Title: The Swap
Ship: Harry/Hermione
Name/Pen Name: Ian/CommonWelshGreen
Word Count: 2'417
Theme #/Theme: 5/Wardrobe
Challenge count: 4/7 finished
Content: PG
Spoilers: Books 1-6
Warnings: N/A
Summary: Ron needs to look good for his brothers wedding. Harry helps him at a great cost to his pride. But will he find more than he bargained for?
The Swap
“Harry, come on!”
Ron was pleading, almost begging now
“No way,” said Harry firmly.
“Oh, come on, mate, please?” asked Ron.
“I said no, Ron,” said Harry.
“But why not?”
“Because they’re hideous,” Harry replied.
“Just take one more look at them,” said Ron. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”
He darted over to the wardrobe before Harry had chance to reply. He yanked open the doors and fumbled around inside before pulling out what he was looking for.
“Look,” he said, holding up the garment to Harry. “They aren’t that bad.”
“Ron, you can’t possibly expect me to wear that! Your dress robes are disgusting. Why do you want to wear mine anyway?”
“Because I have to look good for the wedding,” said Ron, before continuing glumly. “Face it, you’re going to look good and have girls fancying you whatever happens. You’re Harry Potter - you don’t even have to try.”
“I will if I wear those,” said Harry, his ego still enjoying Ron’s massage.
“But I’ll look like an idiot, like always,” said Ron. “But if I wear yours I might do better. They’re so cool, I remember Malfoy saying he liked them at the Yule Ball.”
“That must have hurt him,” said Harry.
“Exactly. Because they’re so good it might improve my chances.”
“Why do you suddenly think there’s going to be lots of nice girls at the wedding?” asked Harry.
“Because it’s Fleur,” said Ron. “And she’s Veela, Harry. Veela. All sexy and gorgeous. That’s why they call them Veela. And she’s French – and you know what French girls are like.”
“Um – no,” said Harry.
“Fleur’s probably invited tons of stunning girls,” said Ron. “All those Beauxbatons girls were gorgeous. All I want is to get one of them to notice me and all I’m asking is that you lend me your stuff for one night. Come on – I never ask for anything from you.”
“No? My Firebolt and Invisibility Cloak just on loan to me, are they?”
“You know what I mean. Please, Harry – don’t make me beg.”
“What is it that you want?” asked Harry. “To look good or just to look better than me?”
“A bit of both I suppose,” said Ron frankly.
“Well at least you’re honest,” said Harry.
“It’s just for one night,” said Ron. “And I’ll owe you big. Please?”
“Oh, alright,” said Harry. “Just so you’ll stop moaning at me.”
“Great!” said Ron gleefully. “Can I take them now? Got to get a feel for them, you know.”
Harry nodded, trying not to think about how he’d look turning up at the wedding. Probably like he was the cabaret act, he thought dismally. But the excitement and obvious gratitude Ron was displaying tempered these thoughts and Harry spent the rest of the evening, until it was time to get ready, thinking of ways in which Ron could fulfil his debt.
When the time did arrive that Harry had to don the hundred year old dress robes he decided that nothing short of destroying the Horcruxes and Lord Voldemort himself would make Ron and him quits. The heavy material was bulky and furry and Harry had barely been wearing it a minute before the itching started. It itched at the tight shoulder ruff, it itched at the frilly cuffs and it even itched at the most inappropriate place imaginable. Harry decided he would have to spend the night sat down just so he could scratch with stealth. Once fully robed he took one last, despairing look into the full length mirror, took a deep breath and made his way downstairs.
He was met with a raucous applause, led by the Weasley twins, as he appeared. Amidst the howls of laughter he managed to make his way through the crowd with some pats on the back along the way.
“Now that’s the mark of true friendship!” said Fred, his eyes streaming.
“Or blind stupidity,” said George.
Ron on the other hand was basking in the compliments being offered by his mother and a few of his aunts that Harry had never met. There was one very odd looking bloke in a pinstripe suit, standing out amongst the multi-coloured robes, that Harry assumed must be the accountant that the family never spoke of. He was the only one who looked quite as uncomfortable as Harry felt.
At around seven-thirty the group left for the wedding party. It was a sultry French evening and Harry felt quite like he was going to the guillotine. In fact, he thought being beheaded was a tangible alternative to what he would have to endure during this evening. There was on odd, stagnant whiff about the robes that seemed to burn his nostrils and settle on the back of his throat like a residue. He hoped the breeze as they crossed to the marquee would blow it away but one look at the wrinkled nose of the usher when they entered told Harry that his hopes had once again been dashed.
Once inside, Harry broke away from the Weasley’s and hurried to a table in the darkest corner of the tent he could find. He drew several disparaging glances as he did so but he comforted himself that he’d moved so quickly to have been merely a frilly blur to most of the guests. He huddled against the back of his seat to get away from the light and shield him from the gaze of everyone, moving only to Accio a Butterbeer to himself from a tray being carried around by one of the Garcons.
“Harry what are you doing up here?”
“Oh, hello Hermione,” said Harry, surprised that she’d gotten so near without him noticing. “I just like it here. Nice view, you know?”
Hermione followed his gaze to the big pillar stood a few feet in front of him, then looked back with a furrowed expression.
“Harry -are you hiding up here?”
“No,” he replied, not even convincing himself.
“Are you – are those Ron’s old dress robes you’re wearing?”
“Well, they-”
“They are, aren’t they?” she said smirking. “I wondered where he’d got the money to buy such nice new ones. I suppose he’s got yours on, has he?”
“Something like that,” Harry mumbled.
“Come on then, let me see,” said Hermione.
“No way!” said Harry passionately. He didn’t think he could look her in the face in these clothes.
“Oh, Harry, get a grip. It can’t be that bad. Come on – give me a twirl.”
“I do not twirl,” said Harry indignantly.
“Harry I have to see you in them,” said Hermione, straining not to laugh. “Please?”
Scowling, Harry stood up. Hermione flung a hand to her mouth and pinched her nose to stop herself laughing.
“You, um, look very, er, fetching,” she said, her face contorted with the effort of restraining giggles.
“I don’t think a dog would fetch me, Hermione,” said Harry bluntly, sitting back down.
“Oh, Harry, I’m sorry,” said Hermione consolingly. “I shouldn’t have laughed. It was cruel of me. But you do look so funny.”
“Yeah, thanks for that,” said Harry bitterly.
“Why are you wearing them, anyway?” Hermione asked. “Did you lose a bet or something?”
“Ron wanted to look good, to impress the Veela,” Harry explained. “He thought he’d have more of a chance if he looked – well -”
“More like you?” Hermione blurted out. She blushed furiously and turned away, fascinated by the marquee wall.
“Um, yeah, I suppose,” said Harry awkwardly.
They were spared the embarrassment of an awkward silence by the arrival of Neville Longbottom at their table, in tow of Luna Lovegood. Oddly, Harry thought these were two people he didn’t feel bad looking like a wally in front of.
“Hello,” said Luna.
“’Allo, Luna - Nev,” said Harry, nodding to each in turn.
“Would it be alright for us to sit here?” asked Luna. “Only nobody else has any spare places.”
Harry looked over their shoulders to see multitudes of empty seats at tables, several of the occupants looking nastily in Luna and Neville’s direction.
“Of course it is,” said Harry. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Oh thank you,” Luna beamed. “These shoes are rather painful.”
Harry looked down to see a very pointy pair of stilettos on Luna’s feet, the exposed skin of which seemed very red.
“Those aren’t your dress robes,” Luna observed casually. “Aren’t they Ronald Weasleys’?”
“Yeah, but how do you know?” Harry asked. “Did you go to the Yule Ball?”
“Oh no,” said Luna chirpily. “Nobody asked me to go. But I heard it was tremendous fun.”
She smiled and Harry felt his customary pang.
“Then how do you know these are Ron’s, then?”
“Colin Creevey took some photos of the ball,” Luna explained. “I have Charms with him. He showed me the pictures and I recognised those robes. They’re rather old, aren’t they? I don’t think I’d mind wearing them, though.”
She looked serenely around and Harry scrambled for a new topic. He saw Ron near the dance floor. He was standing with a sort of slant, talking to two very pretty blonde girls and gesticulating wildly with his arms. They were casting him looks of downright pity bordering on hatred. Soon they walked off. Ron shrugged and moved on to the next girl he could find. Harry laughed in spite of himself.
“At least your robes are buying him a few minutes attention,” Hermione observed. “Shame he can’t match up to them with his charms.”
“You could be a little nicer, you know,” said Harry.
“Why?” asked Hermione sharply. “Just because he acts like a chauvinist pig he deserves sympathy for not being very good at it?”
“No, because it’s Ron and he’s your friend.”
“Like that makes a difference to him,” she replied mutinously.
“What does that mean?” asked Harry.
“Oh Harry, come on!” cried Hermione. “How can you be so naďve? He makes you look silly so that it make him look better! Can’t you see that?”
“Yeah, and he told me that himself,” said Harry.
“What – and you still went along with it?”
“Yep.”
“Why would you do that?” asked Hermione.
“Because he’s my friend,” said Harry. “And friends support each other, even if it means looking like Miss Haversham for a night. It’s my good deed for the day.”
“Then here’s mine,” said Hermione. She stood up and offered Harry her hand. “Come and dance with me, Harry.”
”Oh, no thanks,” said Harry. “You don’t want to dance with me. Not looking like this.”
“I don’t care about what you’re wearing,” said Hermione. “I want to dance with the person underneath it. Come on.”
Harry allowed himself to be guided to the dance floor as disdainful looks shot his way. Oddly, only half of them seemed directed at him and his ridiculous attire; the other seemed aimed at Hermione and contained elements of jealousy and loathing so fierce that Harry was starting to seriously worry about her safety.
They walked right to the centre of the floor where Hermione turned to face Harry.
“Right, give me your hand. No, your other hand,” she said. “Put it here, on my waist.”
“On your where?” asked Harry as untimely goose bumps erupted across his skin.
“Oh Harry stop being so childish,” said Hermione, gripping Harry’s wrist and thrusting his hand to her hip. “There. No take my other hand and let’s start moving.”
Harry and Hermione started some ungainly two-step around the floor. They passed Fred and Katie Bell, and also George who was dancing with a pretty brunette who was so obviously French that Harry thought she should have worn a beret and been done with it. Harry made to discuss this with Hermione when he noticed she had a rather unpleasant look on her face.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“What’s that smell?” Hermione asked, her nose creased. “Is that – is that you?”
“No!” said Harry angrily. “It’s the robes!”
“Oh, sorry,” said Hermione. “Here – let me try a spell.”
She took out her wand, tapped the robes three times and said De-reek-io! Nothing happened.
“That doesn’t sound like a real spell to me,” said Harry.
“Come on, Harry, we have to get you out of those clothes,” said Hermione.
“Excuse me?” said Ron, who was swinging past with Luna flailing wildly off his arms. “What are you two up to?”
“That’s hardly your business,” said Hermione, who Harry could see was still annoyed with Ron for making Harry swap dress robes. “I’m going to take Harry off and make him look like he should be.”
“Which is what?” asked Ron as Harry, himself, listened on fascinated.
“The best looking guy at this wedding,” said Hermione stoutly. “Come on, Harry.”
Hermione guided Harry away from the dance floor and outside the marquee. They were moving back towards the hotel.
“Do you really think I’m the best looking bloke here?” asked Harry, teasingly.
“Well – I had to say something to Ron,” Hermione replied.
“Oh – so you don’t?” said Harry, surprised by how hurt his feelings were.
“I didn’t mean – I don’t mean to say I -,” Hermione began, flustered. “I mean, surely you don’t want me to … do you?”
Harry didn’t answer immediately and the pause was enough for both he and Hermione to discover something. They walked on in silence, neither looking at the other. Harry, feeling a mixture of embarrassed and confused, could barely collect his thoughts, unable to focus on anything except the reluctance to answer the ‘no’ he fully expected himself to give to Hermione’s question. He decided that it should be he who broke the silence.
“Where exactly are we going?” he asked.
“Well, that depends,” said Hermione, who still looked lost in thought. “If you really do feel that way – and I really hope you do – there’s really only one thing to do.”
“I, er, meant where are you taking me?” said Harry.
“Oh…oh, yes, of course you did,” said Hermione flushing in the moonlight. “Forget I said anything.”
“I can’t do that, Hermione,” said Harry quietly. “And I don’t think I want to.”
“Y-you don’t want to?” stuttered Hermione. “Then what do you want?”
“I’m not sure,” said Harry. Then he smiled. “But if you’ll let me, I think I know a way I can find out.”
He held out his hand which Hermione gratefully took. Together they walked away from the hotel to find a secluded spot where, if they had time, they might talk about how to get Harry a new outfit.