This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.

After the Ball

.

The portrait hole swung open and revealed the common room, yet it wasn't as inviting as Harry had hoped. In the middle of it stood Hermione, red-faced, yelling at an equally incensed Ron.

"Not your business, Ronald Weasley!" she screeched.

"Well, he's just a smarmy guy, Hermione, I'm telling you, he's..."

"Nothing of the sort!" she fired back, adding to Harry's headache. "Viktor is..."

"Viktor!" Ron hollered, outraged. "He's turned your head; he's got you eating out of his hand! Hermione, you're acting..."

Harry quickly left the room, thankful that his two best friends hadn't seen him. He liked both of them, no doubt about that, but he didn't want to get between them during one of their spats, and he certainly didn't need the additional stress and anger it would cause him to intervene. Sneaking up to his dorm wouldn't be possible; they hadn't noticed him in their fury, but that bit of luck couldn't hold up if he dared trying to slip past them.

And then, what would he do in his dorm, anyway? Dean might be there, perhaps Seamus, even. Neville might have snuck up, or he might be at the Yule Ball with Ginny. But before long, Ron would walk upstairs, too angry to go to sleep, and then Harry would have been forced to endure his friend's ramblings or even take a side. If he agreed with Ron, he'd alienate Hermione, if he tried to go for giving a perspective, he'd be seen as taking her side. The best he could do, Harry deemed, was to stay away from them for a while, at least a night. That way, both could calm down a bit, and in the mornings, maybe they would see reason.

What was that fight even about? Viktor, yes. Hermione had defended the Bulgarian champion who had been her date for the evening. She had looked very nice on his arm, yes, and he hadn't expected her to look so happy about it or so nice for the evening. She certainly hadn't been the Hermione he had gone to school with for over three years. But then, without her book bag, frizzy hair and the stern look to remind everyone to study harder, she had been a completely different person to him.

So where was Ron in all of this? As far as Harry could tell, Hermione was old enough to know what she wanted; she was smart enough to see through almost any deception, Krum didn't count as a dazzling smile, so a repeat of Lockhart was out of the question. Perhaps it was Ron's hurt pride, Harry mused. Hermione had had a nice evening with her date Krum while Ron had scowled with his, Padma Patil. Was it jealousy that had their friend so infuriated and infuriating? Likely yes. Maybe Ron harboured secret feelings for Hermione?

If so, why bring the tournament into the equation? Why bring Harry into the mix as well? Claiming Krum wanted to wheedle Harry's secrets and plans out of Hermione was simply ridiculous. For one, it was based on the assumption that Hermione couldn't keep her mouth shut –well, she did like to talk about whatever she knew, to be fair –when charmed by a famous Quidditch player. Harry doubted either mattered much to Hermione. For another, it suggested a more sinister intention behind the invitation to the Ball. And lastly, it forced Harry to take a side. Not agreeing with Ron's theories might look like siding with Krum, supporting Ron was siding with him.

Harry didn't have a problem with the Bulgarian. Krum wasn't the most sociable boy around, no, but he also wasn't throwing his weight around, demanding things. And what if he wanted to snoop around, what if he found out about Harry's plans? Not that he had any idea about the stupid egg, but it wouldn't matter. Harry wanted to survive the tournament, not necessarily win. He didn't have a problem with Krum.

It was Cedric Harry didn't like. That empty-headed, conceited pretty-face. What was with that stupid advice anyway, Harry thought, scowling as he descended down the grand staircase. 'Take a bath.' Yeah, right. That blonde ponce just wanted to waste Harry's time. Or perhaps he had wanted to look good in front of his date Cho.

Harry glanced towards the Great Hall. He could hear the music drifting out to him. No, he didn't want to return in there. Happy people and happy faces and happy mood he didn't long for.

Maybe a bit of fresh air would do him well, he decided. Yes, that sounded like a good idea. After a walk, wasting his energy and working through his anger, Harry might be tired enough to sleep well after that horrible evening. And maybe Ron would be asleep upon Harry's return.

Stepping outside, Harry thought about the people in the castle. A Yule Ball, cheh! Who in their right mind had had that stupid idea? Music and dancing and all that stupid stuff. Girl's stuff, and if they wanted it, fine. But why did they have to force Harry there as well? He hadn't liked it from the moment he had heard about it. He had had no use for it and would have been happy to stay in the dorm. Maybe he could have arranged a game or two of cards?

But no, 'Champions have to go, Potter.' Well, isn't that nice? Something else he had to do. Something else he had had to figure out himself. Finding a date and having the first dance with everyone staring at him and watching for the smallest mistake was nowhere near what he considered entertaining. In fact, he had felt not only nervous, but also as if every pair of eyes had been locked on him, as if he had been at the centre of attention. If there was one thing he didn't like, it was attention.

He wondered whether he would have cared much with the right girl by his side. With Cho, he might not have noticed it as much, but that hadn't been possible. No, she had to go with Cedric 'Pretty-Face' Diggory. What did she see in him, apart from his looks and maturity?

Harry just barely noticed the couple in one of the bushes ahead. A bit of a hairy leg flashed, and blushing, he ducked into one of the side-paths. He really didn't need to stumble into one of the pairs hiding and snogging –or more! –on the grounds of his school.

"Mr Kent, Miss Baker," Snape's voice drifted over to Harry from somewhere to his right, "Thirty points from each of you."

Well, wasn't that just great? Snape was still on the prowl.

If there was one good about it, Harry was sure he needn't fear about what Cho and Cedric would get up to. He was in his dorm, she in hers. Harry liked it that way; it was certainly better than the alternative.

Silly giggles made him aware of yet another couple Harry had to side-step. Snape seemed to have noticed as well, for Harry heard a rustling from the bushes between them. With no paths to duck into, he jumped into the bushes and away from the potions professor. Better get the robes dirty than run into Snape. Who knew what he would construct out of the situation? 'Potter, alone and facing a distracted couple in the bushes. Just like your father, no modesty, no manners, just a rotten lawbreaker.'

Yeah, Harry really didn't want to run into the malicious man.

He had just managed to reach the path again, when he heard the unmistakable shriek of a couple being disturbed and Snape hissing at them. Harry hastened his steps away from them.

The path led him back over to the castle, but unless Harry was mistaken, it went off to the Forest instead of the building. He didn't care about that, but continued either way. He had wanted to walk, so walking he did. At least he didn't have to avoid as many couples who apparently hadn't ventured too far from the front doors. His path was mostly deserted, winding this way and that, leaving him to wonder why so few people had gone there for the snogging. The turns and twists would have allowed enough privacy, at least.

He found a dark corner for himself, a small nook with what appeared to be a weatherworn statue bathed in shadows. Wondering whether this might be Kalidora Ferrywright, who in her time had been generous to the Ministry and school, earning recognition for her donations, he walked over to inspect the figure.

It was, he realized, trying to remember where it normally stood, but failing. With a shrug, he turned around and came face to face with a baby troll glancing at him from the darkness. Only a moment later, he had to correct his first impression, as it spoke with a distinctly human voice he had rarely heard.

"Do you mind, Potter?" she called, and he recognized the tall, big girl as Bulstrode.

"What are you doing here?" he asked dumbly, blinking.

"I'm standing," she replied. "And watching you enter this corner. I was here first. Go elsewhere."

Normally, he might have done that. He wasn't a jerk; he wasn't cruel or hostile. But he didn't feel like doing like he was told. Dumbledore had done that, and Harry had to participate in that blasted tournament. Professor McGonagall had told him to get a date. He had done that, and it had been as awful as he had expected it to be.

"Why should I? You have no more claim to this place than I do. And if you found it first, well, you might like some variation in your evening entertainment. So go on, there were some nice places I passed, unoccupied. Might find yourself a new corner."

"What," she countered. He would have expected her to growl or grumble –she did have a deep voice –but instead, it was surprisingly smooth. "You think you can send me away, just so you'll have this place for yourself and...?" She glanced around the shadows, as if looking for someone hiding from view. "Who did you talk into joining you out here, anyway? Not Patil, she ran off. Granger? Brown? ... Weasley?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm allowed to have a walk around if I feel like it."

"Heh, so no one. That's a story for the Prophet." The music from inside picked up again.

"And you?" Harry scowled. "Just standing around out here? What do you do, waylay couples?"

She grunted angrily, and he knew he had hit a sore spot. "None of your business. Maybe I'm just waiting for someone."

"Surely not a date!" he laughed. "The troll wranglers maybe?"

She stepped closer to him, glowering as she left the shadows. It might have looked intimidating under normal circumstances, but in the faint light shining down from the castle and the stars above them, he suddenly became aware that she was wearing a ball gown of a dark colour. He might have thought black, but guessed it was probably closer to a deep shade of violet from the slight shimmer in the light.

"Or maybe someone to insult me?" she said in a low voice, cracking her knuckles threateningly. "Someone who doesn't know what's good for him?"

Harry looked at her, and unbidden and for only a second, he didn't see the hefty girl, but Dudley advancing on him, still wearing the gown. He chuckled at the image, shaking his head slightly.

"Funny, is it?" she spat.

"Sorry, you just reminded me of my cousin," he apologized.

Something like confusion flickered over her face, only to be replaced by honest doubt. Meanwhile, Harry took her appearance in.

She looked really out of place in a dress, but maybe he just had trouble thinking of her as anything but the tall, brutish girl who couldn't speak more than a few words in class. Like Hermione, he never would have thought of her as a girl, least of all one in ball attire. But where his friend had looked really good in it, Bulstrode looked awkward and misplaced. By now, he was sure the robe was plum and of course quite big as well to fit her. The puffed shoulder pads with the frilly white seams however were not ideal in his opinion, making her look even more puffed up and larger than normal. Bulstrode might be many things, but the frills were more suited for dainty girls, not mountains of flesh towering over anyone their age.

"So if we're finished," she began, pointing to where he had come from.

"You're free to leave," he replied, smiling genially. "Maybe find some poor boy to accost and drag under your bridge."

Her face fell, but she didn't reply, other than glare at him once more. His anger subsiding, he sighed.

"Look, I'm sorry; that was out of line." And he really was sorry for some reason. He might not particularly like her, but he didn't have to insult her.

"You're the one to talk," she huffed.

This confused him. "What do you mean? You threatened me only moments ago, it's not like..."

"I've seen you, idiot. At the Ball with Patil. Not your finest moment."

"Yes, well, none of your business. At least I had a date," he defended.

"You chased her off. Can't have been a good date, then, right?" She laughed. He found her chin fascinating. He'd seen fat people laugh in the past and expected her chin to wobble and quiver, but it was surprisingly firm. He did notice the chain she wore, though.

"What are you looking at?" she scowled, noticing his look.

"Err, nothing... your chain, I mean."

Her hand went to it, surprise on her face.

"It's... pretty," he added lamely.

"My Mum's," Bulstrode told him, and for a moment, a surprisingly kind expression stole upon her face.

"She has taste, then," he said, smiling at her sentiment.

"Had," Bulstrode corrected. "But yes."

Harry wanted to slap his head. Why hadn't he recognized her expression? "I'm... I'm sorry," he told her, suddenly feeling for her.

She snorted. "What do you know? The great and powerful Boy-Who-Lived does have a brain somewhere in there? A small one, though."

"Careful there, Bulstrode," he warned her, "or people might think you had a sense of humour."

They stayed silent for a moment.

"So you've had your dig at me," she told him, crossing her arms. "Might as well go now."

"My... my dig at you?" Harry blinked, surprised by her words.

"Well, 'Look there, Bulstrode the troll.' You're done; send the next one, when you leave." She shrugged.

"You threatened me," he pointed out.

"You insulted me, saying I'd waylay couples."

"You wanted to send me away from here!" he told her.

"So? Aren't I allowed to?" She raised a challenging eyebrow.

"Well, yes, you are," he admitted. "But why would I leave after having 'my dig at you'?"

"Well, that's why you came here, wasn't it?" she countered. "To get off your stupid remarks?"

"Why would I...? No. I just wandered around the garden to get a bit of peace and fresh air. I didn't come to find anyone. If anything, I tried to escape Snape; he's prowling for couples over there." Harry gestured towards the general direction. "Why would you think I'd come here? To get my stupid remarks off? Why would I do that?"

"Oh," she said, looking genuinely surprised. "Well, I thought you might have."

"What, did someone do that?" Harry asked, chuckling.

She glanced to the side, slightly ashamed. "Well, no. No one came here to insult me, no."

"I wouldn't have expected them to. What's to gain from that, anyway?"

"Feeling strong? Taunting Bulstrode, the big girl, to feel strong?"

"So you thought I wanted to insult you."

"You did," she reminded him.

"Have I ever insulted you?"

"Behind my back, I'm sure," she glared half-heartedly.

"To your face?" he asked her, raising a questioning eyebrow and ignoring the admission of having insulted her behind her enormous back.

"Not that I can remember," she admitted.

"So why would tonight be any different?"

She didn't say anything, but stiffened slightly as her head turned slightly towards the castle and the windows of the Great Hall close by.

"The Yule Ball?" he marvelled.

"Well, I did notice the looks, Potter," she defended, scowling with a faint blush.

"I... the looks? I'm sorry, I wasn't even aware you had been there. Granted, I was more concerned with myself."

"And looking like a fool," she chuckled in her low voice.

"That too, but that's kind of the whole point of the evening, isn't it? That's what this whole Ball was about –making people look stupid and clumsy and idiotic."

"It was about dancing and having fun," she disagreed.

"I didn't have the latter, and I suck at the former," Harry huffed, knowing just how true it was.

"It was plain to see for everyone. That doesn't change the fact that it was a Ball. They are supposed to be fun, even if you didn't allow yourself to have any."

"But how can they be fun, being paraded around the room?"

"They are an opportunity for dates to a formal occasion?" she asked rhetorically. "And you had Patil on your arm, Potter; that should have meant a brilliant evening for you."

"How so?" she said. "What's it matter if I had her 'on my arm' for a few minutes?"

She rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Unless you are not only an idiot, but also blind, Patil is a pretty girl with a cheerful personality. What do you look for in a date if not that? A grunting troll? A sickly granny? ... An Adam's apple? Face it, Potter, you had a pretty girl at your side, the envy of quite a few boys, and a chance to have a fun evening. It's no one's fault but your own if you blew that chance."

"I also had the eyes of everyone on me," he said, scratching his cheek awkwardly. "I couldn't have sneezed without them knowing. But I guess you have a point."

"I'm actually wondering why you didn't enjoy that evening. You had almost ideal conditions for a fine date. Who knows, maybe by now you'd be in one of those bushes with her?" Harry blushed at the thought, and she chuckled.

"Well, maybe. I would have just liked to have a choice in the matter though, instead of being obliged to show up, instead of having to find me a date, instead of having to dance, or smile, or be nice, instead of being watched constantly."

"You'd have wanted to stay away?" she wondered. "Why would you do that? A dance, Potter, a chance for a date even. Every girl in school was eager to go, and with that intention, I doubt any would have refused the invitation. And don't forget, showing up alone is not good, so you were obliged to ask a girl in the first place. That is even less stress."

"No, it's not. Having to ask a girl..."

"You would have had to ask one anyway if you had wanted to go. That requirement of social standards would have allowed you to say, 'Well, girl I hardly know, would you do me the honour of being my date to the Yule Ball –the date everyone expects me to have.' Since you'd have to, you could explain it away as merely following the norms for the occasion. 'I needed a date, it's not like I like her particularly.' If something came of it, you'd have been lucky, if not, well, no harm done."

"Well, when you put it like that..."

"Exactly. And since every girl had wanted to show up with a date anyway..."

"Yeah, I'm aware. Some asked me, but I was..."

"A jerk most likely," she grumbled good-naturedly.

"Excuse me?" he asked, blinking in surprise.

"They plucked up the courage to break with tradition; they asked you, and you refused them? Shame on you." She brushed some of her hair out of her face. "The least you could have done was make sure your date, Patil in this case, had a good time. That would have made the girls feel slightly better about it."

"That..." he tilted his head in confusion. "That doesn't make any sense."

"It does," she told him. "You refused them, fine. They saw you dancing with Patil once and acting very disinterested. You didn't value the date at all. If you preferred going with Patil and had no interest at all in her, then you had even less interest in the other girls."

Harry groaned. "That sounds like something Hermione would say. Completely mental."

Bulstrode chuckled, and before long, he smiled at her.

"Well, fine. Alright, I was a jerk." He shrugged. "I guess I'll have to live with that." Pursing his lips, he asked, "And who was your date, then?" He really hoped she had had one.

She stiffened slightly, before replying, "Vincent."

Harry frowned. Vincent. Vincent? He cast his mind around, until he finally found the answer. "Crabbe?" He gaped at her, trying and failing to imagine the two of them together.

"So what?" she huffed, crossing her arms defiantly. "Just because he is slightly large..."

"No, I always assumed he couldn't say more than five words a day," Harry hastened to say, mostly to push the thought of Vincent Crabbe and Millicent Bulstrode bulldozing over the dance floor, "I just can't imagine him talking, much less asking anyone."

There was an odd, downward twitch in the corner of her mouth, one that she tried to hide quickly, but not fast enough.

"Oh," Harry spoke, wondering what to say.

An awkward silence stretched, not helped by the music drifting down to them.

Finally, she spoke up. "The food was fine, though."

"That is was, yes," he agreed, nodding. He still felt he should say something about her likely bad date; after all, since she was alone, he figured it hadn't gone that well. He sent her meaningful look. "I'm sorry, I..."

"Not your fault," she interrupted him with a shrug. "I'm used to it." While she looked unbothered, her voice had a sad hint to it.

Harry blinked in surprise as he found his opinion of her suddenly changing. Was it possible she was more than the large, brutish, scowling girl following Parkinson around and doing what she was told? Was it possible there was a kinder part in her? For a moment, he recalled her on their first evening –their sorting feast. Then he revisited every instance of them meeting. She had rarely spoken much, mostly communicated by scowling, yes. But still, he couldn't shake the feeling there was more to her than what he had seen at first.

"Well, err..." he began, feeling awkward. "Well, you know how my evening went. A disaster, mostly due to my idiocy from what you said."

"That's one way of phrasing it," she said, smiling. "Though maybe still too kind."

"Yes, well, I was a champion. If I had to fail, why not do it spectacularly?" He sent her a smile of his own and was happy to see her mouth twitching. So she did have a sense of humour. "Not that I had planned it to, of course."

"Could have fooled me," Bulstrode replied, quirking an eyebrow.

"So, in the name of fairness, please do tell me how the common crowd experienced the Ball," he said. It seemed to have been a mistake.

Her face fell, and he opened his mouth to apologize, but she raised her hand, stopping him. "It's alright, Potter. Most of them probably had fun. It is a dance. The girls wanted to dance, the boys –most of them, that is –had pleasant company and someone to ogle discreetly. And don't deny it," she told him.

"Well, then I won't try to." He crossed his arms, scoffing playfully.

She chuckled, but sighed shortly afterwards. "Well, Vincent wasn't as attentive, I'm afraid. Not that he had wanted to be there with me, but he did jump at the chance to not have to show up alone."

"I didn't see you around when I marched in. Him I did see."

"Might be," she said with an indifferent shrug. "I was talking to some friends when the champions marched in. The Ball as such... Well, Vincent was more interested in the food, to be honest. Not that I minded it much. I did manage to drag him to the floor once, but..." She shrugged. "He's not a dancer. He didn't want to be there with me, and we're not that well matched, but I knew that from the beginning. It must have looked horrible, us waltzing across the floor." Another chuckle escaped her, this one slightly dejected.

"Ah, too bad. Why'd you go with him in the first place, though? If you knew you weren't that well matched..."

"Not like I had that much of a choice," she interrupted. "Zabini went with Greengrass, Nott asked a Bulgarian. Well, actually a Hungarian, but what does that matter? The point is, there wasn't really that much choice, and if I wanted to have a date, I needed to take what I could get."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "See, that's something I don't get. Now, I can't claim to know you that well, and I can't say I particularly care for you..."

"Charming, Potter, charming," she laughed.

"Whenever you stood out in the past, every time I remember taking notice of you, all I saw was a scowling, brutish standoffish girl. You wrestled with Hermione during the duelling club!" he pointed out. She sighed, but he continued, "Still, talking to you right now, I can see you can act differently, and you can be something else besides thuggish. You can be conversational, and you do seem to understand humour as well. So why go for Crabbe if you already knew you aren't that well-matched?"

She chuckled, shaking her head. "Potter, what do you see when you look at me?"

He frowned, looking for a trap in her question, but finding none. "Err," he began, taking her in cautiously, careful not to leer. "A girl," he tried. Then, a moment later, he amended, in short order, "A large girl. A tall girl. A... a girl in a dress? A... a frowning girl? ... A Slytherin?"

"A Slytherin," she confirmed. "Of course I'm not kind to you or your friends or Gryffindors in general. We were in a duelling club, and I was paired with Granger. Do you think I could have beaten her at magic? Doubtful at best, don't you agree?" He nodded, and she continued, "And I'm a Slytherin. I can't allow myself to be beaten by a Gryffindor, and even less by a Mudblood."

Harry glared at her. She raised her hands. "I have a reputation to uphold, Potter. I needed to not lose, so I did just that. I have to show my dislike for you lot to gain some resemblance of respect. I can't be the cunning manipulator. No one would listen to my whispers. I cannot be the sly seductress for the same reason. I cannot be the sharp-witted sweet talker. I am the large, brutish, trollish girl. If I want people to respect me, I need to have something going for me."

"That's..." Harry mulled his words over. "That's both enlightening and sad."

"Everyone has a role to play, Potter," Bulstrode told him with a shrug. "You are the fabled Boy-Who-Lived, I'm the Troll girl."

He sighed, shaking his head. "It is still sad. You do seem to be a nice girl. You shouldn't be defined by how you look –which, by the way, could be a lot worse." It wasn't as difficult to lie as he had expected to.

She smiled at him, a genuine smile that lit up her face. "And you should be defined by the scar and the story behind it?"

Harry blinked. His mind had come to a full stop as he stared at her. Then he chuckled. "I'd hope not," he admitted. "So fine, you hate 'my lot' out of principle. I may not like it, but fine. It still raises the question as to why you had to go with a boy you knew was a bad match. You wanted to go to the Ball and have fun, yet you didn't have much from what you said."

"I'm the Troll girl. That is what boys see in me, and that is why I had to take what I could get. Yes I wanted to go to the Ball, and it wasn't as good of a date as I might have liked. But that's no reason for you to get all high and mighty; you had to go, could have had fun, but chose not to and sabotage the evening for yourself and your date," she countered, letting her arms drop to her side.

"I didn't sabotage it, not intentionally, at least," he claimed.

"I saw you dancing, or failing to do so," she said with a knowing smile.

"So I'm bad at it," Harry scoffed. "It's not something people just know how to do."

Bulstrode rolled her eyes. "That's why people learn it, Potter. That's what dancing instructors are for."

He laughed sarcastically. "Dancing instructors. Yeah, right."

"Well, of course, that's what they are for," she told him. "They come to your home and give you the lessons. Or Muggles go to them, but it doesn't matter all that much, really." Then she stopped in her movements, as if frozen by magic. A moment later, she glanced at him. "You never had lessons, did you?"

"Not dancing lessons, no," he said, clenching his jaw. There was no reason for her to sound so surprised; it wasn't as if every child on earth had them. Or maybe they had and only the Dursleys had forgotten that part of raising children.

She watched him for a while. "In that case, you did fairly well, actually," she finally admitted. "I just assumed..."

"Well, not everyone can be a rich pureblood princess," Harry scoffed.

"You certainly aren't a princess, no," she chuckled. "And I'm hardly a princess either."

Harry smiled at her. "Well, you know what I mean."

"I know what you meant, but that doesn't make it right," she corrected. "You're no pureblood, no. But neither am I."

"You aren't?" Harry asked, surprised.

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

They stood there in the dim light, both silent as the music from within the castle drifted over to them once more.

Harry found himself looking at her closely now, trying to merge the picture of the brutish classmate with the burly girl in her dark violet robes, with the simple silver chain around her neck and the surprising personality. Something strange was going on, he felt, as he slowly came to realize that Millicent Bulstrode was, in fact, a girl, if a big one.

She noticed his look, it seemed, and raised an eyebrow in question, crossing her arms. Her pale skin against the dark fabric only drew attention to the truth of his previous realization –she was definitely a girl.

From above them, the sounds of another song drifted down to them, and Harry smiled at her as he came to a decision.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked.

She blinked, her arms dropping back to her side. "Come again?"

"Would you like to dance? You said you wanted to dance tonight. That's why you went to the Ball, wasn't it?"

"I... yes, but..."

"And that your one dance tonight wasn't all that great," Harry continued. "Well, one awful dance or two, what does it matter?"

That got her to laugh. "A Gryffindor and a Slytherin –enemies within the school –sharing what might be the last dance of the evening under the stars?"

He extended his hand, an offer she could easily brush off as a joke or take as an invitation. He wasn't sure which he would have preferred as both had their advantages.

Her hand moved to the chain around her neck, fingering the links, as she tilted her head slightly. Her face was unreadable, but he had a feeling she was thinking of her mother. It made him wonder about what the woman had been like in life.

Then Bulstrode took the offered hand and stepped closer for her second dance of the night. In the light of the stars from above they swayed in tune with the music from above, and for a time, neither really thought much about houses or their shared history.