Hogwarts: My Grandmother is the Queen

Chapter 335 Ron's Dilemma

"Of course," Hermione said with a smile. "I've met the requirements and can attend the ball."

"So—do you already have a dance partner?" Krum asked somewhat awkwardly.

Hermione was somewhat taken aback; the origin of the question surprised her.

She looked at Krum, whose expression was serious, not at all like he was asking a casual question.

"Not yet," Hermione said.

Krum hesitated for a moment, then tentatively asked, "May I invite you?"

Hermione didn't answer immediately. She looked at Krum, whose gaze didn't waver, and whose posture was more upright than usual, as if he had already thought about asking the question and had just finally found the opportunity to speak.

"Victor," she said, "are you serious?"

"I'm serious," Krum said. "When I was in Durmstrang, I never invited anyone. You're the first."

"Okay, I do," Hermione nodded.

Krum's expression seemed to be a forced, smug smile: "So—it's settled then?"

"It's a deal," Hermione said. "See you Saturday night."

Krum nodded, closed the Quidditch book that was lying upside down, and stood up: "I'll head back now, I have training tonight."

"Okay," Hermione nodded.

Hermione sat there, watching Krum's figure disappear through the library door. Then she closed the book, put it back on the shelf, picked up her notebook, and left the library.

She walked briskly down the corridor toward the Gryffindor Tower.

As she walked into the foyer, she ran into Ron, who had just returned from outside. He looked rather grumpy, his shoulders slumped, and his steps were dragging, as if he had just experienced something unpleasant.

"Ron," Hermione called after him, "where have you been?"

"I went for a walk in the hallway," Ron said. "Nothing much."

"You don't look like anything's wrong."

Ron paused for a moment: "I invited Fleur Delacour yesterday."

"and then?"

"She said she'd already agreed to be with Roger Davis," Ron said. "That Ravenclaw prefect."

"Oh," Hermione said, "So—are you alright?"

"It's alright," Ron said. "I expected to be rejected, but I just wanted to give it a try."

The two of them walked together toward the Gryffindor Tower. The stairs hadn't changed direction today, and they reached the eighth floor without incident, stopping in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady.

"Lemon Olaf," Ron said.

The plump lady nodded, and the portrait slid to the side.

They crawled inside and landed on the cushions in the common room.

Harry, sitting on the sofa by the fireplace with a Quidditch magazine in his hand, glanced between Ron and Hermione as they walked in together. "What are you two doing back together?"

"I bumped into her in the foyer," Hermione said. "It's nothing."

She sat down in the armchair on the other side of the fireplace and placed the dark red notebook on her lap.

Her expression remained calm, but Harry noticed a slight, barely concealed smile playing on her lips—she was probably thinking of something happy.

"Hermione," Ron said, sitting down opposite her, "you seem to be in a good mood today."

"It's alright," Hermione said with a smile.

"Did you go to the library just now?" Harry asked.

"right."

"With whom?"

"one person."

"You always read alone," Ron said, "but you came back earlier than usual today, which is obviously a bit odd."

Hermione glanced at him: "When did you start noticing what time I come home?"

"I've been noticing," Ron said. "The common room is especially quiet when you're not there."

Harry flipped through a magazine page, pretending not to be listening, but he was actually eavesdropping on the gossip the whole time.

"Ron," Hermione said, "I have something to tell you."

"What is it?"

"I already have a dance partner for the Christmas ball."

Ron was taken aback: "When did you get a dance partner? Didn't you say you didn't have one?"

"It just arrived," Hermione said. "It was in the library just now."

"Who?"

Hermione looked at him for a moment, as if to make sure he really wanted to know the answer: "Viktor Krum."

Ron's expression froze.

"Viktor Krum?" he asked incredulously. "That Bulgarian Seeker? Krum?"

"Yes," Hermione said, "he invited me."

"He invited you?"

"right."

Why did he invite you?

"Because he wanted to invite me," Hermione said with a shrug. "Do you need a more complicated reason?"

"But—" Ron stammered, "He, he's Krum. He's an international star. How could he—"

""

"Why would he invite me?" Hermione finished his sentence for him. "Ron, are you saying I'm not good enough for his invitation?"

"No—that's not what I meant—" Ron's voice was a little louder than usual, "I just, he couldn't finish his sentence."

Because he genuinely didn't know how to say it.

For the past few days, he had been trying to invite others, never considering that Hermione might not need his invitation at all.

Because Hermione doesn't need anyone to invite her; she just needs to stand there, and people will see her.

"Hermione," Ron finally said, "you see, you're a girl too."

Hermione looked at him, her eyebrows slightly raised: "You just realized that?"

"No—I mean—" Ron gestured with his hands, as if trying to grasp the right words, "I mean—you're a girl too, you should find a dance partner—I—I haven't asked you one."

"You haven't asked me?" Hermione said. "While you haven't asked me, Krum asked me in the library."

Ron opened his mouth, but couldn't say anything.

Harry flipped through a magazine on the sofa next to him, his eyes fixed on the pages, but he was trying hard to suppress a smile.

"Hermione," Ron said, "you really said yes?"

"Yes," Hermione said, "I said yes."

"So—you like him?"

"I like him, from a friend's perspective," Hermione said. "And the way he asked me was very polite. He said he was serious and that I was the first person he had ever invited."

Ron sat there silently, as if processing all the information he had just heard.

"He—he said you were the first?"

"right."

Ron's expression was somewhat complicated.

"Okay," he said. "That's good. He—he's a nice person. Very polite."

"How many times have you seen him?" Hermione asked.

“I’ve seen him three or four times,” Ron said. “I’ve met him at tea parties. He’s always very quiet, but he speaks very logically.”

"So what do you think of him?"

"I think he's a good guy," Ron said. "It's just a bit of a surprise. I didn't expect you to go with him."

Why?

"Because—" Ron chose his words carefully, "you're not quite like him."

"What's not right?" Hermione frowned.

"He's an athlete, and you're someone who likes to read."

"Can't athletes be with people who read books?" Hermione asked very seriously.

"Yes, I can," Ron said with a shrug, "but I'm just not used to it."

"7

Hermione looked at him with a complicated expression.

Her lips trembled slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but in the end she only said, "Ron, sometimes you need to think carefully about the way you talk."

“I know,” Ron said. “My mother said the same thing.”

Harry finally put down his magazine: "Ron, what about you? Have you found a dance partner yet?"

"Padma Petit has agreed," Ron said.

"Padma? Parvati's sister?"

"Yes," Ron said. "I invited her this afternoon."

"She really agreed?" Ron straightened up.

"I said yes," Ron said. "She's a nice person, very quiet, doesn't speak loudly, and shouldn't step on my feet while dancing."

Harry nodded seriously: "That's good, then everyone has a dance partner."

"Hermione," Ron broke the silence, "is Krum a good dancer?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, "but he should dance. He said Durmstrang has balls too."

"So you're going to dance with him tomorrow night?"

"right."

"Then you'll have to teach him," Ron said, seemingly making conversation out of boredom.

"What should we teach him?"

"Teach him not to step on your feet," Ron said. "You're a very strict teacher."

Hermione looked at him, her expression shifting from complex to helpless, and then to a helpless smile.

She picked up her notebook, stood up, and said, "I'm going to sleep. I have a whole day of preparations to do tomorrow."

1

She took a few steps, then turned back: "Ron."

"Um?

""

"Thank you."

"What are you thanking me for?"

"Thanks for saying that," Hermione said. "You see, you're a girl after all"—though it came a little late, at least you realized I'm a girl.

She went up the stairs and disappeared around the corner.

Ron sat on the sofa, watching her retreating figure, a somewhat bewildered expression on his face. "Harry, was she insulting me just now?"

"No," Harry said, "she's thanking you."

"But it sounded like she was cursing at me."

"That's the tone she uses when she thanks people," Harry said. "Aren't you used to it yet?"

"No," Ron sighed, somewhat regretfully. "I probably will never get used to it."

On Wednesday at noon, an owl flew into the Gryffindor common room, circled above Ron’s head once, and then landed on the coffee table in front of him.

A large package was tied to its leg, wrapped in brown kraft paper, with Molly Weasley's familiar round handwriting pasted on it.

Ron took the package, his expression as if he were looking at a bomb about to explode: "It's from Mom."

"What's inside?" Harry asked.

"She said she had prepared a formal gown for me," Ron said. "It was mentioned in the letter I wrote last weekend."

"That's good, saves you the trouble of buying it at Hogsmeade." Harry was clearly unaware of what was about to happen.

Ron swallowed hard. He carefully unwrapped the brown paper, as if he were disassembling something that might jump up and bite at any moment.

The last layer of the package was lifted, revealing a dark purple robe underneath.

The fabric was thick and rough to the touch, with a ruffle around the neckline and dark red lace trim around the cuffs and hem.

The whole outfit looks like it's from fifty years ago, and the color looks like a rotten grape crushed and smeared on the fabric.

Ron picked up the robe, his expression as if he were looking at a frog pulled from formaldehyde: "This is—a formal robe?"

"It looks like it," Harry said.

"Can you call this a formal gown?" Ron said. "It looks like my grandma's nightgown, one of those old-fashioned styles from the last century."

He held up his robe and compared it to himself.

The dark purple fabric gleamed with a somber light in the fireplace, and the lace trim swayed with his movements like a vine that hadn't completely dried out.

Harry wanted to say something, but found himself unable to utter a single kind word.

Ron stared at the robe for a moment. "My mother thinks this dress is nice?"

"Maybe—she thinks you're a good match?" Harry said, suppressing a laugh.

"Suitable for me?" Ron's voice rose slightly. "Harry, look at this dress, do you think it suits me?"

Harry looked at it seriously: "Not suitable."

"So how did she decide this suited me?" Ron tossed the robe onto the sofa. "Did she look at my face and say, 'This maroon lace robe suits my son'? Or did she not even look at it and just buy it randomly?"

"She probably put her heart into it," Harry said, "but her aesthetic sense is a bit off."

“This isn’t a matter of aesthetics anymore,” Ron said. “It’s simply that this dress looks like it was made for someone fifty years older than me.”

Fred and George came down the stairs and stopped when they saw the maroon robe on the sofa.

George went over first, picked up the robe to examine it, and turned to Ron: "Did your mother send this to you?"

"Yes," Ron said.

George and Fred exchanged a glance. Fred took the robe and held it up against himself: "Dark purple, lace trim, cinched waist—Mom's taste is still so consistent."

"Stable what?" Ron said. "She bought this color ten years ago, and she's still buying this color now."

"That's called loyalty," George said. "Loyalty to the same color."

"She should be unfaithful to me just once," Ron said. "Even if it's just buying me a black one."

Fred put the robe down. "Don't worry, Ron. If you don't want to wear this, you can wear one of ours. We brought an extra set."

"Yours?" Ron asked. "What color are you wearing?"

"We're wearing—" George clapped his hands, his clothes changing from black to dark red, "...they change color."

.

Ron glanced at George's color-changing suit, then at his own purplish-brown robe with lace trim:

'

Did you bring an extra set?

"Of course," Fred said with a wicked grin, "but that outfit changes color too. It might not suit you—it changes color very frequently, and if you can't keep up with the rhythm while dancing, it might turn you into a rainbow."