Ronald Weasley, Ballroom Dancer Extraordinaire

The entire magical world, Ron, and Hermione, were all created by the lovely JK Rowling. I own nothing.

Ron and Hermione's three year anniversary had been fairly uneventful. Way too uneventful, in Hermione's opinion. When she had first started dating Ron after the war, she hadn't expected their relationship to wither and die so quickly. What they lacked was flavour. They needed some fun, some spice, some zest... anything at all.

So a desperate Hermione had gone over to Ginny and Harry's house; they had gotten married five years ago, and still seemed to be perfectly happy. Unfortunately, when Hermione arrived, the two of them were rather busy with little James, their son, so she left to Apparate to her Mother's house. Hopefully she would know what to do.

Over a cup of tea, Hermione and Jane brainstormed possible ways to make Ron interested again. The ideas they came up with ranged from ridiculous to nothing Ron would agree to do, to nothing Hermione would agree to do, to... dancing? Hermione would dance, she liked dancing. Ron would dance if she made him, maybe. Hopefully.

By the end of their Mother-Daughter tea, Hermione was determined. She would take Ron dancing, Muggle style.

But Ron didn't agree.

"Her-mi-o-ne!" he whined pathetically. "You know I don't know how to dance, and I don't want to make a fool of myself in front of loads of Muggles. I would need lessons or someth..." he trailed off, distracted by the egg salad sandwich Hermione was holding in her left hand.

It was supposed to be her lunch, but sensing an advantage she waved it in front of him enticingly, and said, "If I get us lessons, will you actually pay attention to me like you used to?"

Ron nodded dumbly. Hermione was under the impression he hadn't actually heard a word she said. Why had she married this idiot again? Because you love him, the voice inside her head answered. Merlin it was an annoying voice. All patronizing and sweet. But even the evil half of her brain admitted it was right, however grudgingly.

The following Wednesday night, Hermione put on her prettiest summer dress, forced Ron into clothes that would hopefully not arouse the suspicion of the Muggles, and dragged him into the car. They drove in silence for twenty minutes to a small downtown dance studio. Hermione led Ron inside to find a dimly lit room with hardwood floors and mirrors lining the walls. She thought it was beautiful. The couples that were already there were talking animatedly to the man who could only be the teacher.

The man was obviously South American. He had dark eyes, curly black hair and a beard that looked remarkably like the little one Viktor Krum had at Bill and Fleur's wedding. 'Hopefully,' Hermione thought, 'Ron will be too sulky to notice.' He was still ridiculously touchy when it came to Viktor. She would never tell him they still met for lunch every other Tuesday. With that thought, she grabbed Ron's arm and dragged him over to meet the teacher.

He was a pleasant man, whose name was Filipé Salgata. Introducing himself, he shook both of their hands enthusiastically. His accent was British because he had been born in England, he explained to the group. His parents had both been professional dancers who entered him in competitions all the time in his youth and although he enjoyed dancing, he preferred to teach. At this point he flashed them a dazzling smile reminiscent of Lockhart's, although this man seemed like less of a git, which was good.

He then told them to grab their partners and spread themselves out onto the dance floor.

"So!" he began, clapping his hands together. "Straight to it. The Tango is a dramatic type of dance. Some steps are slow and sneaky, some are sharp and snappy. You need to be articulate, and be able to move like a cat stalking a mouse. Now, if I can have a volunteer, I can demonstrate the most basic step, the eight step, that we will be learning first."

Hermione's hand shot into the air. Even after all these years, it was still a permanent reflex.

"What are you doing?" Ron hissed. "You have no idea how to do this!"

"Did he say we needed to? No!" Hermione hissed back.

"Thank you very much!" Filipé cried. "You may step up here, Hermione, and put your hand here," he said, hooking her forearm under his elbow, and held her left hand at her eye level. Then he reached and put his left hand on her lower back. "Now, we step like this: slow, slow, quick, quick, turning slightly to the left," he said, and Hermione followed along very well. When they turned, Hermione caught sight of Ron's face. His eyebrows were contracted and his ears were bright red. She knew that look; he was jealous of Filipé. She sighed quietly. It was going to be a long evening.

Filipé let her go, and said cheerfully, "Now let's see all of you try it."

Hermione walked back to Ron who, as soon as she was back in earshot, asked sarcastically, "Enjoying yourself?" When Hermione just rolled her eyes, he spat, "I bet you find his little beard just as attractive as you found Vicky's."

Hermione was angry. She had come to enjoy herself, and she didn't need Ron ruining it for her. She should've known better than to think that Ron would actually enjoy spending time with her. "No," she retorted viciously, "I think Filipé's beard is far more attractive than Viktor's. In fact, I think he has the most attractive beard I've ever seen."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

'What did she just say?' Ron asked himself, shocked. 'We're married now, isn't she supposed to say that his beard is ugly, just to spare my feelings or something?'

Ron looked over at her. She was seething. Slowly, some of the pieces began to click into place. She had taken him Tango dancing. She had complemented the instructor's beard. SHE WANTED HIM TO GROW A BEARD! Except that didn't quite fit. She could've just told him that. She had always told him his moustache was hideous, and a beard wasn't that different.

Ron vaguely though he heard Hermione saying something, but he paid her no attention. He was still concentrating on understanding why she was angry at him.

Then Filipé's voice shook him out of his reverie. "Ron, Hermione, you're not dancing!" he shouted, walking towards them. "Come on; let's see what you two can do."

Hermione grabbed Ron, put his hands in the right place, and tried to steer him around the dance floor. He followed her stumbling and tripping over his own feet, still too deep in thought to pay much attention to what was happening around him. The sound of stifled laugher brought him back to reality.

"My oh my," Filipé said concernedly. "Did you pay attention, Ron? Because if the Tango had feelings, it would be gravely insulted."

The other couples in the room who had turned to watch all laughed again at this. Even Hermione smirked through her embarrassment, but Ron just twitched.

'Oh Merlin, I was supposed to be dancing just now?' Ron asked himself. He turned to look at Hermione again, only to see that she was still bright red, despite the fact that she had been laughing at Filipé's joke. He had embarrassed her pretty badly.

"Alright," declared Filipé, "as most of us seem to have mastered the eight step, let's try putting it to music." He clicked a button on his remote, and from the stereo to their right a loud Rumba started playing.

Ron prepared himself. He was going to do it well this time. For Hermione. And himself, of course. Hermione would kill him if he embarrassed her twice in one night.

"And one, two, three, four!" Filipé shouted.

Then, all eight couples walked in the same slow, slow, quick, quick, slow pattern around the room. Surprisingly, Ron did it almost perfectly. Filipé stared at him, impressed. Ron grinned proudly. He could do it. He wasn't that uncoordinated; he was a Quidditch player, after all. And although he wouldn't admit it out loud at the time, it was kind of fun.

Throughout the evening, Ron mastered steps with ease, better than Hermione, even. It wasn't that difficult to do, and each time he learned a step, he enjoyed himself more.

At the end of the night, Filipé declared that, even though he had a shaky start, Ron was quite the talented Tango dancer. And so their lessons began.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Ron and Hermione danced. They became pretty good at it, and Ron had never enjoyed himself more in his entire life. They entered a few amateur competitions, and won one of them, too. Hermione was happy; they were having fun again, and Ron was happy, because he now loved to dance.