The dress robes were sort of stuffy and uncomfortable but his mother had insisted upon them, scraping back his hair with a metal toothed comb in order to make the Longbottom boy somewhat presentable. The gangly, awkward creature could hardly win any hearts if he was in Herbology overalls or trudging around the Quidditch pitch early in the morning battering Bludgers into the air. The boy had wanted to protest that he didn’t intend on winning any hearts but his mother had been insistent that he get a date – which, by the way, he’d failed to do though he hadn’t told her such – and go to have fun. Now, he was completely open to having fun but he had entirely bailed out on the idea of going with anyone – although, that did now leave him in a slightly awkward position.
Neither on time nor particularly late, Frank entered the ballroom behind a group of excitable first years. He swallowed, fiddling absently with the button on his jacket, and pushed off away from them, skirting around the outside towards the drinks table where a few people were already hydrating. With stunning clarity he realised that this would be his evening: skulking around the buffet tables waiting for someone to talk to him. He wished he’d put more effort into asking someone out. Unfortunately, he was much too much like his father and while he wasn’t nearly as rotund as Neville at that age, Frank wasn’t exactly blessed with any sense of social grace, either.
Shaking his head, with trembling hands Frank reached forward and pulled around the handle of the ladle so that he could spoon some scarlet punch into a glass he’d taken. Once he’d filled it, he dropped the ladle back down and moved away, hastily sipping at the drink. Something in the back of his head alerted him to his posture and quickly Frank straightened up, dropping his arm down by his side. He winced as he felt the drink slosh up at his hand and he suffered a long sigh before looking up, around the hall.
He should’ve gotten a date.