. “Here’s what we’ll do.”
Pansy raised a brow.
“We’re going to start seeing one another. Sometimes we’ll eat together. You’ll come with me to family gatherings. I’ll drag you along to that moldering ruin that my sister lives in with your friend. We’ll talk.” He took her in his arms and kissed her lightly. “We’ll make love. We’ll live. And it will all be alright.”
“Will it?” she asked faintly.
“Yes,” he said assuredly, taking her into his arms and kissing her gently. “It most definitely will.”
Author/Artist: persephone33
Characters: Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson
Prompt number: 70
Word Count: 6,897
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None.
Summary: Theirs is a sweeping romance, one they may not realize is even happening, until it does.
Disclaimer: I don’t own the characters. I’m not making any money from this. I write only for my own pleasure and hopefully yours, as well.
Author’s Notes: Thank you to the incomparable V & the sweet, darling J. You guys are so good to me, I just want to squeeze ya.
A Long Time Coming
Ron stood amidst the swirling mass of dancers, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of the elusive, beautiful brunette in the red silk gown on the opposite side of the ballroom. She’d been dodging him all evening, despite his persistent efforts to reach her. He hadn’t even been able to catch her eye, yet he knew that she knew he was there. He felt it.
It was this sort of frustration, his inability to understand how women thought, that made him revert to his seventeen year-old self, when he’d had no confidence in his relations with the fairer sex.
He was older now, though, damn it all. He knew more.
And just because his marriage had dissolved into nothing salvageable didn’t mean he didn’t have desirable qualities.
He thought he probably did.
Some, at any rate.
Fine. A few. Still, the object of his affection, if you could call her that, (and he did, he thought) seemed oblivious to his charms. She seemed to be ignoring him altogether. Pansy Parkinson was pretending that he didn’t exist.
Ron didn’t care for it. Not one bit.
He approached the bar, having made it successfully through the throng of dancers, and realized that now Pansy was on the other side of the ballroom altogether. His head dropped and he exhaled heavily, ordering a double Firewhisky, neat.
“Troubles, Weasley?” drawled a voice to his left.
Damn it all, he thought. Ron squeezed his eyes together in the hopes that if he held very still, that his brother-in-law would get bored, forget he was there and simply walk away.
“Are you having some sort of episode?” Draco Malfoy persisted. “Your sister wouldn’t forgive me if I let you die here, you know.”
Ron cracked an eye and peered at the blond haired man, who was gazing back at him with an amused expression.
“I’m not going to die, Malfoy,” Ron bit out.
“Cheers, then,” Draco said. This was uttered without any sort of relieved sigh, Ron noted. In fact, Ron thought he might have heard a touch of disappointment in the other man’s voice. “I trust you’re not having a good time at the gala, then.”
Ron took a large gulp of his drink. “No, not especially,” he answered, coughing.
“Easy, old man.” Draco thumped him on the back, an action that Ron thought he did with a bit too much satisfaction. “I think I can probably help you with your trouble, you know.”
“I doubt that.”
His brother-in-law gave him a look. “I know her rather well, after all.”
“Her who?” Ron asked, arranging his face into what he thought might be the picture of confused innocence.
“Good God, Weasley. Does that work on anyone? You really are a spectacularly bad liar.”
Ron scowled. “Some people.”
“Blind and deaf people, perhaps.” Draco waved a hand dismissively. “Pansy, though. Here’s the first thing you should know: Don’t assume that everything she says is the complete truth.”
“So she’s a liar?”
“What if she is? It’s, after all, something you evidently aspire to.” Draco frowned, then continued, “And it’s not lying, per se. It’s more like embroidering the truth for self preservation.”
Ron nodded as if he understood.
Sadly, he did not.
“The second you should know about Pansy...” Draco faltered. Ron didn’t think he’d ever seen this particular man stumble over words, and it made him pay closer attention. “She rather enjoys being pursued.”
Ron nodded again. He actually got that one.
“And the third thing, Weasley,” Draco began, his voice becoming deadly quiet. “If you in any way hurt my dearest friend, I will hunt you down like an animal and eviscerate you, laugh while I let wild animals feast upon your entrails and leave you to die. Alone.”
“Hello, darling! And Ron,” Ginny nodded to her brother while linking her arm through her husband’s. “What are you two chatting about?”
“Quidditch,” Draco answered blithely, and Ron was glad to see the horns retract and the evil flames that had mentally erupted behind his brother-in-law die down. “Care to dance, love?”
Ron watched as the couple spun into the centre of the throng, then knocked back the rest of his drink, immediately holding up his glass for another. He downed that one, too, and then walked purposefully towards Pansy Parkinson, with renewed determination. When he finally managed to reach her, he waited, as she was talking with one of the more elderly members of the Wizengamot, leaning in ever so slightly so she could hear the little wizard.
He watched her, hoping he was being surreptitious enough, and also hoping that it didn’t look like he was blatantly ogling the woman, but in all honesty, it was really hard not to. Her gown was a masterpiece of magical engineering; it molded to her every curve, accentuating the very best of her assets. Her hair begged to be touched; it cascaded over her shoulders and caressed the skin of her back. And her skin, Ron noticed was a flawless, nearly translucent porcelain. He actually had to restrain himself from touching her.
Noticing the glass she held was empty, he picked up a glass of champagne from a passing tray and when she set hers down after the older wizard tottered off, Ron offered her the fresh glass.
She accepted graciously.
One of the aspects about this woman that he really liked, apart from the aforementioned assets, was that she was gracious, something none of the other women in his life had quite achieved. Pansy Parkinson was a lady. She had class. It both excited and intimidated Ron, but he shoved down the second emotion and rallied.
“You’re a hard woman to pin down,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving into an involuntary smile as he gazed at her.
“Am I?” she asked blithely, sipping her champagne. “I’m sure I don’t mean to be.”
“I don’t know about that,” Ron chuckled.
“Pardon?” Pansy asked, blinking, one eyebrow raised.
“I think you know exactly how difficult you’ve made it for me to talk with you this evening, and the past few days, for that matter, despite knowing how much I wanted to,” Ron explained. “That’s all.”
“I don’t presume to know about your wants.”
“But you do, nevertheless,” Ron countered.
Ron swore he saw a tinge of pink creep into Pansy’s cheeks, and noticed her breathing had quickened. Good signs. God, he wanted to kiss her.
Pansy gave a sort of delicate cough, clearing her throat. “I understand that you wanted to speak with me,” she said carefully. “What is it exactly that you wanted to say?”
He faltered, frowned and pressed his lips together, searching for the right words, wishing he were as cool and polished as she was.
Unfortunately, he was Ron Weasley. Polished wasn’t really his thing.
“I want to say that...” Ron began, struggling. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry,” he said, relieved that he’d found the words at last. Saying he was sorry had always worked for him in the past. “I wanted to apologize. For last week.” He gave her another smile, and this one disappeared as he watched the unmistakable look of disappointment cross her features.
Pansy handed him her half-drunk glass of champagne and as suddenly as it had appeared, the fleeting look of sadness was gone. “Yes well,” she said, “ my apologies, as well. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have people I need to see. Thank you for the drink.” With that, she nodded and swept off, the crowded dance floor blocking her from his sight once again.
Ron sighed and leaned against the wall, catching Draco Malfoy pointing first to his own eyes and then to Ron’s in an unmistakable threat.
It appeared as if Ron Weasley had imminent evisceration and death forthcoming.
He’d be damned if he understood why.
Pansy was much easier to understand when they’d been younger. He allowed himself a moment to think back on how he remembered her at School. He’d enjoyed watching her even then, though he wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone. She was loud and obnoxious, but could also be clever and funny, and Ron had rather enjoyed trading barbs with her.
Hogwarts Library, 1997
She sat at a table alone, something that he noticed rarely happened. She was bent over a book, no doubt committing some information or other to memory for one of their upcoming exams. Her hair fell around her face, one leg was crossed gracefully over another and one shoe hung precariously from the toes on her foot, bouncing in time with some imaginary beat within her. Ron watched her for a few moments before his need to poke the bear became too great to ignore.
He crossed the library, feeling a bit like a bully when his shadow fell over her, but he comforted himself with the fact that if presented with a challenge, this girl could take care of herself.
He was right.
“Weasley, those shoulders of yours cast a shadow as large as that Gamekeeper you’re so very fond of. She looked up at him and arched a brow. “Would you mind terribly removing yourself so that I can see the words on the page?”
Ron puffed up a bit at her mention of his shoulders. “It’s a public library, Parkinson. I can stand where I like.”
She studied him for a moment and then gave him sort of an amused smile. “So you can.” With that, she muttered a hushed Lumos, pointed her wand at the tome and continued her work.
“What are you doing, Parkinson?” he asked, knowing he was annoying her.
“Presently, I’m regretting my decision to revise in public, where just anyone can come up and distract me,” she answered in a bored tone.
“I distract you, do I?” he said, sitting down. “Sorry ‘bout that. Don’t mean to.”
Pansy snorted. “You absolutely do mean to,” she countered. “And I’ve no idea why. You know that your little paramour gets her knickers in a twist when she catches us bickering.”
Ron shrugged. “She’s with Harry in the common room.”
“Ah,” Pansy said. “So you’re safe.”
Frowning, Ron shook his head. “I’m not scared of Hermione.”
“Oh, please,” she said, giving him an indulgent smile.
“I’m not!”
“Are so,” she argued.
“Am not!”
“You most definitely are. She frightens the pants off of you.”
“She does not!”
Pansy laughed, a throaty chuckle that Ron liked more and more every time he heard it. “You’re brilliant at fighting, you know,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “You should join the debate club.” Having said this, she bent her head once more and continued her revision, intent on ignoring him completely.
“Hogwarts doesn’t have a debate club,” Ron pointed out.
She didn’t look up. “Then use all the free time you obviously have and start one,” she suggested. “Anything to get you away from me.”
He grinned. “But I have a hobby for my spare time.”
She looked up and glared. “Bothering me is not a hobby, Weasley.”
“It passes the time,” he said, watching her wand hand carefully. He didn’t want to push her too far, the last time he’d done so, he’d got boils in places that one should never, ever have boils. Ron shifted slightly at the memory.
“Listen, Weasley, “ she began earnestly, leaning in towards him. “I’m not as brilliant as your girlfriend, and I actually need to memorize this information,” she said with a strained note in her voice. “I have to scrape some OWLs so that I can become a productive member of society since I don’t have family and money to fall back on anymore. So if you don’t mind...” she trailed off.
To her obvious exasperation, he took the book from in front of her. “I’ll help you.” Looking down at the book, he realized the tome in his hand was Ancient Runes and How to Read Them.
Ron knew shite-all about Runes.
Still, Hermione had helped him often enough, so he dived in.
Pansy protested at first, arguing that she’d be better off having the lectern in the Great Hall help her study, but after a few minutes, ceased her protestation. After nearly an hour and a half of him quizzing her, it became apparent to Ron, and eventually to Pansy as well, that she knew the information cold.
“So you’re smart,” he said, snapping the book closed with a satisfied snap.
“You doubted?” she asked arrogantly, gathering up her pieces of parchment and making a neat pile.
“You did,” he corrected. “Said so yourself.”
“No,” Pansy argued. “I said I wasn’t as smart as your frizzy-haired partner. But then, who is?”
Ron shrugged. “You’ll get an E on that exam, for sure.”
She sniffed disdainfully. “Of course I will. Here’s where I take my leave, Weasley.” She stood, nodding to him. “Goodbye. Until the next time Granger is otherwise occupied.”
As she walked off, he called, “I’m not afraid of her!”
Her answer was that signature, deep chuckle that he definitely should not have liked as much as he did.
Ron put both glasses in his hands down on a passing tray and followed Pansy. Malfoy did say that she wanted to be pursued, after all. He caught her as she was passing though an open door to one of the balconies.
“Wait, please.”
She turned, her face impassive. “You, again.”
“Well, I noticed that you weren’t speaking with anyone else.”
“It’s rude to carry on two conversations at once.”
“There’s no one else here,” he said, confused.
Pansy gave a barely perceptible sigh. “More’s the pity.”
Ron didn’t understand any of that, but he sallied forth anyway. “I offended you, earlier. You have to know that I didn’t mean to. I wouldn’t purposefully hurt you in any way.”
“No, I don’t suppose you would.”
“But I did.”
“Trust me, Weasely, I’m incapable of being hurt by anyone.”
Ron squinted at her and suddenly realized what Malfoy meant about embroidering the truth. “That’s a bald faced lie,” he stated flatly.
“It’s rude to accuse people of lying,” she countered.
“It’s rude to lie to someone’s face, I should think,” he snapped back.
She was silent a moment, considering him. “Possibly,” she relented, leaning her elbows on the balcony railing and breathing in the cool, night air. She glanced at him sideways and her lips curved up in the barest hint of a smile. “You might have got better at arguing since we were at school, Weasley,” she murmured.
“I’ve always been brilliant at arguing. You just never gave me enough credit,” he said, leaning an elbow on the balcony as well, facing her.
“I should give you credit?” she asked. “The benefit of the doubt?”
“Yeah,” Ron said. “Please.”
“I assume we’re talking about more than your debating prowess,” she asked.
“You know we are.”
Pansy straightened, turned, and with the way he was slouching on the rail, it put them eye to eye. “If you’re looking for someone to bear her soul or to wear her heart on her sleeve, you should know that I have neither a soul, nor a heart. So I think it would behoove you to quit looking for either in me.”
“Lie,” Ron repeated.
Pansy’s nostrils flared. “You’re really beginning to annoy me, Weasley.”
“Ron,” he corrected.
“Whatever,” she dismissed. “Your preference of name matters very little, because you’re about to be cursed, our standing in the middle of a throng of Ministry employees be damned!”
Ron grinned. Anger, he could work with.
Diagon Alley, 1999
There was a huge commotion coming from the place where Twilfit and Tatting’s once stood, and Ron shoved his way through the crowd, flashing his Auror badge when people didn't immediately recognize his face and let him though. Once he got to the center of the crowd, he couldn’t stop the smile from covering his face. It was Pansy Parkinson doing what she did best. Fighting for her own self-preservation.
There were two witches and a wizard with their wands out, taunting the former Slytherin. She was standing in the doorway of what was obviously her shop, the green awning of Twilfit’s were gone, replaced with a deep purple sporting silver lettering that read, ‘La Belle Pensée.’
The Pretty Pansy. Subtle and humble, Ron thought.
Ron watched for a few seconds as Pansy very obviously defended herself and her possessions. She fired off a few curses that Ron knew to be obvious misses, having been on the receiving end of this particular witch’s wand on more than a few occasions.
If Pansy wanted to hit you, you were hit. End of story.
The aggressors in this, however, were doing their best to destroy her shop, and doing a poor job, at that. She deflected their spells easily, despite getting more and more infuriated at each attempt.
Ron put a stasis spell over the group of them and called out, “Alright, then. That’s enough, you lot.”
Pansy looked infuriated, and the others were annoyed, but clearly expected Ron to take their side. When they explained their issue, that one of those people was trying to start a business in their community, Ron frowned.
“She’s got every right to do what she’s doing. You, however, don’t have a right to stop her.”
“I’ll tell you one thing, then dearie,” the witch at the front of the trio said to Pansy. “I’ll never darken your door with my business, that’s for sure.”
“Do you hear that sound?” Pansy said darkly. “That is my heart absolutely breaking.” She gave one loud, artificial sob and let her face go blank once more. “Cow.”
“We’ll get you, Parkinson,” the man said. “Perhaps not today. But one day.”
“No you won’t, ‘cos now you just threatened a member of the magical community in front of an Auror, you berk,” Ron said, gesturing for the other Aurors to take them into custody. The wail from the three was loud, and by the time Ron had got the crowd dispersed and the arses into custody, Pansy had disappeared into her shop.
He rapped on the door, and a bell sounded as it opened for him by an invisible hand. “Parkinson?” he called out, taking note of the beautiful gowns, coats and women’s fripperies on the racks that surrounded him.
“Back here,” he heard her call out.
He found her directing several looms and machines that were making the clothes that she was selling in the shop. He watched the production for a moment, then asked, “You make all these?”
“Yes,” she answered simply.
“Well done,” he said, impressed.
Pansy was silent for a moment, then she indicated to the door and offered, “I suppose I should thank you for that out there.”
“You don’t have to. I was doing my job.”
She bit her bottom lip. “No, I should thank you.”
He waited a moment. “Do you think you will?” he asked.
“I’m working up to it.”
Ron laughed, and shook his head. “Unnecessary.” He gave her his card. “Owl me if you have any more troubles. Meanwhile, I’ll send someone over to help you with wards. It appears as though you’ll need it.”
“No need. I can do it myself. I’ve marked the entrance with runes. Only people that bear me no ill will can enter. The rest are banned. That’s why those people were angry. They wanted to come in and attack me and weren’t allowed. It’s enough to make anyone cranky.”
“I suppose it would be. I’ll still keep an eye on you,” he promised.
“Well, then. I’ll try to give you a good show,” she said with a wink.
He left, then, to go home to his wife, daughter and newborn son, but Ron had the feeling that he’d very nearly been flirted with. And he wasn’t sure what to do with that.
“I don’t suppose you could just tell me where it is that I went wrong?” he asked.
Pansy shook her head, her dark curls blowing lazily in the night breeze.
“Alright,” Ron said. “I’ll tell you what I know. You tell me if I’ve got it right.”
She shrugged.
At least she wasn’t leaving. That was progress.
“So we’ve always had a tenuous relationship--”
“I wouldn’t call what we had a relationship,” she argued. “More of an acquaintance.”
“You say acquaintance, I say relationship,” he reasoned. “In any case, we got on reasonably well, we being who we are.”
“I suppose.”
“And last week, when I brought Rose in to you to be fitted for a dress... and then with what happened after, I thought it was the start of something more.”
She nodded ambiguously. “Could have been, yes.”
“It was,” he argued. “I was there, Pansy. I remember.”
Diagon Alley, two weeks ago
Ron had heard about the fact that Rose needed a dress for the Ministry gala ad nauseum from anyone who could get him to listen for more than two seconds. Hermione had sent a barrage of owls that she couldn’t possibly make time for this, and that she wasn’t going to the ball, at any rate. Ron sighed in relief at this bit of information. They’d been divorced for a while, but he still didn’t relish seeing her in a social setting. And it wasn’t as if he pined for his ex-wife; he’d moved on, dated a few women, but hadn’t found anyone he wanted to spend time with.
Except his children, of course. He loved spending time with them.
Ginny had told him that Rose needed a gown. His mother had scolded him for not taking her weeks earlier. Fleur had mention it once or twice. Or sixteen times. Harry had even mentioned it, and if there was anyone who knew less about dresses than Ron, it was Harry. So, one rainy Saturday afternoon when Hugo was with his Aunt Ginny, he’d asked Rose if she wanted to go shopping.
The resounding squeal had Ron wondering if Rose were actually Hermione’s daughter, at all. She was up, dressed and dragging him out the door before he could even grab an umbrella. He didn’t have a place in mind, but when Rose arrived at her destination, Ron looked up at the Purple awnings and thought, Why not? And then hoped he could pay for it.
La Belle Pensée hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been in; the styles were different, as were the displays, but the store itself was still understated and classy, with very feminine touches. His daughter was thrilled.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Dad? Mum never wants to come in here, says clothes like these are ridiculous and expensive and frilly, but I thought for a ball, for, you know, the gala, it would be all right. Don’t you think?”
Ron smiled at her enthusiasm and nodded. And a sultry voice from behind them said, “If you can’t do frilly at a ball, of all places, where can you do it?”
Ron chuckled as he turned around. “Rose, this is --”
“Miss Parkinson,” Rose finished. “We’ve met at Aunt Gin’s and Uncle Draco’s. It’s nice to see you again.”
“Ah,” Ron said. “Well, then.” He looked from the girl to the woman and back again, a bit at a loss as to what he was supposed to do.
Pansy smiled at Rose indulgently. “You convinced your father to take you shopping, finally, did you?”
“Oh, no,” Rose said seriously. “It was his idea.”
Pansy looked surprised, but pleased. She glanced at Ron, and then focused her attention back on Rose. “Was it? How interesting.”
Ron opened his mouth to point out that it hadn’t been his idea at all to come here, but then closed it abruptly. He rather wished that it had been his idea, now that he thought about it.
Pansy and Rose had moved to a sitting area with large books and swatches of fabric with their heads bent together, talking seriously about what color would look best on her, how the dress would fit, what Rose wanted to be included and how exciting it all was.
Ron felt rather superfluous.
Pansy looked up and gestured to a chair. “Rose? Would you be able to convince your father to join us?”
Ron took one look at the expression of exasperation on Rose’s face and sat. Quickly.
“So, Mr. Weasley, here are the styles that are appropriate for your Rose’s age.”
He looked at the pictures seriously, and Rose said, “You can call him Ron. Everyone does.”
Pansy nodded. Ron spoke up. “Yes, please. Ron. When people say ‘Mr. Weasley,’ I start looking around for Dad.” Pansy didn’t have anything to say, he supposed, because she stayed silent. “In any case,” he continued, handing the pictures back to his daughter. “Choose whatever you like, Rose. I think they’re all lovely.”
This sent Rose into a flurry of planning, holding swatches of fabric up to the patterns and considering each seriously. She finally decided upon an empire waisted gown in lavender, with a delicate lace accent. Having made up her mind, Rose kissed her father’s cheek, thanked him and Pansy very seriously and then announced that she was headed to Flourish and Blotts, and he could find her there when he finished up. That left Ron to settle the bill with Pansy.
“She’s a force to be reckoned with,” he said, chuckling as the bell on the door of the shop tinkled Rose’s exit.
“She’s a darling girl. You and your wife have a lot to be proud of.”
“Ex-wife.”
“Yes, I’d heard,” Pansy said, nodding.
“I think you’re the only person that hasn’t immediately apologized for my bad fortune.”
“I don’t generally say things I don’t mean, Weasley.”
“You really can call me Ron.”
She handed him a bill that seemed low, but he puled out the requisite number of galleons and paid, nonetheless. “Thank you for being so excited about this with her,” Ron said, nodding toward the seating area where they’d sat.
“It’s my job,”she said. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I want to. It means a lot to me.”
Pansy smiled. “Her excitement is infectious. And she’s not spoiled and ill behaved like so many girls her age. She’s actually a delight to be around.”
Ron swelled with pride as she handed him his change. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He turned to go, and then, possessed with a impulse he hadn’t felt in some time, turned and asked, “Would you have dinner with me?”
Pansy closed her register and cocked her head to the side, considering him. “What makes you think I’m available?”
“Are you?” he asked hopefully.
“Possibly,” she replied cryptically. “What did you have in mind?”
“Nothing untoward,”he said immediately. “I- I’d just like to talk to you. Share a meal.”
Pansy raised an eyebrow. “Nothing untoward?”
Ron shook his head. “No.”
She clucked her tongue. “Shame.”
Ron’s eyes widened and he blushed furiously. Pansy merely laughed. “Yes, I think that sounds interesting. You’re many things, Weasley, but you’re never boring.”
“Ron.”
“Yes, alright,” she conceded. “Ron.”
His smile nearly split his face in two. “Good. Friday? At eight? If you give me your address I’ll come and collect you.”
“I’ll be here,” she assured him. “Friday at eight.”
“See you then.” Ron left the shop to find his daughter, feeling better than he had in a long while.
Friday arrived, and he found himself nervous.
He had a date.
A date that he was actually looking forward to.
With a beautiful woman.
Really beautiful.
He’d chosen a nice restaurant, dressed in his second best set of robes, and arrived at her doorstep with what he thought was a pretty arrangement of flowers. The door chimes rang when he walked in, but after looking around the shop, he didn’t see her anywhere.
“Pansy?”
“You came.”
His breath left him at the sight of her. She was wearing a cream colored dress, the neckline of which grazed her delicate collarbones. It fitted her curves and fell to just below her knee, leaving her legs bare and ending in an impossibly high pair of ankle strapped heels that were the same color as her dress.
She was bloody gorgeous.
Ron scrambled, trying to collect himself enough to answer her. “Of course I came. Did you think I was joking?”
She lifted a shoulder in response. “I honestly didn’t know. Such things have been known to happen.”
“I’m sorry for that.”
She shook her head dismissively. “Not your fault. You’re here.”
Ron held out the flowers. “For you.”
She smiled and accepted them, turning to go into the back of the shop. “Want to come in?”
He followed her into the back of her boutique and up a spiral staircase, which ended in a neatly furnished flat. “I didn’t know you lived here, too,” Ron said.
“Yes, well, I haven’t always, but after my divorce, it seemed the prudent thing to do.”
Ron thought hard, not wanting to push her, but unable to recollect who she’d been married to. “You’re divorced?”
She nodded. “I was Pansy Nott for a few years. It didn’t suit me. I like the alliteration of my maiden name better.”
“Me, too.”
She reached up to a shelf that held a vase, toppling it instead of her intent, to pull it down. Ron was quick to move behind her, one hand at her back and one reaching up to save the vase, catching it in one large hand.
“Got it,” he assured her, stepping back slightly as she turned around.
“I should thank you for that.”
He smiled. “Do you think you will?”
Her face tipped up to his. “I’m working up to it.”
He wasn’t the brightest when it came to women, but knew a opening when he saw one. Ron’s head bent to kiss her and rested his free hand, the one not holding a vase, on the curve of her hip. His lips grazed hers once, twice, and then settled on hers more firmly when she wound her arms around his neck. He was pleased that she responded, and even moreso when her fingers curled in the back of his hair, giving him a feeling he hadn’t felt in years, if ever. He pulled her a bit closer, reveling in the feeling of her tongue sweeping against his.
Her hand slipped from around his neck to rest on his chest and he pressed his lips to hers once more, then reluctantly pulled away.
Pansy looked up at him and smiled. “If I’d known you were good for a snog all those years ago, our schooling might have ended differently.”
He nodded in agreement. “Might have.”
He stepped back and allowed her to take the vase from him, watching her economical movements as she cut the stems and placed them in water. She bent her head and inhaled the scent of the rose blooms. “Everyone always brings pansies.”
“It seemed too dead on,” he said.
“I agree.”
This pleased Ron. This date was going to be a breeze, he thought to himself. He brought the right flowers, had already kissed her, and might even get a second date by the end of it all.
“Do you want to see Rose’s dress before we go?”
“Sure.”
She led him to a workroom filled with dresses in various stages of completion. One dress form looked so much like his Rose, he did a double take to make sure that she wasn’t really there. “Lifelike,” he murmured. “Though the mannequin is less serious.”
“I like Rose,” Pansy countered. “She is serious, but she has a playful side, as well. Your sister helps to bring it out in her. Your son, as well.”
“You’ve met Hugo, too?”
Pansy nodded. “An exceedingly sweet boy. I’ve no idea where he gets it.”
Ron laughed. “It must have skipped a generation.” He lifted the lavender fabric of the garment and let it fall again. “The dress is beautiful, Pansy.”
“Thank you. She’s going to be lovely.”
“I have no doubt.” Ron fidgeted a moment. “I know we’ve yet to complete a first date, but are you going to the Ministry ball?”
Pansy raised an eyebrow and cocked her head to the side. “Why do you ask?”
He shook his head and extended an arm to her. “You don’t believe in making it easy for a bloke, do you?”
“Things worth having are worth working for,” she responded.
“Right, then. Would you be my date for the Ministry thing?” Ron asked. “It’ll be a dreary, boring night of work for me, but would be a great deal more palatable if you were there, too.”
“Don’t you want to see how this evening goes, first?” she asked. “I might be a screaming harpy, for all you know.”
“I’m fairly certain you’ve got that in you,” he teased. “But I’ll risk it.”
She nodded, a smile hovering on her lips. “Ask me again at the end of the evening.”
Just before they Apparated, he replied, “Don’t think I won’t.”
The evening went well, by anyone’s standards. They bickered a bit, traded vague insults with no malice whatsoever, ate a fine meal, drank a bottle good wine, held hands, and even kissed several more times, before they found themselves strolling down Diagon Alley, hand in hand.
Ron looked down at her. “You think this is all too bizarre, don’t you?”
She laughed, that same, throaty, dusky laugh he remembered from school. It sent a jolt through to his core, and he couldn’t help laughing with her. “Don’t you agree?” she asked. “I mean, it’s mad, right?”
“Completely mad.”
“Insane.”
“Come home with me,” he blurted.
Her brown eyes widened, and he was sure he’d blown it. She obviously wasn’t easy, but she made him feel so good, so at ease, so perfect that he didn’t want their evening to end. And her kisses had made him want more.
Still, you didn’t go around asking women like Pansy Parkinson home on the first date. He opened his mouth to take it back, apologize, and beg her forgiveness, but just as he was about to begin he heard her say, “Alright.”
She looked up at him almost shyly, which seemed completely out of character, and instead of calling her on it, he kissed her, tucked a stray curl behind her ear and repeated, “Alright,” before Apparating them into his sitting room.
“Drink?” he asked, trying to casually shove some unwashed robes and a sock underneath the sofa.
“Oh, yes.”
He left her to look about his flat as he poured them a drink, and when he returned, she was perusing the pictures propped on his mantelpiece. Nearly all of the subjects had flaming red hair, and his children’s mother was conspicuously absent.
“I don’t have pictures of her, if that’s what you were wondering.”
Pansy turned and accepted the drink he offered her. “I was, actually. You can’t blame me, can you? She was part of your life for quite a long time.”
Ron nodded. “She was. But that part of my life is over. I have two wonderful children as a result, so I don’t regret it, but there’s no chance- none whatsoever- that we will ever reconcile.”
They both took a long pull from their glasses, and Pansy gestured to the sofa. “Could we sit?”
“Oh, of course,” Ron said, sweeping a stack of Daily Prophets onto the floor. To her credit, as beautiful and put together as Pansy was, she didn’t look at all out of place in his lived-in, homey place. He’d wondered about her all evening, and now, with things being the way they were, he decided to dive in and ask.
“What about you? You never answered me when I asked. Is there anyone else? I don’t want to step on any toes.”
“Some toes beg to be stepped on, though,” Pansy countered.
Ron stood firm. “Answer the question.”
“No,” she replied slowly. There isn’t anyone.”
“Nott?” he prompted.
“We divorced,” she said succinctly. “And he’s a bastard. So like you, there’s no reconciliation possible.”
“You are dating anyone?” he asked.
“You’re the first person that’s asked in over a year.”
Ron gaped. “How is that possible?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’re an unbelievably beautiful, smart, sexy, poised woman. Who wouldn’t want you?”
Pansy laughed Ron’s favorite laugh. “Well, I could make you a list, if you like.”
“Idiots, the lot of them,” he proclaimed.
When Pansy smiled at him in reply, he was sure he was right.
They had three more dates that week. The kisses and touches and surreptitious brushes against him were nearly driving him mad. So when they sat on his sofa for the fourth time in as many days, Ron reached out to her. And she went to him.
It was easy, Ron thought. Pansy made love like she lived her life. She teased, questioned, argued a bit, worked hard and exuded grace while she did it. It was as if their bodies were having a conversation, a give and take that left them both breathless and sated.
He reached out the next morning, ready to talk to her, touch her, kiss her, ask her what her day held, but instead of feeling the soft skin of her naked back, all he felt were cold sheets.
There was no note.
Ron didn’t panic right away. He owled her. There was no response. He went by La Belle Pensée. No one was in the shop. He went around back and rang the bell there. Nothing.
He didn’t understand what he’d done wrong.
Rose’s gown arrived via owl, again, with no note. But Rose was thrilled and went to try on the gown immediately. She came out again, twirled and exclaimed, “Isn’t it gorgeous, Dad?”
“Absolutely, Rosie,” he replied.
The dress was gorgeous. The woman that made it was amazing, if mysterious. And Ron wasn’t going to give up.
“Where have you been?” he asked, watching as the night breeze gently ruffled her curls. Music from the ballroom drifted out to the terrace on which they stood. “Why did you leave?”
“Those are two separate questions, and they have two separate answers,” she replied.
“I’ll wait.”
“I’ve been working,” she explained. “I made nearly half of the gowns you see here.”
“Aright,” he said, a bit hurt that even though she was busy, she hadn’t wanted to take a second to answer and owl or the door.
“And I left because...” Pansy trailed off, and looked out into the night. “This is ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is that we could have something. We could be something, Pansy, and you’re just throwing it away!” Ron exclaimed.
“How do I know you won’t just throw me away?” Pansy shouted back, surprising Ron. “When you’ve got all you wanted, when I’m not charming, when you’ve heard all my stories and we’ve run out of conversation, when you don’t want my body anymore, how do I know you’ll be there? It’s easier this way. We’re not attached to one another.” Her eyes grew misty as she continued. “You don’t care if I go and I don’t care if you do, so we’ll end it and still be able to nod if we see each other on the street.”
He blinked. For all of her self-assurance and bravado, her beauty and intelligence, this woman was scared.
“I am, though,” he said, running a hand down her am and taking her hand.
“Am what?” she asked, trembling.
“Attached.” He squeezed her hand and stepped closer. “I care if you go. You’ve driven me mad this week. I thought that maybe I’d done something wrong, or that you thought the sex wasn’t any good--”
Pansy laughed. He took this as a good sign.
“--or that you’d met someone else.”
“No,” she assured him, dismissively. “You haven’t done anything wrong. Except apologizing for last week.”
“It was a blanket apology. Meant to cover anything you were upset about. I’m not really sorry for any of it,” he admitted. “It’s been driving me bonkers, not knowing where you were or what you were thinking.”
“Now you know,” she said simply, exhaling.
“Do you really not care? You could take me or leave me?” he asked.
“Again, that’s two questions.”
“I’ll wait.”
Pansy swallowed. “I care. And I’d rather take you, actually.”
“Alright,” he said, deciding to take charge of the situation. “Here’s what we’ll do.”
Pansy raised a brow.
“We’re going to start seeing one another. Sometimes we’ll eat together. You’ll come with me to family gatherings. I’ll drag you along to that moldering ruin that my sister lives in with your friend. We’ll talk.” He took her in his arms and kissed her lightly. “We’ll make love. We’ll live. And it will all be alright.”
“Will it?” she asked faintly.
“Yes,” he said assuredly, taking her into his arms and kissing her gently. “It most definitely will.”