Hanky-Panky: A Potter's Pentagon One-Shot by Schmerg_The_Impaler
Summary: It's that time of year. Time for an untimely winter ball, and Emma Weasley is not thrilled about Tyrone Thomas' relentless pursuit if her. But will his terrible singing and creepy stalker-ish antics woo her at last? And what the heck is Jordan Potter up to? DH is very disregarded. No Albus Severuses here.

I am Schmerg_The_Impaler of Hufflepuff House, and this is my submission to the Winter Snows thingy, in the "Melting a Winter Heart" category.
Categories: Melting a Winter Heart Characters: None
Warnings: None
Challenges:
Series: None
Chapters: 1 Completed: Yes Word count: 8187 Read: 2761 Published: 12/21/08 Updated: 12/23/08

1. Chapter 1 by Schmerg_The_Impaler

Chapter 1 by Schmerg_The_Impaler
Author's Notes:
AGH, I'M SO LATE! Okay, so this is totally set during sixth year, but it's AU of the Potter's Pentagon trilogy, so this never actually happens during "The Past."
“There are five kinds of people in this world,” Emma Weasley muttered as she pushed her way through the slow-moving throngs lining the streets of Hogmeade. “Boring people, irritating people, stupid people, nasty people, and hideously awkward people.”

“That’s not true!” protested Haley Potter, bobbing alongside Emma, but at a much lower altitude. “Not all people!”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Some people are a combination,” Emma said, rounding a corne. “And they all love this time of year.”

Emma was the sort of person who was just a tiny bit too scary to be considered ‘pretty,’ like a mountain lion or tsunami. It was pointless to waste time describing her wavy reddish-brown hair, brown eyes, and statuesque figure, because what really made her Emma was her wide, wicked grin; the scary glint behind her eyes that could translate to anything from playfulness to fury, and the way her eyebrows arched up to he hailine whenever she was saying something particularly snide. Being snide was a specialty of Emma’s, that and being stubborn, being easily angered, being tactless, and being painfully blunt. But another specialty of hers was being a lot of fun, so as uneasy as she sometimes made her friends, at least she actually had a loyal core group of them.

Haley smiled innocently. “Which one is Tyrone Thomas?” she asked.

“I’m trying to decide between ‘irritating’ and ‘stupid,’” Emma told her thoughtfully. “But after today, I might have to add ‘boring to the mix.”

“There’s nothing boring about standing on top of the Gryffindor table at breakfast and yelling, ‘Emma Weasley, you know you want to go to the ball with me!’” protested Haley. “If he was asking me, I would have jumped on top of the table and snogged him, not thrown eggs at him.”

“That’s because you’re you,” snorted Emma, looking sideways at her best friend. “You don’t even like Tyrone, do you?”

“Not like that,” clarified Haley, “but it was so romantic! And he is migh-ty pur-ty. You really didn’t have to throw pepper in his eyes.”

Emma shrugged calmly, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “Haley, I don’t know why you still think everything Tyrone does is ‘romantic.’ He’s as romantic as a baboon running around going, ‘look at my bum, it’s bright red and blue! Now you and I should mate!’”

Haley’s eyes widened. “Tyrone did that?”

“Er, in a figurative sense. I mean, he pretty much did everything but,” Emma grumbled. “And now that he’s asked me out every day this week, he’s starting to get predictable.”

“It’s sweet. You know it’s sweet.”

“It’s stalking. I like Tyrone, I really do”until he starts getting weepy and desperate, like this. I’m like, can you please just go back to talking about Quidditch? A ball rolls around, and it’s like a switch flips in that boy’s brain”oops, mating season. Got to go display my peacock feathers again.”

Haley giggled to herself. Tyrone Thomas probably would have been considered a weirdo and a loser if it weren’t for the fact that he was (a. Extremely good-looking, and (b. Quite good at Quidditch. He never exactly had a shortage of people who would absolutely love to accompany him to the ball, but since he’d decided he liked Emma, he’d been remarkably persistent. Haley had a feeling that for the first few yeas, the attraction had just been the thrill of the chase”proof that he could capture any heart he wanted. But now that Tyrone and Emma were in a strange, precarious place in their friendship (the ‘flirt-incessantly-but-act-disgusted-if-your-hands-accidentally-happen-to-brush’ stage), things were going… interestingly. Because at heart, Tyrone was a hopeless romantic, whereas Emma was a hopeless lunatic.

“Why are they even holding a Yule Ball anyway?” groused Emma. “Doesn’t McGonagall usually do a Valentine’s Day Ball? It’s not like we’re hosting the Triwizard Tournament or anything.”

Haley’s expression grew mischievous. “Oh, I know why. ‘Cos McGonagall said that Valentine’s Day ‘encourages hanky-panky’ and that there’d been too many ‘incidents.’”

Emma burst out laughing. “She would say hanky-panky!” she exclaimed. “Well, Valentine’s Day or Christmas, if Tyrone thinks he’s getting any hanky-panky on with me, he is sorely mistaken.”

“Oh, here we are,” said Haley as the pair arrived at the post office. They had spent the day cramming in as much holiday shopping as humanly possible and were ready to send an owl inviting a few of their friends to meet up with them for lunch. They knew their friends were lurking around somewhere in Hogsmeade, but in all of the day’s relentless trekking, Emma and Haley hadn’t stumbled upon anyone they knew yet.

That changed the instant they stepped into the post office. A familiar human head swiveled to face them in eerie synchronization with the stern-looking owls huddled together inside.

“Oh, hello,” said Haley’s twin brother, Jordan, quickly slapping some coins on the counter and rushing out the door with a cautious look behind him but without another word.

Emma and Haley exchanged glances.

“That was weird,” remarked Emma.

“What do expect? That was Jordan,” said Haley, sticking out her tongue.

There were very few souls in the world who Haley didn’t embrace with her usual air of hyperactive glee. One of them was her diabolical Potions teacher, and the other was Jordan. It wasn’t really a case of sibling rivalry so much as the case of two polar opposites who spent a painful amount of time in one another’s company.

Jordan and Haley looked like twins. They were both small and looked much younger than they really were, and both had black hair, green eyes, and the ubiquitous dusting of freckles that seemed to tag along with anyone who had any relatives with the last name ‘Weasley.’ Jordan and Haley both had fine-boned features and tiny, childlike hands and feet. But Jordan was the ‘this glass is half-empty, as I proved with this complex mathematical process,’ type, while Haley was more of the, ‘this glass is half-full, and the drink inside is YUMMMMY, and it reminds me of a song, and I’m going to start singing it right here in public’ type.

Haley was fond of pink, sugar, musical theatre, sugar, clothing, pranks, sugar, and anything with the word ‘sparkle’ in it. Jordan’s interests mostly comprised being annoyingly intelligent, playing old-fashioned rock music from the sixties, having no imagination, wearing all black and slouching in the hopes of looking cool, and any sort of Muggle technology he could get his hands on, and

“You know, what would Jordan be doing in here anyway?” Haley asked, brow furrowing slightly in thought.

Emma didn’t tear her eyes away from the massive yellow ones of a nearby owl, afraid of what might happen to her if she lost the staring contest. “Erm, mailing a letter, presumably?”

“But why would he send an owl? Isn’t he like obsessed with doing things the Muggle way? He’s practically Amish. He sends emails like every three seconds.”

Amish people weren’t exactly known for sending emails, but Emma knew what Haley meant. Jordan had originally seen the Muggle computer he’d bought himself as a novelty, but then the next door neighbour moved in. Her name was Giorgi Anderson. She loved football and dressed very unusually. She and Jordan became immediate friends. And she was a Muggle. Ever since Giorgi, Haley rarely saw her brother away from his laptop.

Haley’s mischievous smile resurfaced. “So, I wonder who he sent a candy cane to?”

Emma’s eyes lit up. “Candy canes? Haley, you’re crazy… but you may be right.” She shuddered. “I’m sorry, the idea of Jordan in love is the scariest thing I can imagine. I feel sorry for the girl. Or boy. Whichever floats his boat.”

The post office had been doing brisk business thanks to some kind of fancy deal with Honeydukes. In the weeks before Christmas, the post office sold Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Candy Canes and delivered them by owl on Christmas Eve to loved ones. (They usually avoided sending bogey or vomit flavoured candy canes.) As far as Hogwarts was concerned, getting a candy cane was a personal experience. You didn’t send them to just anybody.

Well, most people didn’t. The one exception was Tyrone Thomas, who coincidentally happened to have just walked into the post office.

“Here we go again,” sighed Emma, backing up closer to the wall and hoping that Tyrone would mistake her for an owl.

Tyrone swaggered inside, humming to himself and jingling a pocket full of change. He was wearing a bright green t-shirt that read, “No, I’m not a model, I just look like one!

“One hundred and forty, please,” he said cheerfully, sauntering up to the counter. “Don’t worry,” he added. “I’ll address them myself.”

The postal worker in charge of candy canes didn’t even bat an eye. Since second year, Tyrone had taken it upon himself to send a candy cane and personal note to every girl in the school, to the consternation of boyfriends everywhere. Tyrone had never been rich, but somehow, he seemed to manage to scrape together the money for a hundred and forty candy canes every year.

As Tyrone pulled a list of names out of his pocket and began the monumental task of addressing every candy cane, Emma and Haley tried to make a break for it out the door.

“Hey, not so fast, Em,” said Tyrone, not even turning around. Either he had eyes on the back of his head, or he was psychic, both ideas that really unnerved Emma. “I have some questions for you.”

“I know what the question is,” said Emma darkly. “And I also know the answer, and it’s ‘no.’”

Tyrone’s dark eyebrows tilted upward. “Really? Because my question is, ‘Do you wear size seven and a half shoes?’”

Emma blinked in confusion. “Oh… then ‘yes,’ I guess.”

“Do you like chocolate?”

“Er, yeah.”

: “Is your middle name Elizabeth?”

“… yeah…”

“Do you root for the Holyhead Harpies?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have pierced ears?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you any good at math?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you failing Zabini’s class?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think Jordan Potter is really, really weird?”

“Yeah.”

“Will you go to the ball with me?”

“No.”

And with that, Emma and Haley waved sweetly and skipped out of the shop before Tyrone could even say, “Oh, come on, I thought I had it that time!”

“He’s losing his touch,” said Emma. “That’s his least creative attempt yet.”

“We never did get to send our owl,” Haley complained. “You dragged me away before I could even talk to the guy at the counter.”

Emma kicked at a slushy puddle. “It’s okay, I see Jordan up there. He probably knows where some other people we know are anyway.”

Haley squinted. She could indeed spot her twin brother, making his way up the street toward the Three Broomsticks and carrying a large shopping bag.

“HEY!” she screamed in a voice that could peel paint at miles away. “JOR-JUMS! It’s your loving big sis! Aren’t you going to say hello?”

Jordan turned around with an air of exasperated reluctance. “Hello,” he said flatly as Emma and Haley drew near.

“What have you been buying?” chirped Haley. “Christmas presents for meeeee? I like anything you can eat. Or anything glittery that you can’t eat.”

Jordan clenched his teeth, and Emma could hear them scraping in a most disconcerting manner. She could also see what was in his bag, and it didn’t look like anything Haley would want.

“Jordan, is that a cummerbund?” she asked incredulously. “And a bowtie?”

“That is entirely possible,” snarled Jordan. Emma was rather taken aback by how defensive he sounded; after all, it was only extremely fancy Muggle clothing.

“Jordan, you have dress robes. Why are you wasting your money on more stuff for you?” Haley whined.

Jordan did that disgusting teeth-grinding thing again, and Emma considered getting him dental insurance for Christmas. “I can purchase whatever I want, and I have no obligation to explain my reasons to you. And last year, you gave me a pink sweater for Christmas, so you’re one to talk.”

“Hey, are you coming to get lunch with us?” asked Emma.

“No,” said Jordan. “I have things to do.” And with that, he stalked off through the slushy streets.

Emma whistled through her teeth. “Well,” she said, “Whoever Jordan’s going to the ball with must not have very good taste.” She shook her head at Jordan’s retreating form, still storming away. “And speaking of good taste, let’s go eat food.”

* * * * * *


Professor Zabini’s NEWTs Potions class was the closest thing Emma could imagine to being surrounded by Dementors. It was bleak, abusive, sucked all of the joy out of you, and if you still had a soul when you were through, you were luckier than most. However, there were two good things about Zabini’s class. The first was that Tyrone Thomas didn’t take it, and the second was that Emma and Haley liked to pass time by passing notes.

“Hey, Emmers,” wrote Haley. “So, I have a date to the ball now.”

“Oh? Who?” replied Emma.

“Well, I don’t exactly know his name. I saw him in the hall, and I thought he was cute, so I asked him, and he said ‘yes.’ He’s in fifth year, and he has curly brown hair, and he was wearing these amazing shoes.”

“Haley, you are unbelievably shallow.”

“No, I’m not. He’s not just cute. I also know he’s a good person.”

“How?”

“Because I was staring at him, and I tripped on the enchanted staircase, and I dropped my books, and he came over and picked them up for me. That was when I asked him.”


Haley had a strange… approach to romance. When it came to other people, she was a born matchmaker, always trying to make sure everyone she knew was neatly sorted into couples. In her own way, she was slightly boy-crazy, but only when it came to perfect strangers”she had had countless first dates, but no second ones, and never had she known any of those dates beforehand. The truth was, she couldn’t imagine herself ever ending up in a serious relationship. She much preferred the idea of being a bridesmaid to walking down the aisle herself anyway.

“But enough about me!” wrote Haley. “Has Tyrone asked you out yet today?”

“No, he’s been surprisingly quiet all day. It’s like the eye of a hurricane. I’m scared. I’m sure he’s holed up somewhere plotting.”

“Well, I think” ”


But Emma never did get to hear just what Haley thought, because Professor Zabini swooped down on them in a heartbeat. “Miss Weasley, maybe you would like to answer the question,” he sneered. He was good at sneering. It was part of the Slytherin-Potions-Master job description.

“Er… well, I, that is…” stammered Emma. “I””

“I gave explicit instructions, Miss Weasley, to take extensive notes on everything I say in this class. Have you been writing notes?”

“Of course.” Emma certainly had been writing notes… in a way. Though she was fairly certain that Professor Zabini wouldn’t approve of them.

Zabini’s thin eyebrows arched upward in a sinister sort of way that made him resemble a mime. “Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind sharing them with me?” He held out his hand, his long, narrow fingers wiggling in anticipation.

“Errrrrrrrrrrrrrr….” Emma rummaged frantically through the many rolls of parchment in her bag, trying to find something acceptable to give Zabini. Detention just before Christmas was not a high priority on her list at the moment. But just as Zabini seemed ready to deliver the sentence, a strange and wonderful and utterly unexpected thing occurred.

The door banged open, and with a shout of, “Hola!” a most unusual-looking person vaulted into the room. He was tall, with dark brown skin and muscles rather more defined than those of most Hogwarts students, but other than the broad grin he was wearing, it was difficult to make out much more about his own appearance. The figure’s eyes were concealed by a thin black mask, and his face was shadowed by a massive sombrero. He wore impossibly tight black trousers tucked into high-heeled, elaborately decorated cowboy boots, a billowy black shirt with the top four buttons undone, black leather gloves, a rose clenched in his teeth, and a wide red sash tied tightly around his waist. He was carrying a bright red guitar and strumming it tunelessly.

“What the…?” exclaimed Jordan, whipping around. “That’s my guitar!”

“Sorry, señor,” said the figure in a deep, very familiar voice. He did an odd little cha-cha step down the aisle between the desks, twirling around periodically and banging away at the guitar as though he was trying to murder it, as well as the entire class’ eardrums.

Professor Zabini had turned an unappealing purplish-red colour, and his nostrils were flared into furious slits. “Do not disrupt my class!” he hissed. “This is entirely uncalled for!”

“No comprendo,” said the figure, reaching the front of the classroom and striking a pose. He began slamming away at the guitar again, and began to sing very, very, very, very loudly:

“Emma Weasley, take a chance
Come on, please, come with me to the dance
I promise this time I’ll wear pants
And I’ll try not to have wandering hands
So what’s wrong with a little romance?
Would you mind saying ‘yes,’ perchance?
Erm……………… my name’s not Lance.
… Ole!”

Emma buried her face in her hands and moaned. The few eyes that weren’t staring at the figure were fixated on her, and she began to wish that a wormhole would open up below her and swallow her up. Or even better, Tyrone, who was now doing a strange little dance, thrashing around and gyrating his hips while still attempting to play Jordan’s guitar.

She glanced over at Haley. Ugh. The little traitor was laughing her head off and clapping her hands in time to the rhythm.

Tyrone glided over toward where Emma was seated, grabbed her hand, and asked in a bizarre low purr, “Te gusta?”

No, Tyrone,” she groaned. “That was the most disturbing thing I have seen in years. And I don’t know what made you think that was all right to do, but please just get out.”

“Wise words, Miss Weasley,” said Zabini, gripping Tyrone by the shoulder. Emma could see where Zabini’s fingernails dug into Tyrone’s skin through the thin, flimsy fabric of his shirt. “Mr. Thomas, you will be receiving a week’s detention with me. Miss Weasley, you are obviously not part of this… this madness, so punishment is unnecessary. Mr. Thomas, please leave my classroom at once.”

“Si, señor,” said Tyrone, dancing off down the aisle. “ME AMO!” he shouted after him. “Arrivederci!” And with that, he slammed the door closed behind him, to a smattering of applause and many extremely confused faces.

Jordan sighed. “Arrivderci is Italian,” he said. “And Tyrone cannot play the guitar to save his life.”

“Trust me, those are the least of my worries right now,” said Emma.

* * * * * *


“Today’s class will go as usual, without interruptions,” Professor Zabini began his next Potions lesson several days later. “So, if you will get out your quills and parchments””

Haley and Emma were way ahead of him. They had had their parchment out for some time. But they weren’t exactly using it for purposes that Zabini would appreciate.

So, you’ll never guess, wrote Haley. Jordan has totally been checking out books on dancing from the library.

Jordan? This is getting ridiculous, replied Emma. He must REALLY like this person, seriously. Wonder who it is?

Ooh, let’s find out, shall we?

Haley tore off a scrap of parchment from her roll and scribbled on it, JOR-JUMS! Who are you taking to the ball, hmmm? You might as well tell us now. We’ll just find out ourselves at the ball.

As Zabini turned his back to write something on the chalkboard, Haley stood up and sent the note spiraling into the air with her wand, landing neatly in Jordan’s hand at the precise second that Zabini turned back around and continued lecturing on some sort of rare African poison. Emma and Haley watched eagerly as Jordan’s eyes scanned the parchment, then his lip curled and he crumpled the note into a ball and dropped it to the floor with an expression just as poisonous as whatever Zabini was brewing.

“Well, I guess he’s not in a very chatty mood today,” whispered Haley.

BANG.

Emma smacked herself in the forehead with the palm of her hand as the door flew open, but relaxed considerably when she saw whose outline was darkening the doorway. It was not Tyrone. A tiny Hufflepuff first year was standing there, dressed in a strange red tunic and gold tights with an odd plumed hat. He was carrying a long trumpet, which he blew several times in a sickly-sounding fanfare. “Presenting… Lord Tyrone!” he cried.

“Oh, dear,” muttered Zabini. For once in her lifetime, Emma had to agree with Professor Zabini.

Suddenly, a red carpet unrolled out of thin air and spread down the aisle between the desks like marmalade on toast. And Tyrone stepped into the classroom, as the first year lackey he’d hired showered him with rose petals.

If the class had giggled at his strange Latin Lover incarnation, it was nothing to now. The students erupted in fits of hysterical laughter as Tyrone made his deliberate way down the red carpet, chin lifted high and oblivious to the paroxysms of snickering.

He had fashioned himself a suit of armour out of cardboard wrapped in aluminum foil, and had even created a strange little helmet with a visor and a red plume. He had attached a large pillow shaped like a horse’s head to the end of his broomstick and was riding it like a hobby horse, while the first year followed him, bashing two coconuts together. In his hand, Tyrone carried a strange instrument that he seemed to have made by stretching out rubber bands and stringing them over a small cardboard box.

“Hey, that’s my pony pillow!” exclaimed Haley over the pandemonium.

“Forsooth!” Tyrone shouted in rich, plummy tones, rolling his r’s even more than when operating under his Spanish alter-ego. “I am Lord Tyrone, of the grand fiefdom of Sexy-upon-Awesome, and I have come to rescue you, Lady Emma, from this dreadful prison, and the vile dragon Zabini!”

Emma had never felt so mortified in her entire life, including that time Jordan had walked in on her in the bathroom. But just when she felt things couldn’t get any worse, Tyrone began strumming his awful homemade lute thing, and Emma suddenly felt that terrible sinking feeling she always got when watching musicals just before someone was about to sing yet another song.

“’Twas early one morning, in late-ish Decem-ba
Sing hey, nonny hey, nonny hi, nonny ho!
I did spy a young maiden, and her name was Em-ma
Sing hey, nonny hey, nonny hi, nonny ho!
She didst not smile at me, nor greet me at all
Sing hey, nonny hey, nonny hi, nonny ho!
When I asked, wouldst she come with me to the ball.
Alas, alack, my love is no crime
Sing parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.
I shout, I cry, please say thou willst go
Sing hey, nonny hey, nonny hi, nonny ho!”

“Well, your songwriting skills are marginally better, but… no,” said Emma definitively. She looked him up and down one last time, and shook her head, not quite able to stifle her giggles. “By the way, Tyrone…you look like a total loony.”

“Two weeks detention, Thomas,” said Zabini, not even looking up from his paper.

Tyrone bowed deeply. “Yes, my liege,” he boomed. “Come Simpkins, away!” And he galloped out of the classroom, first year in tow and dignity thoroughly mangled.

* * * * * *


Emma had been awakened bright and early on Christmas Eve by Haley, who had taken it upon her to serenade her roommates with a selection of her favourite Christmas carols. Emma had politely explained that if Haley decided to sing “God Rest Ye Merrye Hippogriffs” one more time, she would be forced to rip Haley’s poster of Michael Ball in half, but once she was awake, Emma found it impossible to get back to sleep. She wasn’t sure she’d want to anyway, since her rather disturbing dream had been full of singing Spaniards and knights, and so she decided she might as well get dressed and head down for breakfast.

“I don’t see how you can be such a morning person, Haley,” Emma grumbled through a mouthful of eggs. “This is crazy. It’s what, eight o’ clock? No one should be forced to get up that early.”

“Sleep is for sillies!” chirped Haley, who always seemed more than a little caffeinated despite the fact that she was not allowed within a three-meter radius of anything that might make her even less sane than usual.

Emma glanced over at the far end of Gryffindor table, where Tyrone winked at her. Apparently, two weeks of detention with Professor Zabini were not nearly enough to break his spirit. But with the Yule Ball taking place that night, Emma couldn’t help but feel that Tyrone must be losing heart, at least a little. There wasn’t much of a chance of his luck changing before the day way out.

“I wonder if I’ll get any candy canes this year,” mused Haley, arranging bacon and eggs into a smiley face on her plate.

Emma snorted slightly. “Well, you know you’ll be getting one. There’s always Mr. Tyrone One-Hundred-And-Forty-Candy-Canes-Please Thomas to depend on.”

As if on cue, an owl hurtled into the Great Hall with a candy cane in its beak, hooting jubilantly and wearing a red-and-white striped scarf around its neck. It alighted on the table directly in front of Emma and dropped the candy cane into her hand.

She picked up the card attached to it. “To Emma Weasley,” she read flatly. “Will you go to the ball with me? Tyrone Thomas.” She rolled her eyes. “Typical.”

“Yeah, I thought he’d try something better than that,” Haley said. “Maybe he is really giving up on you.”

More owls were dropping off candy canes across the Great Hall now, and many girls were squealing in glee and hugging their boyfriends in a manner that made Emma want to stick her candy cane down her throat and gag. But there weren’t nearly as many owls as she’d anticipated, not nearly as many different girls receiving their yearly candy canes from Tyrone.

Suddenly, a huge, dark shape seemed to blot out the sun. Countless owls in an enormous, winged mass were swarming around the Great Hall, hooting at a deafening volume as feathers flew everywhere. Like some sort of scene from an old horror film, they all seemed to converge together into one gigantic owl and hovered directly over the Gryffindor Table.

And then, candy canes began to fall like rain, all showering down on Emma Weasley in a hard, sticky, red-and-white striped storm.

“To Emma Weasley. Will you go to the ball with me? Tyrone Thomas.”

“To Emma Weasley. Will you go to the ball with me? Tyrone Thomas.”

“To Emma Weasley. Will you go to the ball with me? Tyrone Thomas.”

“To Emma Weasley. Will you go to the ball with me? Tyrone Thomas.”


Emma was speechless for a long moment as she was buried alive in candy canes. Every eye in the school was fixed on her, every girl gaping in jealousy and disbelief, and every boy looking incredulous and inadequate. At last, Emma’s lips quivered. “One hundred and forty candy canes,” she said slowly. “One hundred and forty candy canes. For me.”

And suddenly, she burst out laughing. Once she began, she found she couldn’t stop, and the longer she laughed, the more hilarious she found the whole situation.

“Er, Emma?” said Tyrone, beginning to look concerned. “Emma, are you, er, all right?”

Emma nodded, choking on laughter.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she managed at last. “And you know what else I’m sure about?”

“That you’ll go to the ball with me?” Tyrone asked with a giant, hopeful grin.

Emma squinted at him. “I was going to say, ‘that you are a certifiable lunatic,’” she said. “But… that works, too. Sure. Sure, I’ll go to the ball with you. But you are paying for every filling I need from all of this sugar.”

The Great Hall erupted in cheers.

“What have I gotten myself into?” groaned Emma as Tyrone attacked her with a massive, suffocating bear hug.


* * * * * *


“Good golly, Miss Molly,” sang Haley, as she pinned a red rose into Emma’s hair. “Good golly, Miss Molly, sure like to ball!”

“I hate that song,” mumbled Emma. “I’m pretty sure that ‘ball’ is not a verb.”

“Oh you shut up!” said Haley. “Good golly, Miss Molly, sure like to ball, a-when you’re rockin’ and a rollin’, can’t hear your mama call! GOOD GOLLY MISS””

Emma blocked out the singing as she examined herself in the mirror. She looked, she felt, pretty good. Her dress robes were white with a red sash not unlike the one that Tyrone had worn when he’d masqueraded as the Spaniard, and big gold earrings. Haley was, as always, entirely in pink from head to toe, despite the fact that it didn’t exactly fit the Yuletide theme.

“Well,” said Haley, “Shall we?”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” replied Emma.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” chirped Haley, flinging open the door that separated the dorm from the Common Room and dancing out, singing “Good Golly, Miss Molly” and turning a number of heads.

Emma felt incredibly awkward. “You should be the one going with Tyrone,” she grumbled. “You both like to sing, embarrass yourselves in front of everyone, and annoy me.”

“Oh, thanks, love you, too, Emma,” said Tyrone, suddenly appearing out of nowhere from behind Emma and laughing at her startled expression. She didn’t feel entirely comfortable with him lurking around. “You look pretty good, but you don’t need to hear that.”

Although she would never say it out loud, Emma had to admit that Tyrone looked pretty good as well. But he certainly didn’t need to hear that. His robes were red, but a darker colour than her sash, and he was wearing a boutonniere made out of Holly. Emma was rather impressed; she’d never heard of a boy who actually knew what a boutonniere was all on his own.

“Here’s a matching corsage,” said Tyrone, holding one out for her. “And before you ask, my little sister Tabitha told me about corsages. And boutonnieres. Which are pretty much man-corsages. Did you know that? Ball stuff is insane.

Emma was pretty sure Tyrone was insane as well, but she suddenly felt rather tongue-tied and unable to say anything. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Haley flouncing up to the fifth year boy she had ambush-asked in the hallway.
“Hi!” she squealed. “By the way, my name is Haley! I forgot to ask yours. You look adorable. I’m sure your name is adorable, too!”

Her date looked taken aback. “Hello,” he said. “Erm, I’m Sinclair?”

“Well, that’s adorable!” cried Haley, swooping down on him and kissing him on the lips. Sinclair looked completely startled, but not exactly unhappy about the sudden turn of events.

Emma and Tyrone exchanged glances. “I guess that’s Haley for you,” said Emma.

“I wonder what would happen if I did that when I first met you?” Tyrone wondered absentmindedly.

Emma smiled her evil smile. “You would be dead right now,” she said. “Come on, let’s go down to the ball before Haley does anything else that makes me want to pretend I don’t know her.”

“I like the way you think,” said Tyrone.

Hogwarts was always exquisitely decorated for these sorts of things, but somehow, the most beautiful and colourful decorations in the school seemed to be the assortment of different colours and fabrics of dress robes. Emma was so used to seeing crowds of black-robed students that she felt a bit like Dorothy wandering out of her black-and-white world into the technicolour wonderland of Oz. As she and Tyrone wandered down the many staircases toward the Great Hall, making uncomfortable conversation littered with awkward pauses, Emma couldn’t help but notice how lovely some of the most nondescript students in the school suddenly looked.

When they arrived at the Great Hall, Emma suddenly became aware of the fact that her heard was going several hundred miles an hour faster than usual. Tyrone must have become aware of this fact as well, because he said, “Hey, Em, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing,” she sighed. “It’s just… I don’t feel like just walking in their in front of everyone, like, ‘hey guys, here I am, with my date!”

Tyrone’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying you’re embarrassed to be seen with me?” he asked softly.

“No!” Emma exclaimed. “Just… embarrassed to…”

“To give in?”

Emma sighed again. “Well, yeah. I guess. After all that, and everything…”

“I don’t know if this’ll make things easier for you or what,” said Tyrone, smirking slightly, “but the whole school was kind of watching when you said ‘yes’ to me. So they pretty much all already know that I won.

He had a point, though Emma wasn’t sure if this was cause for relief or despair. “Oh, Godric,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Grab my hand,” Tyrone suggested. “Might make you feel better.”

“Or it might give me cooties,” said Emma, but she gripped his hand as the pair made their great entrance into the gilded, snow-spun Great Hall. Although there was enchanted snow glistening on every surface, Emma suddenly found herself feeling strangely warm and tingly, especially her hand. Tyrone’s callused hands were weirdly hard, but also extremely warm, and although Emma was not a small person, her hand felt as tiny as Haley’s, buried in Tyrone’s as it was.

The faces of the students around her seemed a strange blur, like she and Tyrone were the main characters in a film, and everyone else was less important, left out of focus. And like the main character of a movie, Emma felt ten feet tall, projected on a screen for everyone to stare at. She glanced over at Tyrone, who was beaming so brightly that she could have sworn he’d had Christmas lights implanted under his skin. He thrived on attention, craved it, and though Emma had never been shy, she couldn’t say she felt in her element here.

“Buenos noches,” giggled a Ravenclaw girl, who had evidently heard about Tyrone’s interesting Potions-class escapades.

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!” thundered Tyrone, clapping the random Ravenclaw jovially on the back. He looked at Emma. “What do you want to do first? Food, or get our groove on, or food?”

Emma thought about it for a second. “Food,” she said definitively.

“Good choice,” Tyrone agreed. “By the way, speaking of food, you smell good.”

Emma blinked. “Er, thanks. That was the most awkward compliment I have ever heard. And I thought you were supposed to be ‘suave’ or something.”

“Well, bear with me,” said Tyrone. “This is the first time I’ve ever actually gone to a dance with someone I really liked before.”

Emma felt the strange sensation of hundreds of tiny, impatient worms wriggling under her skin. She rather hoped this didn’t happen again. “Erm. Right. Erm. Food time?” she managed to say.

Tyrone nodded thankfully. “Food time.”

It wasn’t that Emma didn’t like to dance. She loved to dance. She just wasn’t sure how to dance… with someone else. It wasn’t a skill she’d ever had to use before. All she knew how to do was jump around like a lunatic and wave her arms around, and somehow, she had the feeling that this wasn’t what Tyrone had in mind. She almost wished she had borrowed Jordan’s dance book. Speaking of Jordan…

She scanned the Great Hall. Jordan Potter, he of the fancy Muggle clothes, the mysterious owl-sending, and the dance book was nowhere to be seen. Very, very weird. But in plain view was Jordan’s twin sister, already dancing up a storm with the still rather shell-shocked looking Sinclair, and so Emma grabbed her best friend’s arm and pulled her over toward the food table in mid-boogie.

“What did you do that for?” protested Haley. “Sinclair and I are having a ball! And I just made a pun! I only do that when I’m angry!

“Look around you,” said Emma in a low voice. “What do you see?”

Haley surveyed the room. “Anatoly Capshaw puking on Charybdis Nott?”

Emma slapped her forehead. “What else do you see?”

“Ophelia Wood dancing inappropriately?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Emma said hurriedly. “That, and also… your baby brother’s nowhere around, Hales. Check for yourself.”

Haley gave the room another once-over, trying not to become distracted by Ophelia’s so-called ‘dancing.’ Emma was right; sure enough, Jordan wasn’t there. And he was a very easily recognizable person, what with that mop of messy hair on his head. “That is weird,” she said. “I wonder where he could--”

“HEY!” interrupted Tyrone. “I thought it was food time?”

Emma smiled. “Ah, yeah. Thanks for reminding me.” Why am I thinking about a loser like Jordan at a time like this? she thought to herself. This is a ball. My date is a mentally insane man who happens to be extremely good-looking and very fond of me. And it’s food time. Jordan can wait for later.

* * * * * *


The Muggle Studies classroom was the only place in the castle where Muggle technology worked. Everywhere else was too saturated with magic for anything to work properly”anything Muggle-made would start running haywire. But there was a special charm on the Muggle Studies classroom that made it free of this problem, so it was there that Jordan kept his prized laptop computer. Not exactly the most picturesque of surroundings, he thought to himself, but it would have to do.

There was a small mirror hanging on the wall behind the teacher’s desk, and Jordan could see his pale, anxious-looking face reflected in it. If it weren’t for the blatant nervousness, he would have looked pretty good”his hair had been at least partially subdued with gel, and he was wearing a very well-fitting Muggle tuxedo that he had bought himself. The look suited him, he thought. In dress robes, he always seemed to swim in the material, but in trousers and a jacket, he looked a lot more grown-up than usual, well-proportioned despite his short stature.

His hands were trembling slightly as he booted up his computer. This had been a stupid idea. He didn’t know why on earth he’d taken it into his head to do such a thing. But he knew that if he chickened out, he’d be kicking himself for it for the rest of his life.

Jordan’s computer beeped in a friendly sort of way, and his desktop image of the Beatles’ Abbey Road album cover flashed up onto the screen, littered with icons. Jordan had never met another wizard who loved computers and Muggle music as much as he did (though Haley did give him a run for his money in terms of music preferences), and he did have an excessive number of programs on his computer, but it didn’t take him long to find the one he needed.

He’d never used the webcam before, but luckily, things went as planned. With a few keystrokes and clicks of the mouse… he was ready.

Giorgi Anderson’s puzzled face looked back at him from the screen. Her hair was a light sea-foam green, with a giant brown bow tied in it. Her earrings were large jeweled sharks dangling past her chin, she was wearing a dark brown eye shadow that made her cartoonish features look sophisticated and mature, and although nothing below her shoulders were visible, Jordan could see that she had on a sparkly light teal dress. She always had her own… idiosyncratic tastes in clothing, but this was subdued for her.

“Happy Christmas,” Jordan said quietly. “Well, Christmas Eve, I suppose. You look… you look…”

“Fabulous? Thank you,” replied Giorgi, with a very nervous laugh. “Jordan, this is so weird. I am really, really confused. How are you supposed to””

“Did you get the corsage I sent you?” Jordan asked, his brow creasing. “I wanted everything to be just right…”

Giorgi waved her arm around, and in the blur of the webcam, Jordan could make out the corsage he’d sent by owl tied around her wrist. “Wearing it right now,” she said. “It’s awesome. I didn’t even know they had flowers in all the colours of the rainbow.” Jordan had of course changed several of the flowers’ colours by magic, but he didn’t really feel like getting into that at the moment. “Hey, how did you know what a corsage is?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Giorgi, I am aware of these things. I’m not entirely ignorant,” said Jordan. Truthfully, he’d actually sent an owl to his mother to ask what the typical ball date protocol was, but that was not necessary information.

“How are we supposed to dance together?” asked Giorgi. “I’m kind of in Godric’s Hollow, and you’re kind of in Scotland.”

Jordan smiled, something that didn’t happen all that often. But it was a disconcertingly open, friendly smile that made him almost completely unrecognizable. “I have my ways,” he said mysteriously, hitting the ‘play’ button on iTunes.

“I’ll lead,” he said, as strains of music began to play. He liked being his own DJ; it wasn’t often he agreed with the musical selections at the official Hogwarts ball. “Just do what I do.”

“I don’t know, Jordan, this is weird. I wish you were just over here and we could dance together for real.”

Jordan’s smile widened. “For now, though, this is the most practical alternative,” he said. “And there’s nothing wrong with weird. Frankly speaking, I doubt it gets weirder than us.”

Tentatively, Jordan began to dance, and Giorgi followed his steps, miles away. And as soon as the dance began, a small, animated film began to play in the corner of the screen, a boy and a girl dancing together, their hands clasped and their bodies held close, the girl in shimmering sea green and the boy in a tuxedo, the girl towering a head over the boy, who was looking up at her with a strange, solemn expression. Whichever way Jordan and Giorgi moved, the animated image on the screen followed their every step and gesture, each facial expression mirrored on the screen.

The music switched to a slower song, and as Jordan swayed back and forth, he could almost feel Giorgi’s warm waist snugly nestled in his arms. Balls were loud, noisy, crowded, embarrassing. Jordan was terribly awkward in big groups, never quite sure of what to do with himself. This, he could manage. This, he could do forever.

* * * * * *


“Come on, Emma. Dance floor,” said Tyrone, wearing his most winning smile, the kind of smile that would get him a blue ribbon at a county fair. “I didn’t ask you to this ball just to talk and get chocolate stains on my robes.”

“Sorry about the chocolate,” Emma said bashfully. “I didn’t even know that chocolate biscuits could come out of my nose. But seriously, that was the best Zabini impersonation I have ever seen.”

Tyrone grinned. “I’ll accept your apology,” he said. “If you dance with me.”

“You’re a goofball,” said Emma.

“Thanks,” said Tyrone, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her out onto the dance floor. He was rewarded with a smack on the arm with the force of lightning.

Emma looked at him archly. “I am your date,” she said. “Not your puppet. If you try to drag me one more time, I am flushing your head down the toilet. And don’t you think you’re too big and strong for me to take you, Tyrone, because I am more than capable.”

Tyrone held up his hands in surrender. “I believe you, I believe you. I’ll be…”

“More respectful,” prompted Emma.

“That,” said Tyrone, looking slightly pained.

Emma had never danced with someone at a ball before, and she wasn’t quite sure what the protocol was. So as independent as she liked to be, she had to just take a deep breath and let Tyrone take the lead. Putting her trust in him was not something she did well, but there wasn’t a good alternative unless she wanted to look like a total idiot.

She was quite sure it wasn’t normal for a person to hold his dance partner quite so close, or to…wrap his warmth around her nearly so much. She was quite sure it wasn’t normal to feel so lightheaded, so completely oblivious to the rest of the world. She was quite sure that it shouldn’t feel so natural to rest her head on Tyrone’s shoulder, or to loop her arms around his neck so easily. The melty, fuzzy way she felt when his arm was around her waist couldn’t be typical. So she was almost positive that she was doing things wrong… but she had to admit, it was better than she’d felt in a long time.

“Emma, why did you say yes?” Tyrone whispered.

Emma laughed quietly. “Were you really not expecting it? You’re Tyrone Thomas.”

“Yeah, but if the Latin Lover act didn’t do it, I figured nothing else would. I was ready to give up on you. Why’d you say yes?”

Emma considered the question. “Because you’re adorable?” she suggested.

“I thought that was Haley’s line,” said Tyrone, frowning a bit. “No, seriously, why?

“Women like it when men spend a lot of money on them,” Emma explained flatly. “Even if it’s just candy canes. Money. It’s very attractive.”

Tyrone chortled, and Emma could feel his warm breath on her face. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, pulling her even closer and making himself comfortable.

“I thought you promised in your song that you’d try not to let your hand wander?” Emma asked.

“Well, yeah, but I did remember my pants. And my name still isn’t Lance. Two out of three isn’t bad,” said Tyrone fairly. He grinned.

“McGonagall will not approve of this hanky panky,” said Emma.

Tyrone’s grin broadened. “Oh, is this hanky panky?” he asked curiously. “I always wondered what that was.”

“She was pretty vague on the definition,” admitted Emma. She paused. “Well, if that’s not hanky panky, then this certainly is.”

And without warning, she kissed him. She kissed him for a little bit too long, and then she dipped him back like a fairytale princess”him, Tyrone, a tall, muscular boy who by any accounts had to be much stronger than her”and continued where she’d left off. She didn’t care if she looked ridiculous; anyone willing to dress up like a knight in shining armour, display his lack of musical talent, suffer two weeks of detention with Zabini, and above all, buy her a hundred and forty candy canes obviously wasn’t concerned about what was ridiculous.

The Great Hall was cheering, but Emma paid them no heed, especially as Tyrone lifted her off the ground, twirled her in the air, and hollered, “Gracias, señorita!”

On the dance floor, Haley Potter shook her head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with that girl,” she said sadly to her date, Sinclair. “She’s crazy. Boy, I’m glad I’m not like that.”
End Notes:
Hohohoh
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