Fic: Robes

Title: Robes
Rating: PG
Summary: Hermione really loves a man in a nice set of robes.
A/N: Just a bit of fluff! I'm trying to tune my fluff meter. Comments/criticisms welcome!




Watching Ron turn around in front of the mirror, Hermione was reminded of something she'd never told anyone.

It wasn't a huge secret, or a trivial one. It was simply that she'd rather fancied Ron in the frilled dress robes he'd worn to the Yule Ball. On first sight, the outfit had appeared ridiculous, but when she'd seen him with them on, the effect was anything but. He'd reminded Hermione of a romantic, Edwardian hero in a stage play, looking casually elegant in clothing that would have made anyone else look like a deranged poseur.

As she'd danced with Viktor, she found that her gaze seemed to stray often, seeking out maroon velvet and cream-coloured lace. That Ron had been obviously ill-at-ease in those robes only made it more fitting that he'd been - in Hermione's view - the most handsome boy in the room. In those robes or any others, Hermione would have been proud to have been on his arm. If only they'd not had that silly row, she would have told him as much.

Looking at him now as he awkwardly modelled a more pedestrian set of dress robes that would be worn at Bill's wedding, Hermione wondered if it was strange that she was noticeably more attracted to Ron when he was fitted out in formal wear. When someone else went to great lengths to show Ron at his best, something deep within Hermione stirred and took notice. At times it was difficult for her to see past his everyday attire of jumper and jeans or shirt and trousers. In them, Ron looked fine. He looked fit and handsome. But in robes, it was another story. He looked, in a word, magnificent.

Some of that was owed, she thought, to the robes' construction. The smooth, heavy fabric hung just right on his athletic frame. Their cut particularly emphasized his wrists where they emerged from the sleeves, and the back of his neck, which was framed by the white collar of his dress shirt.

The robes didn't hide him, either, the way his woolen overcoat and bulky sweaters did. Rather, they smoothed out rough edges and imperfections. The faded scars on his sides from the brain attack in the Department of Mysteries and the bruises on his elbows from the week's Quidditch scrums were hidden from view. He moved as if they didn't exist, easily complying when Madame Malkin's assistant asked him to raise his arms so that she could check the fit at the shoulders.

Hermione's eyes followed the young woman as she circled Ron, aiming her wand to mark the spots that needed to be altered, and tugging firmly at places that needed to be let out a bit more. Hermione wished she knew a thing or two about tailoring so that she could be in the young witch's place, hovering around Ron, finding places to touch him through the matte cloth.

She knew that she wouldn’t not have to be as professional as Madame Malkin's assistant while smoothing the material covering Ron's back or readjusting the hem so that it didn't completely cover his shoes. Losing herself in a pleasant daydream for a moment, Hermione had to concede that it was probably best that she wasn't a seamstress. They'd never get the fitting done. She then eyed the robes themselves with a critical eye and tried to answer the question of what made them so attractive.

It wasn't that they accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, for instance. Hermione definitely admired them, and she especially loved the cinnamon spray of freckles that dotted the creamy flesh there. But she admired his arms much more; loved how long they were, loved the warm, loving circle they created when he embraced her and held her close. Muscular shoulders were all very nice to look at, she concluded, but they provided no special comfort. Burying her face against Ron's thin shoulder while witnessing Buckbeak's "execution" had proving just as comforting as did resting her head against his slightly wider shoulder when they'd come home together on the Hogwarts Express after Dumbledore's funeral.

No. The thing about these robes was not how they highlighted any one area of Ron's body. It was that they highlighted him as a whole. They made him look as good as he deserved to look - as good as Hermione knew he could look. In a conversation she'd once overheard but would never repeat to anyone - though it proved her point about Lavender being an insipid airhead - Parvati had expressed the opinion that Ron was a "nice sort," but not the best-looking of blokes. And Lavender - the stupid cow - had actually agreed, sighing that her Won Won at least was a phenomenal kisser.

Hermione couldn't imagine either of them saying anything of the sort if they could see Ron in the robes. He stood so tall and proud now. Head up, shoulders square. That's what made her like the robes so much, Hermione decided. They seemed to sense Ron's potential and as such worked to appear worthy of his wearing them. Ron made the robes themselves look good - not the other way around.

Hermione's eyes darted to the middle of the shop where Madame Malkin was fussing over Harry, fitting him for a new set of formal robes. They were much like his old ones - dark, edged in emerald satin. Harry looked nice, to be sure, but Ron looked ... well, he cut an even more dashing figure, frankly. Even Madame Malkin, who'd all but ignored Ron's existence when they'd all come in, glanced Ron's way now and again, nodding her approval.

When the assistant bustled to the back of the shop to get a length of cloth, Ron squinted in the mirror, twisting this way and that to get a better view of the overall look. Hermione caught his eyes in the mirror and he immediately stopped squirming.

"I don't look too much like a git, do I?"

The words hovered between question and statement, though his raised eyebrows and slight flush seemed to indicate that he wanted an answer. Smiling, Hermione shook her head, at the same time catching sight - via the mirror - of a young girl gaping at Ron. Her mother was simpering at Harry, but looked over at Ron when her daughter tugged her arm and nodded in his direction. She blinked and then smiled, whispering something to her daughter that made the little girl go very red.

"Reckon I should buy this, then?"

"I'll hex you if you don't," she replied, only half-joking. "Really, Ron, you look very ... you look wonderful." A light blush warmed her cheeks.

He ducked his head in pleased embarrassment. "Yeah? Well, maybe I will get them, then. Ginny told me that I'd better be in top nick if I wanted a dance with you at the wedding."

She frowned at that, not sure what Ron's attire would have to do with that. Ginny couldn't have thought Ron would be attending the wedding in his Quidditch kit and scuffed trainers, could she?

"Sir, here we are." Hermione's jumped at the voice of Madame Malkin's assistant. The woman was carrying a bolt of sapphire-coloured cloth that shimmered a little under the shop's soft lighting. "Is this about the colour you were thinking?"

"Um ... I think so." He looked almost shyly at Hermione. "You might want to ask her, though. It's her dress."

The woman turned to her and Hermione gaped in confusion until she took a better look at the cloth. It was very nearly the exact colour of the dress she planned to wear at the wedding. Fleur had mentioned that in Veela culture, blue was the colour of love and luck, and though a bride was not permitted to wear it on her wedding day, it was always considered good manners for guests to wear some item of blue. She'd heard Bill say that all the men were planning to wear cravats or ties in a blue shade of their choosing.

Hermione lifted her eyes from the fabric to Ron, not sure what to say next.

"Thought I'd get a tie made of that colour, and that way you and I would, um ..." Ron went beautifully crimson and cleared his throat. "I thought it might be nice. Ginny said you'd hex her if she showed me your dress, but she told me it was about this colour ..." He gestured weakly at the cloth. "Is it all right?"

"It's ... it's perfect, Ron," she murmured, warmed by his relieved smile. The assistant warbled her agreement, saying the deep blue would nicely accent the robes' dark-grey colour.

In the back of the shop, a waltz tune played on the Wireless. Closing her eyes briefly, Hermione saw herself under a glowing moon in the French countryside, being whirled around the dance floor by the handsomest man there, his decadent robes swishing along in their wake.