Hogwarts Reimagined

With the term coming swiftly to an end, it would ordinarily be time for the end-of-year feast, at which the winner of the House Cup was announced. But Minerva, relentlessly modernising as always, decided a feast was far too stodgy an activity for the likes of June. Instead, she announced that on the final evening and afternoon of term there would be a summer ceilidh – an informal dance – to celebrate the end of term, and they would depart on the train for their homes the morning after.

While the students overall agreed that a social dance would be more fun than just a feast, there was an immediate problem – save for the Valentines’ dance orchestrated by Gilderoy Lockhart the year before, Hogwarts rarely held social events. As such, few of the students had any particularly dance-worthy clothes to wear and the Headmaster was inundated with complaints from the students as a result. She reassured them that they needn’t dress up, any dress or neat clothing would do, they could bring something nicer next year in preparation, but Rhiannon in particular was not reassured. The last time she’d attended a dance she’d been half-wolf and it had been a very small gathering. She wasn’t all that sure she even knew how to dance, let alone do her own hair and makeup.

Rhiannon’s more experienced friends rescued her from her mild dysphoria spiral and panic, patient as always. Parvati reminded her that she’d only worn her nice red-and-gold dress once before, it had been a little big on her when she’d first got it and had grown only a few inches taller since then – it would almost certainly still fit. And she, Sally-Anne, Lavender, Tracey and Eloise all promised to help her get ready earlier in the day. Harry outright gave Rhiannon a pair of nice shoes, remarking that they’d never really enjoyed dressing up in the first place and now they’d come out, they had an excuse not to bother.

But once the issue of what to wear was sorted, there was then the matter of asking someone. Granted, that wasn’t mandatory and it was perfectly fine to go a ceilidh by one’s self, but... Earlier in the year, Hermione had confessed that she couldn’t focus on creating a Patronus, because the memory she knew she’d used hadn’t happened yet. This was a chance to make that memory together, and if Rhiannon was being honest with herself, that was something she’d wanted for some time.

So with that in mind, Rhiannon fretted for several days about how to go about asking Hermione, all the while not quite able to shake the uncomfortable worry that she was snubbing Luna somehow in asking someone else. Eventually she managed to corner Hermione on the Thursday afternoon after Arts class, which gave her the perfect time to ask her to the dance, if not immediately the courage to do so.

“I, ah – ‘mione,” Rhiannon stammered, reaching out to pull her friend aside as they left the classroom. “I- w-w-w-want-e-d-d-d – I wanted to as-s-s-s-sk you, t’ the – tothedance. I, keep thinking ‘bout – ab-b-b-out that, thing you told me when we were learning P’tronuses and- I- I- I wondered if you’d – if maybe- we could, make that a real mem-m-m-m-m-ory. Tomorrow. If you like.”

Hermione stopped, turned back to Rhiannon and stared at her, making eye contact for a rare moment. Her almost-sable brown skin flushed, a beam of light from the hallway windows lighting a coppery glow across her cheeks like the contrasting lines of a tigers’ eye gem as her lips parted slightly and she wrung her hands at her side. Then, all at once she flung herself at Rhiannon, catching the smaller girl up in a bear-hug by way of an answer.

When Hermione set Rhiannon back down, she flapped her hands happily in the air about her shoulders, and nodded so enthusiastically that Rhiannon half-feared she might fall over. “Yes, yesyesyesyesyesyes- yes,” she replied, eyes now firmly trained on the floor even as her voice rose in pitch with her excitement. Finally, she took a breath and appeared to squash the excitement from her person, an action that squeezed at Rhiannon’s gentle heart. “Yes, I- I’d love to,” she breathed, sloe-dark eyes darting up to meet Rhiannon’s for a fleeting moment as she managed a more restrained acquiescence.

And in all, that was that. Still blushing and flapping happily, the two girls joined hands and made their way out of the newly Dementor-free castle to meet the rest of their friends for lunch. Hermione insisted on surprising Rhiannon for the ceilidh itself and kept to herself the entire next day, while Rhiannon herself was swept up by Parvati, Lavender and the other more feminine friends who had agreed to help her prepare. The girls took over the Gryffindor third-year girls’ dormitory for the afternoon, and once again Tracey was in charge of Rhiannon’s hair, with some assistance from the very curly-haired Eloise Midgen when spare hands were needed. Under their patient hands, Rhiannon’s hair was transformed from an untidy mass that was usually at most tied out of her face by a bandanna or sturdy hair-tie, into an intricately-braided waterfall of thick, silky curls reminiscent of something from the Lord of the Rings – if the Lord of the Rings had included people of colour, that was. After her hair was taken care of, Parvati dabbed makeup onto Rhiannon’s face, mixing physical products with charms to apply them and reassuring Rhiannon she’d be able to do so just as well without hiding the scars entirely when or if the time came that she was confident enough to stop hiding them. It was a little more complicated than the year before – Rhiannon was a year older now and thus it was more appropriate for her to wear more makeup to begin with, as well as being fully human in appearance – so long as no one looked at her eyes too closely – instead of tangled up with wolf-shape.

By the time the other girls were done with their innumerable brushes and sponges, Rhiannon had taken to daydreaming and was startled when Lavender prodded her back to wakefulness. They’d set a mirror on the table before her without her noticing, and for once in her life Rhiannon stared at her reflection not to pick out each flaw, but in genuine wonder. It would have been easy to say she didn’t recognise herself, but that would have been a lie – or at least, not the whole truth. Rhiannon had never seen herself this way before – not flawless, or beautiful in spite of each imperfection, but mesmerisingly striking because of them. Parvati and Sally-Anne had done her makeup with respect to her strong features, each stroke and angle of colour considered as they worked to complement the aspects of Rhiannon’s face that did not traditionally fit the narrow standards of acceptable beauty – her strong chin and jaw, the heavy, ascetic arch of her nose, her perhaps-overlarge hooded eyes and high forehead. Every colour chosen brought out those shades present but easily overlooked in her green-and-gold eyes, her tawny olive skin, her rust-touched black hair; and Rhiannon’s mouth parted as she looked not on someone alien to her, but someone she’d known in her heart for a very long time that she was meant to be.

“I... I did-d-d-dn’t know you could do that with makeup,” Rhiannon breathed softly, eyes fixed on the image of herself in the mirror. It was unmistakeably her, they shared each word and movement – it was just hard to believe possible.

Sally-Anne grinned and patted her shoulder. “I get it. I think I wanted a nose job since I was like... five, until someone showed me I was allowed to be pretty how I was,” she agreed with a wry smile. “It’s not exactly something we can do all the time but, sometimes it really helps to have the reminder.”

Rhiannon nodded, still a little dazed at the transformation. By now it was perhaps quarter to five in the afternoon, and as she cast her eyes over the clock on the dormitory wall Rhiannon began to feel the first twinges of anxiety set in as she realised it was less than an hour before she had to be ready entirely. She barely trusted herself to move, let alone put on her dress – one of her favourite possessions and the only item of clothing that alluded to her birth-father’s culture at all – without tearing it. She stood and anxiously began to pace, hands flapping fretfully at her sides until Emilia and Daphne caught hold of her to break the cycle.

“Rhi, we’ve got forty-five minutes, for Christ’s sake just get dressed,” Sally-Anne grumbled. “I know you’re anxious but you’re going to do fine, unless you wear yourself out walking a track into the floor first!”

Rhiannon flushed, embarrassed, and shuffled her feet. She forced herself to walk back to her bed at an ordinary pace and retrieved her dress from where it hung from the four-poster frame, then retreated to the bathroom to change in peace. She couldn’t resist stealing glances in the mirror as she did so, still a little disbelieving that she could look like this without the aid of any magic save the usual glamours that hid her scars. Once she was dressed, the effect was even stronger. She’d rarely felt worthy of the word, but the girl in the mirror was beautiful. And Rhiannon was that girl in the mirror, resplendent in her deep crimson dress accented with gold. Now she began to feel nervous in a good way, fizzing with anticipation at the thought of Hermione’s reaction, and wondered how she could possibly manage to wait until five-thirty when Parvati, Lavender and the others would let her find the rest of her friends.

With her friends’ exasperated supervision, Rhiannon managed to make it through the half-hour of waiting, when finally Tracey had finished with Eloise’s hair and it was time to make their way to the Great Hall, where the ceilidh was to be held. Cane in hand, Rhiannon positively skipped through the hallways – at least, a hobbling sort of skip, but the exuberance was there if not the execution – down numerous flights of stairs, all the way to the ground floor. There she settled into a more measured pace, catching her breath and straightening her dress, and made her way down the corridors to the Great Hall with a sense of growing trepidation.

The doors of the hall stood open, and Rhiannon tiptoed cautiously inside. While a few of her peers stared and whispered amongst eachother she was reassured by how little attention her entrance drew. Some might be offended or dissuaded by a lack of praise, but Rhiannon revelled in it. For one evening, she was just another student at Hogwarts, one pretty girl – and it was strange to include herself in that category but it would have been dishonest not to – amongst many, here to enjoy a night with a partner or her friends. And that sort of comfortable invisibility was all she’d ever wanted.

Rhiannon wove her way through the crowd of people, all of her senses assisting in her search for the remainder of her friends. Admittedly, she was looking for one scent in particular and her heart gave a happy little jolt when she found it amongst the mingled smells of food and perfumes and people, augmented by some pleasantly spicy perfume – Hermione. As if in slow motion Rhiannon turned, blinking under the dancing lights, to find the girl she’d sought just behind her.

Dressed in a soft, simply-cut summery dress the deep black-violet of calla lilies growing to lighter violet at the hem, Hermione looked so beautiful Rhiannon struggled to find her breath, let alone words for it. Someone had braided her hair into an intricate crown against her scalp, the rest drawn into a neat bun at the nape of her neck, and around her neck she wore a simple necklace of a polished gold-and-black striped stone – tigers’ eye – hung on black waxed cord. Rhiannon wasn’t sure what she said, or if it was intelligible at all, but she had to remind herself to keep hold of her cane as she rushed to greet her closest friend who in time she had come to see as something else.

“Rhiannon, you look...” Hermione murmured, taking Rhiannon’s free hand in hers and brushing a stray ringlet from the smaller girl’s face.

“Strange? Unrec-c-c-c-cognis-s-sa-b-ble? Awful?” Rhiannon quipped, mostly joking.

Hermione laughed and shook her head, then sobered, her brilliant smile turning soft and shy. “No. Like... like how I’ve always thought of you. Imagined. Dreamed, I – I’m, going to stop now.”

Rhiannon tilted her head curiously, a strangely mischievous feeling bubbling up inside her. She knew what Hermione meant, but couldn’t resist prodding anyway. “So, you didn’t see me, how I look the rest of the time?” she asked teasingly.

Hermione’s eyes widened with horror and she shook her head hastily. “No – nononono- I- ahhhh, Rhiannon!” she spluttered, mortified. Rhiannon laughed and squeezed her hand reassuringly, and Hermione took a deep breath to calm herself. “No, I mean – when we first met, and you liked books and we got on so well, and I started daydreaming, but I d-d-d-didn’t want to be creepy, and then you c-came out to me it was like this, I don’t know, light went on and I was allowed to have those feelings. And this is – that’s – how I saw you. Then.” she rambled, wringing her free hand in the air beside her face.

Rhiannon had expected the spluttering and stammering, had understood what Hermione meant to begin with, but to hear it all out loud made her feel as if her heart might burst against the pressure of all the feelings Hermione’s heartfelt words brought welling up from deep inside her. Then, remembering how long it had taken for her to develop similar feelings for Hermione – and even more to realise them, she began to feel a little uncomfortable and even distressed, like she’d failed in some way; but her taller friend shook her head and gently touched Rhiannon under the chin, just enough to tilt her head up for a moment.

“I know it wasn’t the same for you. That’s alright, everyone’s different, and I think I would have been happy in time even if you’d never felt all – this.” Hermione murmured reassuringly, squeezing Rhiannon’s hand as she did so. Then, as the soft music flowing throughout the hall changed to a bright-spirited fiddle piece, Hermione’s soft smile spread into a joyous grin. “Come on, dance with me!” she entreated, towing Rhiannon out into where some of the other students had made a loose sort of dance floor.

Rhiannon felt as if her heart skipped and stuttered as sudden panic rose in her chest. “I do-n- I d-d-d-on’t know how to dance!” she protested, casting a fearful glance over at where some of the older students skipped and whirled around eachother.

Hermione laughed, still smiling that giddy smile. “Neither do I!” she replied. “Come on, we’ll figure it out!”

Laughing, the two of them stumbled onto the dance floor and were immediately swept into the rhythm of the other students. They were much less skillful of course, being inexperienced, but as they darted in and out between the other students and cast their eyes around the crowd, they did begin to pick up the pattern of the dance the older students had taken up – a sort of fast-paced three-step dance with a skip on each third beat, a skip that would have hurt Rhiannon’s knees had Hermione not lifted her into the air every time, fully taking Rhiannon’s admittedly-insignificant weight on herself to bring a feeling like flying to their improvised dance as they both held Rhiannon’s cane in their joined hand, Rhiannon’s other on Hermione’s shoulder and Hermione’s on her waist.

After a few more changing dances, Rhiannon caught sight of fox-red hair amongst the dancing bodies over Hermione’s shoulder. She mentioned it quietly, and Hermione steered them in that direction, until they found a surprisingly solemn-faced Ron dancing, moon-boot and all, with Luna. The sight of her tall, moon-haired friend and foster-sibling – though Rhiannon’s feelings had definitely changed from platonic – tugged at Rhiannon’s heart, bringing guilt both for inviting Hermione instead of them, but also for still feeling that same giddy spirit-lifting joy in their presence as she did with Hermione. That grated on Rhiannon as they danced together, gradually easing as they collected some of their other friends partnered with eachother or others Rhiannon recognised only by sight.

Eventually, something else shoved aside the last of Rhiannon’s conflicted feelings, something which could always override almost any personal struggle – concern for someone else. Ron had appeared uncharacteristically solemn since she had first seen them that evening, and at first she had put it down to pain – perhaps their healing leg was giving them trouble. But each time they whirled by, the difference between Luna’s free-spirited movements and Ron’s withdrawn consternation grew clearer, until finally Rhiannon could take it no more. She whispered in Hermione’s ear to steer them over, and broke from her partner to stand before Ron and Luna in the gap between songs, affecting a wry smile. “M-m-m-m-m-may I- gah – may I cut in?” she asked, she remembered that was a thing in books.

Luna let go of Ron’s hands and executed two quick, formal little half-bows, first to Ron and then to Rhiannon herself, before they offered a hand to Hermione with a tilt of zir head and the two set off across the dance floor together, leaving Ron and Rhiannon standing awkwardly together. Rhiannon mustered her courage and took a deep breath, as uncomfortable as she was with unnecessary conflict Ron’s peace of mind had to come first.

“Ron, you – y’ look miserable. Well, sort of... I don’t know, droopy. Is your leg hurting?” Rhiannon asked them as they began to dance, her brows creasing together anxiously. Ron shook their head and Rhiannon’s frown deepened. “Your head, then?” she asked, thinking of the recent head injury but already getting a sense that this wasn’t a matter of physical discomfort.

The tips of Ron’s ears flushed red as they always did when they were embarrassed or upset, as they began to shake their head before Rhiannon had even finished speaking. “No, it’s not- gah-” they demurred, the flush spreading and darkening across their nose and cheeks. To Rhiannon’s concern tears sprang to their summer-sea-blue eyes, and she slowed and pulled them both to the side of the room where the usual dinner benches had been set out along the walls for students to rest on. Ron sniffled and hiccuped a little bit, before daring a momentary glance up to meet Rhiannon’s gaze. Some certainty seemed to solidify in those pale eyes, and Ron drew themself upright, taking a deep breath in as if fortifying themself for something.

“It’s, been bothering me for... well, I really started to think about it last year, after the thing with the diary and the stairs – you know. And you never asked, and I ‘preciate that, gave me space to think without the pressure, but... sometimes I think maybe it’d be easier if you had asked. Got me to quit denying it sooner.” Ron murmured, knotting their long, freckled fingers together in their lap as they spoke. “And I sort’ve, let it sit for a while, but it wouldn’t stop bothering me, so I talked to Luna a bit. You know, xe’s just... easy to share things with, doesn’t even question. And I guess the rest of you must’ve followed their lead or something, started referring to me with ‘they’ like you do for Harry, so it was easy to just... let it sit, pretend it wasn’t an issue now I wasn’t wanting to scream every time someone mentioned me.”

All at once, Rhiannon understood immediately what was bothering them and her heart swelled with hope in her chest. Perhaps Ron was finally ready to talk about what they’d clearly been thinking of for some time? Cautious of overwhelming Ron, Rhiannon firmly tamped down the exuberant joy that bubbled up inside her before speaking. “I – you know I get it,” she replied with a crooked smile – she’d spent most of her childhood denying all this to herself. “What changed?”

One corner of Ron’s mouth quirked up wryly and they shrugged, then shook their head. “Honestly? Sirius. Just, it was jarring going from you all kind of knowing and treating me gently to him assuming I was a guy right off the bat. Which I don’t hold against him, he’d no idea, but... that hurt more than I’d expected. And now... it’s the dancing. I don’t wanna dance the boys’ steps, I don’t – I don’t want to keep pretending to be a sort-of-guy anymore, I don’t want to – I think – no, come on, I’ve been thinking for ages, I know- I’m a girl. I want to dance the girls’ part. I don’t want to be Ron anymore.” they said in a rush, a slow smile spreading over their face. “I don’t who else I want to be yet but... it’s not Ron.”

Rhiannon scooted over and wrapped not-Ron in a hug, not quite realising how tightly she was squeezing in her excitement until they spluttered and waved her off. She coughed and looked at her feet, embarrassed. “If you’re not Ron, then – do you have a name you’d like me to use instead? Or if you don’t, something to call you in the meantime?” she asked, unable to repress her happy-flapping hands and so giving up completely.

Not-Ron shrugged, but not so much uncomfortably as indecisively. “I, talked about that with Luna a bit too. Haven’t decided. My family goes for Arthurian names so, I kind’ve wanted to stick with the tradition but there’s so many nice ones and Ginny’s already got everyone’s favourite – Ginevra’s the Italian transliteration of Guinevere, so that rules that one out. But for now, I don’t know.. Tee? Like, t for to be decided.” she suggested.

Rhiannon grinned, that made sense to her. However, there was one more pressing question that stopped her from celebrating just yet. “So – I know Luna knows, and I do now too, but... are you ready to tell anyone else?” she asked cautiously.

Tee shrugged and made a wry sort of non-committal sound. Then she set her shoulders and straightened her back, clearly coming to a decision. “Yeah. Yeah, I am. We’re supposed to be celebrating the last day of term, it’s a dance, and damnit I want to dance the girls’ steps.” she replied firmly.

Rhiannon flapped happily, struggling to restrain the urge to cheer. She settled for a quiet yesssssssss in delight, and hugged Tee again before her smile crumpled into a frown. “Well, there’s just one problem with that, ah... I don’t really know how to dance, Hermione’s just been kind of leading me – she’s the one who knows what she’s doing even if she says she doesn’t. So, if you want to dance the girls’ steps, I’m no good to you – they’re the only ones I know. You need her.” she admitted. She stood up and stretched as tall as she could manage, scanning the crowd for Luna’s moonbeam hair or the deep black-violet of Hermione’s dress – yes, there they were, dancing together just a short way into the crowd. For some reason it warmed Rhiannon’s heart to see them so happy together, her guilt over the conflicting feelings was eased just a touch, and as they spun towards the edge of the dance floor she climbed up onto the bench and waved, hardly caring how silly she looked, until they noticed her and drifted through the crowd towards Tee and Rhiannon.

“Hey, Rhi, what is it?” Hermione asked breathlessly as she and Luna broke apart, their cheeks flushed from activity. Rhiannon grinned and gestured to Tee, who coughed and reddened in sudden shyness, looking down at her shoes. Nobody pressed her for an answer, and finally she managed to spill the whole explanation to them just as she had to Rhiannon. From there commenced a slightly-overwhelming group hug, and three sets of happy flaps, until finally they got themselves calmed down and Tee explained that she wanted to dance the rest of the night in the girls’ place. Hermione readily offered to lead her, which left Rhiannon standing awkwardly opposite Luna until the latter asked her to dance in faer usual calm, casual way.

As they swayed and spun gently around the outside of the crowd, Rhiannon felt the pressure of her conflicting feelings welling up until she felt like she would burst, not just her heart. Guilt, attraction, fascination and perhaps even something akin to love – of what kind she couldn’t have said – all tangled up inside her, pulsing and swelling until she couldn’t help but say something. “I- I- I’m sorry,” Rhiannon blurted, biting her lip – thankfully Daphne had charmed the colour on her lips to stay for the night – as she looked down at her shoes. “Sorry, f-f-f-f-ffffffffuck – for taking Hermione t-t-t-t-to this, and not you. It, feels like I snubbed you or someth-h-h-h-ing.”

Rhiannon caught Luna’s shrug on the edges of her vision and looked up just far enough to see the faint pink tint colouring their ivory skin. “Rhiannon, I don’t own you and you don’t owe me your feelings.” he replied, with only the slightest catch on the latter half of her statement. “Even if you feel – something other than friendship – for me, you don’t – how do I explain it – you don’t owe me some kind of single devotion out of just that. And are we not here, together, at the ceilidh? I won’t pretend I wasn’t anxious at the thought of not spending any time with you here, but here we are. Sometimes, things just turn out – though I understand with your past it would be hard to rely on the idea of happenstance or fate.”

Rhiannon ran a nail anxiously along the decorative scales of her cane’s snake, held as it was in their joined hands, as she considered this. Somehow, from all she’d read, Rhiannon had felt as if simply by having feelings for more than one person she was being disloyal – and as someone for whom loyalty was deeply important, that was a distressing thought. And while Luna’s calm reassurance could not lay those deeply-ingrained worries to rest entirely, it did soothe her somewhat. “You... really aren’t upset?” she asked timidly.

Luna smiled brightly, and spun Rhiannon out in a dramatic twirl before drawing her back in to vir chest, dancing with Rhiannon’s back to faer chest and Luna’s arms crossed over the small girl’s chest for several beats of the music before resuming their regular position. “No. How could I be upset? This is the best night of my life.” he replied softly. “And you gave that to me – Hermione and Tee and our friends, certainly, but you most of all.”