Golden Glove

The Burrow was in a state of utter commotion upon their return the following day, a din of voices and hurried footsteps filling every corner of the house. The Weasley children had all made their way back home, each summoned for a week of careful preparation in anticipation of the grand occasion—the Royal Ball. It was an event that commanded the attention of the entire kingdom, a gathering of nobility and fortunate commoners alike, where fate itself seemed to weave its intricate patterns beneath the flickering glow of chandelier light.

Among them, Ginny was by far the most enlivened by the prospect. Her excitement was a thing unrestrained, a bubbling over of bright-eyed wonderment that seemed to fill the air about her. She recounted the most thrilling detail of all—that the young prince himself had once been a pupil at the very same school she had attended. This fact alone sent her into raptures, for what greater sign could there be that destiny had a hand in all things? “And, oh, how handsome he was!” She spared no detail in her effusions, every syllable carrying the weight of admiration as she described the curve of his smile, the noble bearing of his stance, the way he moved, spoke, and carried himself with a grace that seemed beyond mere mortals.

Ron, who had been listening with half an ear while shoving a piece of bread into his mouth, found himself frowning at the sheer absurdity of it all. How, in the name of all things sensible, could a person claim to fancy someone when they hadn’t even the faintest clue what their actual name was? 

Well, to be fair, the young prince had never properly introduced himself to anyone, had he? It wasn’t as if he went about shaking hands and offering his name in the marketplace. No, everywhere he went, people only ever referred to him as Your Highness—even in the newspapers, where his every move was documented. For a reason, not a single soul seemed to know what he was actually called, and if they did—well, they certainly weren’t in any hurry to say it aloud.

Ron supposed that was just how things were with royals. All grandeur and mystery, floating about in their gilded worlds where names hardly seemed to matter. He swallowed down the last of his bread and shook his head to himself. People could be right peculiar sometimes.

"I once introduced myself in front of the prince," Percy declared with an air of self-importance, admiring his own reflection in the slightly fogged-up mirror as he adjusted the fine robes their mother had procured for him. The fabric, a deep shade of blue with subtle embroidery along the cuffs, suited him well enough, and he seemed thoroughly pleased with his own appearance. "And I must say, he wasn’t quite the dashing figure all the ladies make him out to be."

"What do you mean?" George asked, running a comb through his unruly hair with far less enthusiasm than Percy had for his own grooming.

The room was alive with movement, filled with the rustling of fine cloth and the occasional muttered curse as the Weasley brothers prepared for the grand occasion that loomed before them. It was an unfamiliar sort of gathering for a family so accustomed to simpler affairs, but here Ron's brothers were, each attempting—some more successfully than others—to make themselves properly presentable for the evening’s festivities.

"He was young, of course," Percy continued, he was still studying his reflection in the mirror, adjusting the folds of his robe with delicate precision, as though he were a dignitary preparing to address a crowd. "But if you ask me, he didn’t appear as though he came from the royal family at all. There was something—well—ordinary about him."

"Don't say that," Ron muttered, he wasn’t entirely certain why Percy’s words irked him, but they did. Perhaps it was the arrogance in his brother’s voice, the way he spoke as if he knew all there was to know about princes and kings, when in reality, none of them had ever spent a single day in their company.

Percy turned at him, as though only just realising he was there. "And what of you?" he asked, his brow arching in faint disbelief. "What exactly are you doing here? Did Mother actually permit you to attend the ball as well?"

Ron’s face burned with sting of shame. He had accompanied them only because he had been expected to, trailing behind as they fluttered excitedly about the house. 

"There is nothing for you to wear," his mother had said, her voice heavy with false regret. "You must understand, dear, the tailor simply had no cloth to spare for an extra set of robes. And the carriage—well, you see, there is only enough space for them. It would be quite improper to squeeze in another body, don’t you think?"

The lie was blatant, woven with the kind of indifference that stung far worse than outright cruelty. He had seen the extra set of robes, the fine deep-red fabric folded neatly upon a chair only the night before, set aside with every intention of being used. And the carriage—large enough that a child could have laid across the seat with room to spare—stood waiting with its doors yawning open, an empty space that could have easily held one more. But he was to remain behind. Their house would need tending, after all, and someone must be left to see to it while the rest of them vanished into the golden glow of the evening.

Ginny swept past him without so much as a glance, her small frame adorned in a gown of the deepest blue, its silken folds shimmering in the evening. The fabric clung to her as if it had been woven by magic itself, cascading in perfect, delicate waves with each step she took. She had spent the past week perfecting her movements, rehearsing the elegant tilt of her chin, the the graceful arch of her wrist as she lifted her skirts just so. And now, as she ascended into the waiting carriage, she executed each motion with a precision that could only have come from hours of tireless practice before the old mirror.

Behind her, their brothers followed suit, stepping into the carriage with a clumsy of practised refinement. The door swung shut with a soft, final click, and then, with the crack of the driver’s whip, the carriage rolled forward, its large wheels grinding against the cobblestones as it carried them away towards the splendour of the evening.

So there he stood, shoulders squared in an attempt to keep his disappointment from showing, hands curling into the worn fabric of his own sleeves as the carriage rolled away, its wheels clattering on the a. The night swallowed them whole, and with them, any foolish notion he might have had of belonging amongst them.

Ron turned from the empty road and made his way back into the Burrow. His eyes drifted towards the kitchen, where the remnants of the evening’s preparations lay abandoned in careless disarray. The dishes had piled high in the sink, some still streaked with the remnants of gravy, others stacked haphazardly as if they had been tossed aside without a second thought. A deep weariness settled in his bones, but he pushed it away, rolling up his sleeves with resignation. At least with work, there was no time to think.

He moved methodically, his hands dipping into the soapy water, scrubbing away at the plates with a vigour that bordered on desperation. It wasn’t long before he felt the familiar scurry of tiny feet along the wooden counter, the soft chittering of his only loyal companions in this house. The rats had gathered as they always did—their beady eyes watching him with a curiosity that made his lips twitch into a faint, wavering smile. They weren’t disgusted by him. They weren’t indifferent. To them, he was not an inconvenience, nor a forgotten thing to be left behind.

"Good to see you lot again," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he rinsed another dish. One of the rats—small, with patches of brown and grey fur—scampered closer, nudging its tiny nose against his wrist as if offering a silent reassurance.

The door burst open with a force that rattled the very bones of the house, the heavy wood slamming against the wall with a deafening crack. Ron whirled around, his breath catching in his throat as a flood of cloaked figures swept into the room, their dark robes billowing like storm clouds as they moved with calculated purpose. He was too stunned to react—rooted to the spot as his soapy hands dripped water onto the stone floor. These were no common thieves—no desperate men seeking shelter from the cold. Their movements were too precise, their presence carrying the unmistakable weight of authority.

Then, through the chaos, came a figure he recognised instantly.

Lucius Malfoy stepped in behind them, his cold, aristocratic features set in an expression of quiet disdain as he surveyed the house with narrowed eyes. He did not move with urgency—there was no need. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who had already decided the outcome of the night.

Malfoy’s gaze locked onto him, piercing, as if weighing his very existence and finding it utterly insignificant. At once, the cloaked wizards sprang into motion. They tore through the house with merciless efficiency, upending furniture, yanking open drawers, rifling through every scrap of parchment as though the very walls might be hiding some terrible secret.

"What the hell are you doing!?" Ron shouted, horror clawing its way up his throat as a chair was knocked aside with a crash, sending dust and splinters into the air. His voice was raw, desperate, but it did nothing to stop them. They surged past him as if he were no more than a spectre in his own home, hurrying up the staircase with heavy, unrelenting steps. Others fanned out through the lower rooms, throwing open every cupboard, every chest, seizing letters, documents—anything that bore ink on parchment.

"Get every piece of evidence you can find about the shop," Malfoy ordered, his voice cold and clipped, carrying the effortless authority of a man who was used to being obeyed. "And stop that carriage before it reaches the palace. The last thing we need is the filthiest of them all parading themselves before the Potters."

Ron barely had time to process the words before his body moved on instinct. "Stop!" he shouted, his breath coming fast and uneven as his hand shot to his pocket, fingers curling around the rough, familiar grip of his wand. But he never got the chance to raise it.

Malfoy struck him. The back of his cane—a polished, serpentine piece of silver—lashed against Ron’s wrist with a force that sent pain shooting up his arm. His fingers spasmed, and before he could so much as tighten his grip, his wand slipped from his grasp, clattering uselessly onto the stone floor.

A smirk curled at the edges of Malfoy’s mouth as he watched the boy flinch, the satisfaction in his eyes barely concealed. He did not need to waste words on someone like Ron. The message had already been made perfectly clear.

Ron stumbled back, his chest heaving, his hand throbbing from the blow. Fury burned hot in his veins, but he was outnumbered, unarmed, and powerless against the storm that had already consumed his home. The cloaked figures continued their work, their hands tearing through every drawer, every scrap of parchment, while others stormed up the staircase, their boots thudding against the wooden steps.

Somewhere beyond the walls of the house, the carriage carrying his siblings was still rolling down the road, oblivious to the danger now racing after them. And Ron—trapped, helpless, forced to watch his world being torn apart—could do nothing but seethe.

A masked wizard descended the staircase, his gloved fingers clutching a single document as though it were the key to some great and terrible truth. His cloak billowed slightly as he stepped into the dim light of the hall, the heavy silence thickening around him like a shroud. Without a word, he extended the paper towards Malfoy, who took it with the air of a man receiving a long-awaited prize.

Malfoy hummed in satisfaction, his eyes scanned the document, and whatever lay upon that parchment, it was exactly what he had been searching for. "Very well," he murmured, rolling the paper neatly between his fingers. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he turned towards the door. "Follow me."

The wizards moved in perfect unison, their boots echoing against the stone floor as they swept out into the night. They did not spare a glance back at the ruin they had left behind, nor at the lone figure standing amidst the wreckage of what had once been a home.

Ron stood frozen, his breath shallow, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Around him, the house lay in utter disarray—furniture overturned, drawers wrenched from their frames, papers scattered like fallen leaves. The lingering scent of ink and dust filled the air, mingling with the cold bite of night that seeped in through the open door. It was as if a storm had ripped through the very heart of the place, tearing apart every fragile semblance of order and leaving only destruction in its wake.

His gaze flickered to the remnants of his life—the broken chair, the torn letters, the dishes still half-submerged in soapy water. A part of him wanted to move, to fix, to gather the pieces and make sense of what had just happened. But another part of him, the part that had been beaten down time and time again, knew the truth. This was not something that could be cleaned away.

Ron stepped forward on unsteady legs, his body moving without thought as he reached for the door. It groaned on its hinges as he pushed it shut, the heavy wood settling back into place with a dull, lifeless thud. He reached instinctively for the latch, fingers fumbling over splintered remains—only to realise, with a hollow sense of finality, that the lock had been completely destroyed.

He let out a slow, shuddering breath, his hand falling away. There was no use trying to bar the entrance. The house was open now, exposed to the night, to the wind, to whoever might choose to walk in next. The security it had once held, however little, had been shattered alongside everything else. Ron dragged himself across the wreckage-strewn floor, stepping over broken drawers, trampled papers, and an overturned table that had lost two of its legs. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Ron cast another wary glance toward the door, his pulse quickening in his throat with a steady, ominous thud. His thoughts tumbled over themselves in frantic succession—was it Malfoy again? Had he come back to finish the job, to silence the lone witness to whatever foul deed he had committed? A cold dread settled in Ron’s chest, but he remained rooted to the spot, paralysed by the weight of uncertainty.

His breath caught, as the door, moved by some unseen hand, creaked upon its hinges with an excruciating slowness. Then, through the widening gap, a cloaked figure emerged, their silhouette at first nothing more than an indistinct shape. And then, as the flight briefly licked the edge of the stranger’s hood, illuminating a face lined with the passage of years, he saw her—an old woman, draped in heavy cloth that sagged from her frame like burdens long carried.

"Oh, pardon me, dearie," she said mirthly, "Terribly sorry to barge in so unannounced, but I find myself in need of your aid."

Ron stared, his mouth working uselessly before managing a strangled, "Aid?"

The woman chuckled softly.. "Ah, but I was ever so parched, you see,” she said, her lips curling at the corners, as though she found some quiet amusement in his obvious bewilderment. "I've been upon a long and weary journey.”

"Of course," Ron blinked, still thrown off by the strange turn of events. The redhead was uncertain whether to move or remain idle, but the decision was swiftly made for him.

The rats—quick, nimble creatures that had long made a home in the crumbling corners of the place—scurried across the counter, their tiny claws clicking against the wood as they nudged a battered old pitcher forward. Ron barely spared them a glance, so accustomed was he to their presence, and instead reached for a glass, its surface smudged from too many uses and too few washings. He filled it to the very brim, the water sloshing slightly as he turned to offer it to the woman.

She took it with fingers that were thin and gnarled, the skin stretched taut over knuckles that had seen many years of toil. "Thank you,” she said, before she lifted the glass to her lips and drank deeply, as though she had been parched for days. "Pray, tell me—what manner of happenings have befallen this place?"

Ron felt the heat rush to his face at an alarming speed, his ears burning with the telltale betrayal of guilt. His mouth worked faster than his thoughts, words tumbling out in a manner entirely lacking grace. "Nothing!" he blurted, his voice cracking slightly under the weight of his own panic. The old woman’s gaze did not waver. If anything, her scepticism deepened, her wrinkled lips pressing into a thin line as though she could see straight through his feeble attempt at nonchalance.

He had the distinct sensation of being a small, scrawny boy caught filching an extra crust of bread from the baker’s stall—though in this case, there was no stolen loaf, only the damning evidence of whatever disaster had unfolded mere moments before her arrival.

The old woman chuckled, it was the kind of laugh one gave when they already knew the truth but wished to hear the guilty party fumble through a poor excuse all the same. She tilted her head, examining him with a shrewdness that made Ron feel as though she were peeling back the very layers of his soul.

"Did the others left you to fend for yourself, all alone?" she asked, her tone light but edged with something that suggested she knew the answer before she had even asked the question.

Ron stiffened, the way she said it, as though he were some pitiful stray left to his own devices. His pride flared, though it did little to disguise the truth of the matter.  

"Oh, but no fret, kind sir!" the old woman said cheerfully, as she turned towards the door. And with surprising sprightliness, she stepped outside, her tattered shawl flapping in the cool evening air as she beckoned him forward with a crooked finger. "Come along now, you’ve only three hours left before the clock strikes midnight—you must seize this opportunity and go to the ball!"

Ron hesitated, his feet stubbornly rooted to the spot. He had half a mind to feign deafness and pretend he had misheard her entirely, but the eager glint in her eyes made it abundantly clear that she meant every word. 

"Err—" He scratched at the back of his head, his brow furrowing in sheer bewilderment. "Sorry, I don’t reckon I could do that..."

The old woman gasped, clutching her chest in exaggerated horror. "But you could!" she insisted, as if the very idea of refusal was an affront to common sense. Before Ron could get another word in, she reached into the folds of her ragged garments and produced—of all things—a wand. "Oh, but first—let me make a small adjustment!" she declared with a delighted cackle.

Ron’s face twisted in alarm, but he barely had a second to react before a sudden, blinding light erupted from the tip of her wand.

For a brief, terrible moment, he was absolutely certain he was about to die—obliterated into nothingness by an overzealous old crone wielding unholy magic. He staggered back, throwing an arm over his face as the brilliance enveloped the space around them. His ears rang, and for one dreadful instant, he thought he might never see again. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the light dissipated.

Blinking rapidly, Ron lowered his arm, heart hammering against his ribs. Where once had stood a hunched, withered old woman now stood a young lady—no older than twenty, by his reckoning—with long, wavy blonde hair that tumbled over her shoulders in shimmering cascades. Her tattered shawl had vanished, replaced instead by a gown of silver that glittered in the moonlight, its fabric flowing like liquid bright starlights.

"...Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath.

"I'm Luna Lovegood," the young woman announced with a serene smile, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, but do call me a fairy godmother, won’t you? My father always told me that if I were ever to appear in such a fashion, it would be proper for people to address me as such."

Ron stared at her, his mouth opening slightly before snapping shut again. 

But Luna—if that was truly her name—seemed entirely unfazed by his bewilderment. If anything, she looked positively delighted by it. "Oh, but we mustn't dawdle!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in excitement. "The Royal ball is set to begin at any moment!"

Ron took an instinctive step back, his hands raised in protest. "Wait, I can’t go!" he burst out, shaking his head fervently. "I—I mean, my family would see me! And Mum—she’d have my head if she found out I’d run off to some fancy ball without so much as a by-your-leave!"

Luna, however, merely giggled, the sound light and airy, as though she had expected precisely this reaction. She tilted her head, her golden curls shifting with the movement. "Oh, you needn’t worry about any of that, silly," she assured him with a knowing smile. "I knew who you were from the very beginning, Ron Weasley. And I—well, I simply wished to give you the most wonderful evening you’ve ever had."

There was something so earnest in the way she said it, so entirely devoid of mockery, that Ron felt his stomach twist uncomfortably. He wasn’t accustomed to such kindness, at least not in a way that didn’t come with strings attached. He swallowed thickly, shifting on his feet, uncertain whether to argue further or to let the strange, dreamlike nature of the night carry him forward. 

"What—what exactly are we gonna do, then?" Ron asked, his voice laced with nervous apprehension. 

Luna blinked at him, as if surprised he even needed to ask. "Oh, but that’s obvious," she said, with the same dreamy certainty as before. "We must make you handsome!"

Ron balked at that. He felt rather insulted, truth be told—was she implying he wasn’t already? He wasn’t exactly some chisel-jawed prince, but handsome was a bit of a strong word to throw around, wasn’t it? He cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. "Right, well, I think I’ve got some old robes in my room somewhere—" he began, already considering a mad dash up the stairs in hopes of ending this conversation before it could go any further.

Luna, however, dismissed the idea with an airy shake of her head. "Nope!" she declared, her voice ringing with cheerful finality. "I meant this."

Before Ron could so much as take a step backward, she flicked her wand towards him. There was no warning—no gradual change or subtle shift—just a sudden, overwhelming sensation of warmth sweeping over his body, as if standing too close to a roaring fire. 

His breath hitched as a soft golden glow engulfed him, spreading from the tips of his fingers down to his toes. And then, as if the very air around him had been woven into silk, his tattered garments began to change.

The frayed edges of his old tunic melted away, the fabric stretching and shifting into something impossibly fine—rich, velvety robes of deep crimson, embroidered with intricate golden patterns that shimmered with every movement. His sleeves lengthened, the coarse wool giving way to a silken texture so light it hardly felt real. His scuffed, near-hopeless shoes vanished in a flicker of glimmering gold, replaced by sleek, polished footwear that gleamed beneath the candlelight. And then—perhaps the strangest touch of all—his rough, calloused hands were suddenly encased in a pair of golden gloves, the fabric fitting so perfectly it might as well have been spun just for him.

Ron stared at himself, wide-eyed, barely daring to breathe. "...Bloody hell," he muttered once again, turning his hands over as though they might belong to someone else entirely.

Luna, watching him with evident delight, clapped her hands together. "Oh, you do look rather splendid," she mused. "Just as a proper gentleman should!"

"Wait—but," Ron stammered, his mind still reeling from the sheer absurdity of it all. He held out his hands in protest, watching the golden fabric shimmer with each movement, as though trying to prove to himself that this was all some elaborate trick of the light. "Is this really necessary? I mean—what if they saw me? What if someone recognised me?"

Luna, as unbothered as ever, simply raised her wand again, pointing it directly at his face. 

Ron barely had time to flinch before she murmured something—some strange incantation he didn’t recognise—and, from the tip of her wand, a fine silver dust burst forth. 

The delicate particles drifted towards him, catching the faint glow of the moonlight before vanishing into the air, as if absorbed by his very skin. "There," Luna said cheerfully, lowering her wand with an air of satisfaction. "They won’t recognise you anymore."

Ron's hands shot up to his face, patting his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, as if he might physically feel the change. "Alright, but—" he began, still trying to piece together what in Merlin’s name was happening, when Luna suddenly thrust something into his hands.

"Oh, here," she said, holding out a small, unassuming cup. It was a simple thing—nothing like the grand goblets he'd imagine royalty drinking from—but there was an odd weight to it, a peculiar hum in the air around it. "It’s a Portkey. In two minutes, it’ll transport you right to the very entrance of the palace."

Ron tightened his grip on the cup instinctively, a fresh wave of panic rising in his chest. "Two minutes?" he echoed, his voice inching higher.

Luna nodded, completely undeterred by his distress. "Oh, and of course, your transformation will wear off when the clock strikes midnight," she added, as though that particular detail were only a minor inconvenience. "So, when that happens, you must return to the exact spot where you arrived. The same cup will appear there, and you must touch it so it can bring you back here.”

Ron’s stomach twisted at the implications. "Must?" he repeated warily. "And what happens if I don’t make it back in time?"

Luna simply smiled, though there was something just a touch too whimsical about it. "Well," she said vaguely, "I suppose you could always take your chances explaining to the nobility why a dishevelled commoner in tattered robes has suddenly appeared in the middle of their grand ball."

Ron let out a strangled sound, his grip on the cup tightening as panic fully took hold. “What, hold on, I don't—”

He was going to die.