Golden Glove

Ron trudged back to the shop, his boots scuffing against the uneven cobbles, his shoulders weighed down not only by fatigue but by the sheer absurdity of all that had transpired. The affair in the forest had been bad enough—an ordeal he would rather not dwell on—but what truly stung was the betrayal that awaited him. His own parents, those to whom he had entrusted the fruits of his labour, had seen fit to squander his hard-earned wages on a frivolous celebration. A grand affair, no doubt, for Ginny had at last completed her schooling at Hogwarts, and such an occasion, it seemed, demanded a feast fit for royalty.

And what of Ron? Did he, too, not deserve a moment’s respite? He had stayed on an extra day, believing he might indulge in the rare luxury of a well-earned rest, perhaps even a small holiday to call his own. But the moment the festivities died down, the truth revealed itself. There was no holiday to be had, no corner in which to sit and gather himself, no moment in which to stretch his aching limbs and bask in the rare delight of having nothing at all to do. Instead, he had been set to work from dawn till dusk, scrubbing, fetching, tidying—tasks which, in the grand household order, had somehow fallen squarely upon his shoulders. 

And so, with little choice but to bear it, he had done what was expected, all the while seething at the unfairness of it all. Now, as he pushed open the heavy wooden door of the shop, he sighed. Back to work. He was back to the endless cycle of labour, of coin earned and spent, of expectations he never met.

Ginny had made her decision—she would join a Quidditch team and carve out a name for herself, just as she had always planned. It was no sudden fancy, no fleeting ambition, but a dream she had clung to for years, one that had now taken flight. Their parents had not stood in her way. They had fretted, of course—muttered about the dangers, the instability, the uncertainty of such a life—but in the end, they had given their blessing. 

Because whatever path she chose, they would stand behind her.

Ron, meanwhile, swallowed his bitterness, he told himself he was proud of her, and truly, in some small corner of his heart, he was. But the part that had long grown weary under the weight of obligation, could not help but resent the ease with which she seized her future. Ginny had dared to dream, and her dreams had been allowed to take root. And what of him? He had been tethered to a fate not of his own making, thrust into work before he had scarcely had the chance to imagine anything else.

The shop had become his world, and with each passing year, the walls seemed to close in further. Was this it? To stand behind the counter, to toil from dawn till dusk, to watch as others chased their fortunes while he remained fixed in place? He clenched his jaw, willing the bitterness away. It would do no good to dwell on it. It was not as if there had ever been another choice.

By the time Ron drew the heavy wooden shutters across the shopfront and slid the iron bolt into place, exhaustion had settled over him in a manner so absolute it felt as though even his very bones ached beneath its weight. 

Fred, ever at liberty to indulge his whims, had made himself scarce for the evening, off to some unknown engagement with the ease of a man unburdened by responsibility. George, though present in body, was far removed in spirit, hunched over his latest invention in the workshop at the far end of the shop, utterly consumed by his craft. And so, as ever, the menial labour had fallen to Ron, as though it were the most natural thing in the world that he should be the one left behind to shoulder it.

The broom scraped against the worn floorboards as he swept, the dust rising in protest before settling once more, as if mocking his efforts. Shelves were wiped down with a damp rag, counters polished until they bore no trace of the day’s endless transactions, and at last, when every surface had been set to rights, he trudged towards the narrow staircase that led to his meagre lodgings. The room that awaited him was no more than a cramped, dust-laden space, its single window so begrimed that little light ever managed to filter through.

He sank onto the hard mattress, the straw-filled stuffing shifting beneath his weight. He stared up at the low ceiling, watching the flickering shadows cast by the candle at his bedside, and allowed himself, for but a moment, to dream. But it was a futile thing, this dreaming. Morning would come, and with it, the same burdens, the same expectations, the same unrelenting cycle.

And so, with no choice but to surrender to the weight of his reality, he closed his eyes and let sleep take him. But no matter how fiercely he willed himself to forget, the moment he closed his eyes, his thoughts were drawn inexorably back to the events in the forest—those very moments he had sworn to banish from his mind. A stranger, hurt and in need, had crossed his path, and in an instant of misplaced hope, he had believed—that he had found a friend at last. But it had not been so. No, it had ended as it always did. Accusations. Suspicion. They had branded him a thief. Of course these fancy people had. 

If they deemed him a thief, then surely the law would too. And the law, in its cold and merciless certainty, would have him already clapped in irons and cast into a cell before he could so much as protest his innocence. 

And so he ran.

The following morning dawned with an unexpected bustle, as the number of patrons frequenting their joke shop had grown rather noticeably. There was, however, a peculiar matter at hand—one that left George and Fred in no small degree of exasperation. Their wares, for reasons entirely perplexing, had become entangled in a muddle of mistaken goods, leaving their prized fireworks subject to confusion among the inventory. 

And so Ron wakes with a start, his head thick with sleep, only to find himself thrust into chaos before he has even the chance to rub the drowsiness from his eyes. The younger one barely had time to register the full extent of his surroundings before reality slammed into him—the morning was already well underway, and his brothers, evidently too preoccupied with their own affairs—had left the task of fetching supplies squarely on his shoulders.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for the nearest garments—worn, slightly damp, and in desperate need of repair. He fumbles with the fastenings of his coat, fingers still clumsy from sleep, while his brothers continue their barrage of complaints.

"You’d best be quick about it," George warns, already turning towards the door, "or you’ll find yourself in a world of trouble before the day’s out."

Ron stifled a yawn as he stumbled out into the street, the cobbles slick beneath his boots from the morning mist. The town was already alive with the clamour of traders calling their wares, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the less pleasant odours of livestock and damp earth. Tugging his coat tighter around himself, he trudged forward, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him like a sack of grain slung over his back.

"Good morning!" A loud, hearty voice rang out, startling Ron so suddenly that he nearly stumbled over his own feet. He had been minding his own business, weaving his way past a modest little stall piled high with fruits and vegetables. And behind the stall stood a large woman—her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, her apron dusted with flour and bit traces of soil. 

"Err, good morning," Ron replied, his voice a little hoarse from sleep as he straightened himself. He then cast a quick glance back at the array of produce, his stomach giving a faint, traitorous grumble at the sight of the fresh goods. He pointed towards a pile of plump, richly-coloured tomatoes, their skins glistening in the weak morning light. "How much for those big ones?" he asked, tilting his head as he eyed them with interest.

"Four galleons," 

"Not today, thanks," Ron said at once, stepping back as if the mere mention of the price had personally offended him. Gour galleons for a tomato? He hadn’t even a single galleon to spare, let alone two. His meagre savings for the day wouldn’t stretch that far—not unless he fancied returning home empty-handed and facing the wrath of his brothers.

The woman gave him a look, her expression shifting from friendly to indifferent in the space of a heartbeat. She turned away, her attention already fixed on the next potential customer, greeting a passing gentleman with the same enthusiasm the woman had offered Ron only moments ago. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he moved on, muttering under his breath about highway robbery and the absurdity of market prices.

Ron trudged back to the shop, only to find the place eerily quiet. Not a single customer lingered inside, and the usual buzz of chatter had faded into an unsettling stillness. George stood behind the counter, arms braced against the wooden surface, his expression unusually grim. 

"They’ve all gone," he muttered as Ron stepped through the doorway. "Cleared out the moment we ran out of bloody fireworks."

Ron frowned, glancing around the empty shop. The shelves were still cluttered with all sorts of oddities—trick sweets, joke wands, and an assortment of mischief-making supplies—but without the dazzling fireworks to draw attention, the place suddenly felt rather abandoned. "Is there some kind of occasion or something?" He asked, tugging off his coat and draping it over the rack.

"Dunno," Fred called down from the spiral staircase, peering over the railing with an easygoing shrug. "But they were all nobles—ones I’ve never seen before. Must be some fancy event for the high and mighty."

Ron nodded thoughtfully. It wasn’t as if their shop was entirely lacking in customers; in fact, it had built up quite the reputation over time. Infamous, really. Not that it bothered them—business was business, and their brand of chaos had its own appeal.

He was just about to return to the back of the shop, prepared to resume his labor of shoveling coal now that he had completed the morning’s orders, when the bell above the door gave a sharp chime, announcing the arrival of another customer.

The door swung open, and through it stepped a man of refinement. His long, fair hair had been smoothed back to a gleaming finish, and he was wearing a coat of deep black—its fabric rich and heavy—adorned with elaborate silver embroidery and polished buttons. The man also carried a cane of dark wood, its head wrought also in silver, a mere accessory rather than a necessity. His gaze, sharp and assessing, swept across the humble interior as he moved further inside, each step deliberate, as though the very floorboards were beneath his notice.

Behind the counter, George stiffened. "Malfoy," he said, the name escaping his lips in a low, almost venomous whisper. “What—”

"As much as I loathe this wretched place, I must admit—it will be the last time I set eyes upon it," 

Ron, crouched behind the worn wooden shelves, pressed himself against the rough planks, straining to catch sight of the exchange. His brow furrowed in bewilderment as he flicked his gaze between the twins, silently urging them to explain the significance of Malfoy's presence. But neither brother spared him a glance—both stood rigid, their attention wholly fixed on their unwelcome visitor.

Malfoy tapped the head of his cane against the floor, the soft knock punctuating the tension in the air. "Oh, but that was a separate matter entirely," he drawled, his tone deliberately measured, meant to provoke. "There is yet another concern that requires discussion, Mr. Weasley.”

"If it is money you’ve come for, we can pay it immediately, just—" George began hastily, his words tumbling out in a rush.

"My apologies," Malfoy interjected smoothly, cutting him off before he could say another word. He lifted his cane and gestured toward the nearest display of goods, its polished head glinting in the light of the shop. His sharp eyes roved over the shelves with something between curiosity and disdain. "I was referring to this enterprise of yours," he continued, as though he were merely indulging in idle conversation. "The establishment itself. How curious that it has already begun to flourish."

Fred, standing rigid beside George, narrowed his eyes. "And what exactly do you mean by that?" he asked warily.

Malfoy exhaled, almost as if he pitied their ignorance. "You see, this part of town was never rightfully claimed by any one merchant. It has long remained in a state of uncertainty, neither here nor there, belonging to no man outright. And yet, here you both stand, proprietors of a business that—against all odds—has taken root."

“And?”

"And yet, somehow, this land has found itself under the particular ownership of the Parkinson family," Malfoy continued, his tone one of idle musing, though there was a sharp edge beneath it. "For years, they scarcely paid it any mind, too preoccupied with loftier affairs to so much as glance in this direction. And now, quite suddenly, they are rather incensed. Furious, in fact. Imagine their shock upon discovering that an establishment—your establishment—has been raised upon it."

A flush of deep red crept up George’s neck, burning hot against his freckled skin. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he forced out a gruff response. "I’ve no idea what you’re talking about," 

Malfoy arched a single, unimpressed brow. His smirk was slow and deliberate, the kind of expression worn by a man who already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. "Tell me, Mr. Weasley," he said, "was it mere coincidence, or did you take it upon yourself to claim this particular piece of land as your own?"

"You’re lying," Fred said sharply, his jaw set in defiance. "This land was never owned by anyone—we bought it fair and square!"

Malfoy lifted a gloved hand, waggling a single finger in mock reprimand. "Ah, but are you quite certain?" he mused. "It would seem, dear Weasleys, that you have placed your trust in a rather unfortunate contract. A shame, truly."

George stiffened beside his brother, his face darkening, but before he could find the words to retort, another voice cut through the room.

"That’s unfair!"

Ron, no longer content to remain hidden, stepped out from behind the shelves, his face flushed with anger. His fingers curled into the fabric of his worn sleeves as he glared at Malfoy, his frustration boiling over. "What—you expect us to simply pack up and leave?" he demanded, his voice raw with disbelief. "We’ve been here for years! What the hell gives you the right to tell us otherwise?"

"Ah, the youngest son of the Weasley family," Malfoy drawled with a sneer, idly toying with the signet ring upon his gloved finger. "One would think you might have done something of worth by now, given that you have been toiling since childhood. But alas, the state of your family remains as shameful as ever. A most pitiful affair."

Ron straightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides, though he dared not lash out. His coat was threadbare, his boots scuffed, and despite the warmth of the fire crackling in the hearth, he could not shake the chill of standing before someone who had never known hunger nor hardship.

"What is it you want, Malfoy?" George interjected, stepping forward. “You did not come all this way merely to waste our time with idle taunts. If you want something, then fucking out with it!”

Malfoy sighed, as though burdened by the necessity of explaining himself to those he deemed beneath him. He dusted a fleck of imagined lint from his sleeve before lifting his gaze once more. "The land, Mr. Weasley," he said at last. "Your father’s debts, most unfortunate as they were, left little choice in the matter. The estate was relinquished, and the noblemen who acquired it have now deemed it necessary to sell. A regrettable outcome, truly, but such is the nature of business."

A hush settled over the room, the weight of his words sinking into the worn floorboards beneath their feet.

"No," George said firmly, despite the simmering frustration beneath. He squared his shoulders, his fingers tightening at his sides. "I signed a contract. It was made clear that this land was ours, purchased fairly and without dispute."

"We shall see," Malfoy murmured, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his intent. "Not all contracts serve as irrefutable proof, particularly when the other parties involved are less than trustworthy. Or have you truly been so dim-witted as to believe otherwise?"

Ron surged forward, his patience utterly spent, his arm already swinging in blind fury. His blood boiled at Malfoy’s sneering words, his body moving on instinct, driven by years of pent-up resentment. 

But before his fist could meet its mark, a strong hand seized his arm and wrenched him back. “Don’t," Fred hissed, his grip tightened, not unkindly, but enough to remind Ron that they could not afford to let anger dictate their actions—not now, not with so much at stake.

Lucius Malfoy, entirely unfazed, let out a slow, amused chuckle, his lips curling in amusement. He straightened his coat with deliberate ease, as though the mere idea of Ron laying a hand on him was too ridiculous to entertain. "How predictable," he mused, casting a glance over his shoulder as he turned toward the door. "You Weasleys always let your tempers get the better of you. A flaw that never fails to amuse." He paused, tapping a gloved finger idly against the doorframe before adding, "I shall return soon, and when I do, the Parkinsons will accompany me—and we shall have a most civilised discussion about what is to be done with this land. And perhaps, we might finally see some Weasleys placed where they truly belong.”

George sucked in a sharp breath, his knees threatening to give way beneath him. He caught himself just in time, though the weight of the revelation bore down on him heavily. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, voice thick with frustration. “The scoundrel’s merely found some ridiculous loophole to swindle us out of our own hard-earned living.”

Ron, shifting uneasily, glanced between them, his brow deeply furrowed. “But…it isn’t true, is it?” he asked, uncertain. “I mean, you did sign the contract, didn’t you?”

“Of course, I bloody well did!” George snapped, dragging a weary hand over his face. His temples throbbed, and the entire ordeal made his head spin. “Fred, fetch some firewhisky—we’ll be drinking tonight, and we’ll be shutting up shop for now."

Fred, ever the one to take things in stride, gave a brief nod. “Right you are,” he said, already making his way towards the back.

Ron, still standing awkwardly near the counter, cleared his throat. “I’ll just have some err, water,” he muttered, as if that might soften the mood.

The days that followed were marked by an uneasiness, a shadow cast by the ill-fated encounter with Lucius Malfoy. They had taken to closing earlier than usual, unwilling to risk another unwelcome visitation. George, ever resourceful, had managed to track down the very individual who had first offered him the contract, buf, to their growing alarm, no reply had been forthcoming. 

And if the land had never truly belonged to them in the first place, that they had unknowingly signed that deceitful contract—fraudulent from the very start. Then, how had Lucius Malfoy been aware of the deception all along. How had he known? And if the man had been privy to this knowledge for so long, why had he waited years to reveal the truth? Why now, when their shop had finally begun to prosper—when they had poured blood, sweat, and tears into finally making something of themselves? 

It reeked of ill intent, as if the fucking bloke had deliberately held back, biding his time, waiting for the precise moment to strike and snatch it all away.

He stood alone at the counter, his hands moving idly over the worn surface, though there was little work to be done. The shop, once alive with the murmur of trade, feels strangely hollow now. Only a few customers have wandered in throughout the day, their purchases small, their coin purses drawn tight, and with each passing hour, the silence grows heavier, settling over the place like a damp fog that refuses to lift.

Hunger gnawed at Ron, but there was nothing fresh to eat, nothing warm to stave off the ache in his stomach. From the depths of the cupboard, he has salvaged a small crust of bread, its edges hardened from neglect, its centre cold beneath his teeth. He took a bite nonetheless, chewing like a man who knows he cannot afford to be picky. It was dry, tasteless, and did little to fill him, but he swallowed it down all the same, brushing the stray crumbs from his fingers before turning his gaze back to the empty shop, waiting for something—anything—to break the monotony.

Just as Ron swiped the last of the crumbs from the counter, the shop door swung open with a faint creak, letting in a gust of air from the street. Two young women stepped inside, their laughter spilling in after them, light and unbothered, the kind that speaks of well-fed comfort and idle amusement. He straightened up instinctively, though they seemed entirely unaware of his presence at first, caught up in their own hushed conversation, their gloved hands fluttering as they exchanged whispers behind barely concealed smirks.

Then, at last, one of them deigned to acknowledge him, though it was done with the kind of indifference that suggested she had never once had to concern herself with the likes of him. "Excuse me," she began, her tone pleasant enough, though she did not bother to properly look at him before wrinkling her nose, as if only now realising the stale scent of bread and dust that lingers in the air. "Do you, perhaps, sell laces that tie themselves about the waist?"

Ron blinked at her, taken aback for a moment, not just by the question but by the sheer audacity of asking it in such a manner. “Er,”

"Does it come in different colours?" the second woman inquired, her tone carrying the same expectation as if she were merely confirming something she already knew to be true.

Ron, caught slightly off guard, straightened his shoulders and gave a brief, uncertain nod. "Er—I think we’ve got some in the third section," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck before turning towards the shelves that loomed at the far end of the shop. It wasn’t as if he particularly cared about laces or their variety, but it was his job to fetch them, so fetch them he would.

The two women lingered where they stood, making no immediate effort to follow. Their hesitation was obvious, as though stepping further into the shop might somehow sully their expensive skirts or expose them to something unseemly. But after a brief exchange of glances, they seemed to resign themselves to it, lifting their hems slightly as they trailed after him, their boots clicking against the wooden floor with every step.

Ron reached the towering shelves and tilted his head back, scanning the neat rows of bundled laces stacked upon one another. He could just about make out the different shades—a dull array of earth tones mixed in with the occasional richer hue—but before he could even reach up for them, one of the women let out a sudden gasp, clutching at her companion’s arm with an excited squeal. 

"Oh my!" she cried, her eyes widening with delight as she pointed towards a particular set. "Why, this is absolutely perfect!"

The other woman followed her gaze, taking only a moment to assess before nodding in decisive agreement. “We’ll take all of these colours."

Ron’s hand, which had just been reaching for one of the bundles, froze in mid-air. His brow furrowed slightly, and he blinked at them in mild disbelief. All of them? Every single colour? He resisted the urge to ask if they were serious, but something about the way they stood—expectant, assured, utterly unbothered by the practicality of such a request—told him they were. He reached for the first bundle, already calculating in his head how long it would take to wrap up the entire lot.

Just as Ron turned to gather the laces, the door swung open once more, sending another faint gust of cool air drifting through the shop. Three more women stepped inside, their expressions bright with anticipation, their gazes sweeping quickly over the shelves before landing—inevitably—on the very same display of laces.

Ron frowned slightly, glancing between them and the two women already beside him. It was odd, having so much sudden interest in something as simple as waist laces, but before he could dwell on it, the bell above the door chimed again. Then again. A steady stream of well-dressed women began filtering into the shop, their conversations overlapping in excited murmurs, their eyes all drawn to the same section, as if guided by some unseen force.

Ron stiffened. This wasn’t normal. Not for a quiet little shop, not for something as mundane as laces. Within a few moments, the shop floor had become a flurry of skirts and eager voices, the chatter growing louder as more women spoke over one another.

“Oh, thank heavens, they’ve still got some left!”

"Everywhere else is selling out so quickly!"

His eyes darted around, the once-empty shop now brimming with customers, all reaching for the same handful of goods. The fine laces—delicate, embroidered pieces that had been the pride of their modest little stall—had been snatched up in a frenzy, the last of them disappearing from the counter before Ron had even fully grasped what was happening. One moment, there had been a small pile neatly arranged before him, and the next, the greedy hands of well-dressed women had stripped it bare. 

"Well, that was disgracefully fast."

"Not a single one left?"

"And what are we supposed to do now?”

He felt their eyes on him, sharp and brimming with displeasure. Ron ducked behind the counter pressing his back against the rough wood as if it might shield him from their piercing stares. For Merlin’s sake, this is a joke shop! Not some fancy dressmaker’s, not one of those high-end fabric shops where ladies fussed over silk and embroidery. They just happened to sell laces that tie themselves—as a gimmick. A daft little trick, not some miracle solution to whatever sudden crisis had them all flocking here like pigeons after breadcrumbs. 

Another hour had dragged by, and just as he had begun to suspect the twins had run off to some debauched mischief, the door burst open. Fred stumbled in first, his arms laden with what could only be described as an absurdly large parcel wrapped in a luxurious ribbon, the likes of which Ron was certain he had never before seen in his life. The sight of it was so out of place, so utterly nonsensical in the context of their usual affairs, that for a moment he simply gawked.

"Bloody hell!" Fred exclaimed, hoisting the box with the air of a man who had just conquered something formidable. "Nearly lost a limb getting this, I’ll have you know!"

Ron, still rather sore from his own recent misfortunes, straightened up with an exasperated scowl. "Where have you two been? I was nearly murdered by a horde of women not an hour past!" He gestured vaguely at the door, as though expecting the memory of his suffering to materialise before them for proof.

George, who had sauntered in behind his brother with the smug air of a man who had profited handsomely from some underhanded dealing, raised both hands in mock surrender. "Now, now," he said smoothly, his grin never faltering. "Business is business, little brother. Can’t be helped, you know."

Ron’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he finally tore his gaze from their unconcerned expressions and fixed it upon the parcel in Fred’s arms. It was a striking thing, its bright blue wrapping gleaming under the dim light, the ribbon tied so extravagantly that it seemed almost offensive in its finery. He did not trust it. He did not trust them. "And what am I looking at?" he asked at last, eyeing the object as though it might explode at any moment.

Fred and George exchanged a knowing glance, one of those irritatingly smug, conspiratorial looks they so often shared—the kind that made Ron feel as though he were the butt of some elaborate joke. 

"Ronniekins, didn’t you hear the news?" Fred began, his tone positively dripping with exaggerated incredulity.

Ron, whose patience had already been whittled down to a frayed thread, scowled. "I don’t care," he said curtly, his arms crossing over his chest in a display of pure, simmering exasperation. He was still reeling from his near-death experience with the aforementioned horde of women, and he had little interest in whatever nonsense the twins were peddling this time.

Unfazed, George tilted his head towards the mysterious parcel, his grin widening. "Well, this," he announced with theatrical flair, giving the extravagant box a small but deliberate shake, "is a dress. One Ginny had ordered."

Ron’s frown deepened. A dress? His sister had ordered something wrapped up in that absurdly posh packaging? What in Merlin’s name—"And I feel it bears mentioning," George continued, his tone turning almost wounded, "that it cost nearly a full year’s worth of my hard-earned wages."

Ron’s jaw fell open. His mind reeled. A year’s wages? "You’re telling me," His eyes darted from the parcel to his brother, as though he were trying to make sense of some impossibly cruel trick of the light. "that our Ginny—that is, our little sister—spent more gold than you make in a year on a single frock?"

Fred sighed in mock sympathy, shaking his head. "Heartbreaking, isn’t it?"

George nodded gravely. "Truly, a tragedy for the working man."

"What—but why?" Ron spluttered, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and mounting horror. How in Merlin’s name had their parents agreed to such an outrageous extravagance? It was one thing for Ginny to dream up grand notions, but quite another for their mother and father—who scarcely had two Knuts to rub together—to indulge her in this absurdity.

Fred let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in exaggeration as though Ron’s ignorance pained him deeply. "Oh, Ronnie, for the love of all things wizarding, would you please make an effort to read the morning newspaper?" he chided.

Ron, still frowning, made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat but nonetheless snatched the crumpled newspaper Fred tossed his way. He nearly dropped it in his rush to unfold the blasted thing—his fingers fumbling against the coarse print.

To Be Held in One Fortnight: A Grand Royal Ball!

His gaze continued downward, drinking in the details against his better judgment. It was a tradition, an event hosted by the palace itself, a night of finery and spectacle where the young prince—with an unknown face, Ron now realised, he had never actually bothered to learn about—would now select a bride. 

Ron's throat tightened as his eyes caught upon a particular line, the inked words standing out as though they had been written solely to mock him. "All maidens of noble standing, as well as those of humble birth, are invited to attend." His fingers tightened around the edges of the paper, the news sinking into him with all the subtlety of a brick to the head. "You mean to tell me," he said at last, his voice low, almost hesitant, "Ginny is going to this ball? With the expectation that she’ll waltz her way into some posh prince’s affections and—what? Became queen?"

"That’s the spirit, little brother," George said cheerfully.

"Do try to keep up," Fred added.

"Well," Ron said, though his voice was laced with heavy scepticism, "so she’s gone and spent that much coin—for a single night at some royal ball—all in the hope that the prince might so much as glance in her direction?" 

"Yeah,” George said breezily, shrugging in that infuriatingly unconcerned manner of his.

Ron scoffed, shaking his head. He was about to say something else—something particularly cutting about the sheer foolishness of throwing away hard-earned wages on a silk dress and a dream—when George added, almost offhandedly, "The two of us are coming home, by the way."

Ron blinked. His thoughts momentarily derailed. "What? Why?"

"Because, you great lump, Mum said so," Fred answered, "She’s beside herself with excitement over this ball nonsense—reckons it’s a grand opportunity, all that sentimental rubbish.”

Ron could picture it now: their mother, eyes alight with a wistfulness she rarely had time for, gushing over Ginny’s dress, rambling on about destiny and fate and oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful, boys, if she had a chance? His stomach twisted—not from indignation this time, but from something far more pressing. "And what about me?" he asked abruptly, glancing between the two of them, his expression betraying something just shy of desperation.

Fred raised an eyebrow. "What about you?"

"I want to go."

Fred and George exchanged another glance.

Ron crossed his arms, determined. "I do," he insisted, his voice firm, though there was a flicker of something almost boyish beneath it—an eagerness he was trying very hard to keep concealed. "I mean, why shouldn’t I? If all manner of folk are allowed in, then I ought to be able to go too." 

The truth of it was, he had no delusions of grandeur—no fanciful notions about catching the eye of royalty or rubbing shoulders with nobility. But the thought of stepping foot in a palace, of seeing all its wealth and splendour up close, of feasting on real food—food that wasn’t just stale bread and thin broth. He imagined himself in the grand banquet halls overflowed with meats and cheeses, fine breads and sweet pastries, things he had only ever heard about in passing or caught glimpses of through the windows of wealthier households.

“Well, you see,” George began, as though he were treading carefully over uneven ground. “Mum didn’t exactly mention you in the letters.”

Ron felt the colour drain from his face, with the cold realisation that his presence had been neither accounted for nor particularly desired. His brows knitted together, an uncomfortable prickling sensation creeping up the back of his neck. 

“What d’you mean by that?” 

George, for all his usual ease and merriment, faltered. He cast a brief glance at Fred, who was unusually quiet, he cleared his throat and carried on, his words slower now, as if he were tiptoeing across thin ice. “Well, she—Mum, that is—she’s sorted things, you know, bought us all new robes and the lot…”

“And where did she come up with such a sum?” Ron asked, with an edge of suspicion, though he did his best to mask.

Fred hesitated only a moment before answering, “She didn’t—well, she didn’t exactly say,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck in a manner that suggested he, too, had found the matter puzzling. “But it—it seemed a fair bit of money, that’s for sure.”

“Oh,” Ron muttered, though the single syllable barely scratched the surface of his thoughts. A slow, sinking sensation crept through his chest, for there was only one explanation that made any kind of sense. It had to be his money that he had been dutifully sending home, little by little, in the hope that it would ease the burden of household expenses, perhaps pay off what was their family owed. But, now that he thought of it, there had been mention of Ginny ordering a dress—one that, by all accounts, had been of finer make than anything they could ordinarily afford. Was that what his earnings had gone towards? Silk and lace while he had gone without? 

Still, he swallowed the thought, forcing himself to nod as though none of it mattered. “Alright,” he murmured, though the word felt strangely hollow in his mouth.

“‘Course,” Fred said, though he did not quite meet Ron’s eye as he spoke—that Ron wondered if his brother was merely trying to placate him, to smooth over whatever unease lingered between them. He merely watched as they turned away, already busying themselves with straightening the counter, tucking away loose odds and ends as though the conversation had never taken place.