The Princely Wizard

Ron woke up to find himself in a pile of hay. This was rather unusual, as he was fairly sure that the Gryffindor boy's dormitory hadn't been furnished with straw the last time he'd checked. Wiping the bit of drool from his face, he sat up and stretched.

"Hey! I don't drool. What's this about?" Ron, unsettled, looked around as the disembodied voice answered.

Hush, dear. Ignore me. And you do drool.

"Who are you? And how do you know what I'm thinking?"

I'm the narrator doing the voiceover for your dream.

"Dream? Narrator?" I suppose that would explain the hay, then. "Well quit it; it's rather irritating."

Sorry, hun. No can do. Just go about your business and try to ignore me.

Ron grumbled. "Just narrate me fairly, okay? No more of that drool stuff."

I just call 'em like I see 'em, dear. Carry on.

With a last annoyed glance at the ceiling, Ron stretched and looked around. He was sitting on a bit of hay and cloth that, he supposed, was a makeshift bed. The small hovel was as clean as a hut with a dirt floor could be--a single wooden chair sat in the corner, with a table and candle sitting close by. A single, cracked mirror served as the only luxury besides the dark wooden bookshelves that stood in the opposite corner, filled to capacity with some lovely old books that would've put Hermione into a frenzy. He walked over to read a few of the titles: Fencing, Fighting, and Other Handy Talents, by Terrance Strongarm, Learning Languages: A Comprehensive Guide to All Major Languages of the World, by Gabby Hablámucha, Bettering Yourself, by Amelia Goodly, So, You're An Orphan Farm Boy Forced into Bondage, a Collected Work by the Farm Boys and Girls' Union of Nebraska, and How to Be A Swashbuckling Hero, by Herc Ulysses.

"Hmm. I'm sensing a pattern here..." Ron muttered to himself. Before getting the opportunity to continue his brilliant train of thought ("Hey! That sounded like sarcasm, there, narrator lady!"), he heard a female voice calling from outside. "Farm boy! Farm boy? Are you awake? Farm boy!"

Ron leapt from his bed to investigate this achingly familiar voice. He passed by the mirror and...damn. I look...good!

And he did. His arms, which had been rather scrawny ("SCRAWNY?!") as a first year and only slightly less so as a fourth year, were strong and well-muscled. The same could be said for his chest and stomach--both were far better defined than Ron had ever thought possible. His hair was still flaming red, but the very top was slightly lighter, a sort of yellowy-orange that was turned by long hours of sunlight. His usually ruddy skin tone was covered in sun-spawned freckles, so much so that for an instant, he almost thought he was looking at a reflection of his brother Charlie, the dragon man himself. Ron, while a moderately attractive boy at Hogwarts ("What's this about "moderately attractive"?!), ventured into the realm of "very handsome" in the hovel's mirror.

"Go on, then," Ron said, grinning. "Do feel free to continue describing how good I look."

Oh, do behave. You're interrupting the flow of the dream.

"What? You can talk about my drool, but not my drool-worthy eyes, eh? I see..."

I'll get to it. Now hush.

"'Moderately attractive', my arse..." he muttered, walking out of the hut.

What he saw outside the hovel nearly floored him.

Hermione.

But it wasn't Hermione. She looked...different. She was...

Beautiful.

Skin of wintry cream was dotted with just a few freckles around her nose and rosy cheeks. Her chocolate hair fell down her back in a mass of messy, wild curls. Her eyes, big, warm and brown, were opened wide in annoyance. Some things never change, Ron thought with a sigh. She stood up straight and proud, not at all like at school with a pack of books on her back, and grace seemed to fall from her every movement.

"Farm boy, do hurry up. The Count and Countess have come, and for some reason far beyond me, the Countess wants you to show her how you milk the cows. Apparently, our milk has been talked about across the countryside or something. But hurry yourself, we don't want to keep them waiting." She tapped her foot on the ground, staring him down.

"H-Hermione?" Ron could hardly articulate his words. He'd always thought that Hermione was pretty, sure. But this was something entirely different. She was different. She's the most beautiful woman in the world, he thought dizzily.

Technically, he wasn't at all right. She barely cleared the top twenty and that was primarily based on potential. She took no care of herself at all--she rarely bathed and hated to comb her hair. In fact, the only things that gave her any joy at all were riding her horse and taunting the Farm boy.

"Is that right then?" Ron wondered aloud. "All right, I understand now. I'm in the book. And I'm the hero." He looked quite pleased with himself. The woman blinked.

"My name isn't Hermione and you know it, Farm boy. I'm Buttercup, and who on earth are you speaking to?" She stared at him, looking concerned.

"Didn't you hear that? The disembodied voice narrating everything we do? And you really expect me to call you Buttercup?" He giggled a bit, thinking about how horrified the actual Hermione would react to such a pet name.

She just stared at him. Ron sighed.

"As you wish." Ron thought he saw a quick flush in her cheeks, but she quickly turned on her heel and led him to the stables.

Waiting there, in the muck and manure, were two couples--Ron recognized the first couple right away. They were Hermione's parents, looking quite uneasy, dressed in worn peasants' clothing. He couldn't blame their discomfort--the other couple was quite stunning, indeed, and Ron recognized them quickly, as well.

The Count was a tall, thin man with a head of silvery blond hair and a pale, pointed face. He was dressed elegantly in a black cape and gloves and could clearly not tear his eyes away from Buttercup. The woman, however, was nowhere near as quietly elegant as her husband. The Countess' lips were painted a perfect red; her clear gray eyes lined in black. She was quite beautiful, save for the arrogant upturning of her pointed nose. All the colors in the world were muted in her gown. Ron wanted to shield his eyes from its brilliance.

Damn, he thought. The Malfoys had infiltrated his subconscious. Bugger.

"And is this the Farm boy, dear?" The Countess moved closer to Ron.

Buttercup nodded. "He takes care of the cows."

"Have you a name, farm boy?"

"Ro--er, Westley, Countess."

"Well, Westley, please do show us how you make this family's cows the finest in all of Florin. We are all just aching to find out." The Countess licked her painted lips with a very pink and pointy tongue. The look of hungry animal flashed in her eyes, making Ron feel quite uncomfortable.

He fed the cows for them. Everyone was pleased. Ron couldn't help but notice the Count watching Buttercup, and his stomach flopped. The only thing that kept him from leaping at the Count was noticing that Buttercup was watching the Countess who was, in turn, watching Ron himself.

"Strange things are happening," Buttercup's parents said.

Indeed, Ron thought. Indeed.

~*~

It was early in the morning. Dusty sunlight poured through the cracked pane of glass in the hovel's tiny window. He hadn't slept much and his back ached from the stiff hay bed.

"If I'm having a dream about the book I just finished...then why don't I know what's going to happen next?" He paced across the floor of the shack. "Well? Enough talking about my pacing, what's happening here?"

Are you speaking to me again? Oy, I know this whole "narrator" business is new to you, but you've got to stop talking to me. It's very annoying.

"Well, answer me and I'll stop."

You're not just sleeping. You're not just dreaming. It's a sort of enchanted sleep. You don't remember the plot because you are to live it.

"An enchantment? Cast by who?" Ron was alarmed--he hadn't really thought anything of his unusual dream. He'd just chalked it up to the potatoes from dinner lying on his stomach.

I can't really say. I'm not quite sure. Just live the story, get through it, and you'll be fine.

"And what if I'm not? I don't remember exactly what happened in the book, but I'm thinking that if I have a book here called How to Be a Swashbuckling Hero here, it's not going to be your basic "naked at school with no homework" dream. What if I die here? Do I die in real life, too?"

Well, that's a bit...sketchy.

"Sketchy?! I'm asking you pertinent questions about my life and death and the best you can give me is sketchy?!" Livid, Ron stormed around the room, wondering what on earth he was going to do.

Just get through it, okay? And don't talk to me. Ignore me. And cover your ears when I'm talking about things you're not around for--it'll spoil the fun.

"Fun?! What the..." A knock at the door interrupted his bout of swearing. He opened the door. There stood Buttercup, her eyes slightly puffy, but looking as lovely as ever.

"I love you," she said. "I know this must come as something of a surprise, since all I've ever done is scorn you and degrade you and all that, but I've loved you for several hours now, and it doesn't seem to be going away, I fear. I love you so much more now than twenty minutes ago that there cannot be a comparison. There is no room in my body for anything but you. I won't follow you for the rest of your days, or be your obedient slave for the rest of mydays, but you must know that my arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection for you. I want to be your companion, your friend, your lover, your equal, and your wife for the rest of this eternity. And the next one, too, if I can manage it. I know I could never compete with the Countess in skills or wisdom...well, maybe wisdom, but I saw the way she looked at you and want you to know that I'll look at you that way forever, if you'll let me. And I saw the way you looked at her, with your eyes, your beautiful eyes. They are like the sea before a storm, all swirling blues and grays...but I digress--I'm a bit nervous, you see, I had this all written down, but by the time I'd had it all written down, I loved you several times more than I had when I originally wrote it, so now I'm a bit mixed up, you see? But remember, sweet Westley, that she's quite old, and married, for goodness sake, and I'm only seventeen and have an entire life in front of me to share with you. Please say I have a chance, please?" She looked deep into his eyes to await an answer.

"Can you, uh...hang on a second?" He gently shut the door. All this was happening far too fast. He was under a spell, which had most likely been cast by You-Know-Who, who was probably intending to get to Harry through him. Ron had had no clue what was going to happen next in this screwy alternate reality dream thing, and now he had someone who looked just like Hermione proclaiming her undying love for him. It was simply far too much to cope with.

As soon as Ron had gathered his thoughts enough to speak to her, Buttercup was gone from his doorstep.

~*~

Ron was busy all the next day. Chopping wood, minding the cows, gathering the crops...but the entire time, his mind was with Hermione. His dream was nice enough, he supposed, but he wished deeply that the words that Buttercup had said the previous night were Hermione's own. He knew that he probably should be thinking of more important matters, but he couldn't help it--his head was wrapped up with images of Hermione. He decided that, while he was sleeping, at least, he could have the next best thing.

He found himself rapping on Buttercup's bedroom window late that night.

A lazy voice yawned from within. "Who is it?"

"Ro--er, Westley."

The door opened just a bit too quickly for Buttercup to be as nonchalant as she looked. "Westley--? Oh, Farm Boy, it's you. How nice of you to stop by." Her eyes looked puffy, as if she'd been crying. He felt this wild desire to hug her.

"I hope you're not sore about that joke I played on you this morning," she continued in her fanciest tone. "I've just been feeling so low since I spoke to you last--I do so hope that my little jest wasn't too convincing?"

Ron stared at her. She was a horrible actress.

"I've come to say goodbye," he said.

She simply stared at him.

"I'm going to America. To, uh, seek my fortune." For us.

Her lip trembled. "Because of what I said this morning?"

Ron nodded.

She looked as if all the life beneath her china-doll perfect skin was collapsing, leaving her as beautifully vacant as an empty vase. She blinked back tears and balled up her fists.

"Well, if you even think for a moment that I'll take you back after you're done gallivanting with the Countess, you've another thing coming. And you're an idiot if you think that she'll be happy in some hut you'll set up in America. I mean, I can't imagine all her dresses fitting in a hovel like yours out back, you'll just have to--"

"Will you stop talking about the sodding Countess already! You're driving me absolutely barking mad!"

She stopped talking and looked at him.

"I've been trying to tell you, but you won't let me get a word in. Lord, you really are exactly like her, aren't you? Don't you understand anything?"

Buttercup blinked.

"Well, not exactly like her. She'd have bloody well figured it out by now."

She glared at him slightly, but the corners of her perfect mouth curved upwards just a bit as she put the pieces together. "You love me, then. Is that what all this is about?"

"My God--if your love was a grain of sand, mine would be...er, something a lot bigger and sandier than that!" Smooth, Weasley, smooth...he chided himself.

She laughed at him. "Wonderful imagery. The mind spins at your dizzying intellect."

"Will you stop arguing with me just a moment to spin your mind around this? Why else do you think I've spent my life living in that shack out there? Not because I have a special fondness for your father's cows, I can assure you. I've taught myself languages, made my body strong, and have stayed all these years in my hovel--because of you." He took a well-needed breath. His ears felt hot as he avoided her eyes. "Now, do you want me to go on or shall I stop?"

"Never stop."

He felt dizzy. "There hasn't been a--"

"Westley, if you're teasing me, I'm positively going to kill you, you know that, right?"

Ron stepped forward, close to her and, after a moment of nervous hesitation, put his hands on her waist. She let out a surprised gasp, for never in her life had the Farm Boy touched her. Her heart nearly stopped, and yet she could feel it's beat thump through every bit of her body.

He reveled in touching her. He knew it was a dream, an illusion, and when he woke up, Hermione would be unaware of all that happened in his lovesick dreamscape...but he ached for it, felt it echo in his lonely heart. Summoning courage he knew he'd never have with Hermione--if this were real--he kissed her.

Buttercup wasn't as ready for the kiss as he was and he missed just slightly. His lips caught her right in the corner of her open mouth, so he ended up with more cheek than lips. Figures, he thought wildly as he scrunched his eyes together so as to avoid what must be a pretty confused stare from Buttercup.

Ron's hands fumbled at her waist, not quite sure what to do with them. He sought the whole of her lips, and when he did--

Wow.

~*~

There have been five great kisses since 1642 B.C. The precise calculation of rating kisses, is, as you may imagine, a terribly difficult thing, often leading to a quagmire of most trying controversy. Although everyone agrees with the formula of affection times purity times intensity times duration, no one has ever been completely satisfied with how much weight each of these variables should receive. Yet, on any system, there are five that everyone agrees deserve full marks.

This one left them all behind.