Disclaimer: I own not Harry Potter.

(AN: I know very little about any sort of ballroom dances, but I do know the gist of the waltz. If you experts out there find it in anyway disturbingly incorrect, I apologize.)

"Ronald, we must learn to dance."

"To dance?"

"Yes. Dance." Hermione was fingering with a curl of her untamable hair, gazing down at an elegant emerald green book. It was a apparently one of the few less read tomes in her library, or at least a recent addition; the spine was unbent, and its overall condition was new, with clean, crisp pages. The young woman stared down at it, engrossed. But Ron wasn't focusing on the book. That day she was wearing muggle clothes: a black skirt and a low, white sleeveless blouse that showed more cleavage than she usually permitted the world to see. The swells of her naturally tanned skin disappearing into a wave of white cotton were very distracting indeed.

"Why is that?"

"Well," Hermione said, not looking up, much to Ron's disappointment, "- generally at a wedding there will be dancing – all sorts of it, too. Mainly slower ones, such as the waltz. We need to lean that definitely."

Ron frowned. Ginny was his sister, he loved Harry like a brother, but he wasn't sure such love could tolerate dance lessons. Conquering You-Know-Who, of course; but not dance lessons.

"But of course there are the more fiery ones as well. Perhaps the salsa, foxtrot…."

"Maybe they won't dance at the wedding," he offered lamely.

She looked up at him, then. It was not a happy look – it was one of utmost sternness.

"They will."

"Okay."

"Let's get started," she commanded, smoothing the book pages, and setting down a paper weight on the desired one. "The waltz, first."

"Now?"

"Yes, of course, now. No time for beating around the bush. The rehearsal dinner is two nights away, after all." She stood and motioned for him to do the same. He got up out of his chair wearily.

She approached him and halted about foot away, holding her arms out in position: one to the side, one to hold his shoulder. She stared at him expectantly.

"Oh." Ron placed both his hands on her waist, hoping she wouldn't notice his subterfuge and just naturally be swayed without realizing his ulterior motives.

"Ronald, honestly…" She grabbed his left hand to hold in her own. "You danced at the Yule Ball in fourth year, didn't you?"

"No," he said gruffly, bitterly thinking of Hermione's own dance partner.

"Oh," she said quickly, catching his drift. "Er - now, you lead."

"Lead?" He blinked.

"Yes, the man always leads. Do you know how to start?"

"Well, Mum taught me to ballroom once, for a dinner party of dad's…"

"Do you remember how?" she inquired, her amber eyes hopeful.

"Er, a little."

"Okay, step forwards with your left foot to start," Hermione advised.

He did so, and she stepped back with her right foot.

"Now forward with the right."

He did that and she followed.

"And then the left back again!"

He did that with ease. She was beaming at him now. "You know what you're doing," she said, delighted. "Now, we do it again. Then, we circle around."

Ron repeated the earlier steps, then clumsily twirled Hermione around, twisting his wrist joint in the process. He let go.

"Ow!"

Hermione sighed, behind him. She had not quite been able to make it all around his body. She came in front of him, saying, "Give me your hand."

He slowly did so.

"Poor dear. You really do need some work, but perhaps after some tea." She tenderly kissed his wrist, rubbing it afterwards gently with her fingers. He nodded in halfway consent.

She smiled. "Come on, then." Hermione turned to go to the kitchen.

"Wait," he said, reaching out to her. He caught her arm, and pulled her towards him, feeling the material of her blouse before sneaking his hands to the silkiness of the warm skin underneath. Silently he lowered his lips to hers.

After a few moments, she broke free.

"We can just continue tomorrow, you know."