Chapter 12: An unexpectedly lovely evening commences.
XII.
The Yule Ball Pt. 2
[The Great Hall | December 1943]
The entrance hall is full of excited, chattering students decked out to the nines in whatever finery they could drudge up from the depths of their trunks. Riddle and Spektor pause at the top of the stairs briefly before descending into the din. He's still holding her hand, albeit stiffly, formally, and she, feeling him tense up, gives him a small squeeze for reassurance. More of an impulse really. He cocks his head sideways ever so slightly, glancing at her, that small smile cropping up again. There is something sad about it. The smile, that is. Why were they both so uncomfortable? So nervous? What was there to be nervous about? Underneath the surface layer of weird tension something does feel right, to be there, together, descending the staircase, into a sea of their peers. Whatever "right" means. Perhaps it's more like a shift, something settling into its proper place.
Nobody notices them as they weave their way to the door of the Great Hall. It's a nice feeling, one that both parties equally take comfort in. Flashbulbs crack. Friends pose, laugh, linking arms and goofing off. Spektor catches sight of Penelope Fairchild tossing her hair over her shoulder, throwing her head back in captivating, albeit over-dramatic, laughter. It's plain to see Lestrange is quickly falling under her spell. And there's Olive Hornby with a sour look on her face, her date, Will Braxton, a Hufflepuff as well, distressed and babbling an apology. Someone should've warned him Hornby has very high expectations. Avery's ambling down the stairs with a girl practically twice his height—not difficult to manage, as Avery's of the short-and-stout variety. V sort of misses being his potions partner, if only to be able to scold him when he does something bizarre like shove tarantula legs up his nose. Then she glances up at her current potions partner. She's walking so close she can see the pores in his smooth pale skin, the individual hairs prickling at the back of his neck. He's grasping her hand like she's a shield, a barrier between him and everyone else. That's how it feels, at least. And she isn't completely wrong.
"Ah, Tom! There you are. Good. Now we can begin." Headmaster Dippet is standing in front of the doors to the Great Hall, along with Minerva McGonagall and Edward O'Connor. O'Connor politely smiles at the two of them as they approach. Although McGonagall turns her head in their direction, it's more as though she's looking straight through them.
"Begin what?" Riddle asks. Dippet gives him a look of utter confusion.
"Begin the ball, what else! The Head Boy and Head Girl always have the first dance. Now you'll go first with...it's Victoria isn't it?...and then Minerva and Edward will follow..."
"I thought I only had to be here for the Yule King and Queen thing..." Riddle says, frowning.
"Have you never been to one of these, boy?" Dippet laughs. Riddle scowls. Obviously. "Well it's just one dance. I'm sure it won't be that unbearable." Dippet jokes, clapping him on the back. Riddle looks like he's ready to hex him.
"I have to go out there, in front of all those people, and dance with you?" Spektor whispers in his ear. So cheeky, he thinks, it's a wonder she's on such good terms with people. Why doesn't anyone ever put her in her place?
"Don't get too excited." His response is definitely sarcastic.
"Here we go!" Dippet pips excitedly, flinging open the doors and allowing the students to enter at last. Once they've all gone inside, the orchestra strikes up and a path is cleared for the procession. Riddle juts his elbow out and Spektor loops her arm through. She can feel the anxiety leaking from him, despite his confident, almost militant, stance. It's no mystery that he hates surprises.
The house tables have been cleared out for the occasion and replaced by smaller circular tables, which are dotted around the outskirts of the room. Each is draped with a crimson table cloth and adorned with a miniature evergreen in the center, skirted with a wreath of branches scented with cinnamon and clove. The enchanted ceiling above them is sparkling with a million brilliant stars, and at least twenty-five full-size evergreens have been brought in from the forest, all decked out and spectacularly fragrant. There is a comforting warmth to the room, despite the size and commotion.
Once the couples reach the middle of the floor, Dippet signals for the orchestra to begin, and the first dance commences. Riddle turns to face Spektor and bows rigidly. She replies with a small curtsey. Then he confidently takes her hand and places his other on her waist. She flinches slightly at his touch, not because it's unwelcome, but precisely the opposite. Stop being stupid, she tells herself. She places her hand delicately on his shoulder. It's a mid-tempo waltz, nothing too difficult, thankfully. Spektor allows herself to be swept up like a feather, effortlessly gliding across the floor in Riddle's sturdy arms. He's holding his breath practically the entire time, concentrating intensely on every step, keenly aware of all the eyes following him...All the better though. See—Tom Riddle goes to parties, dances with girls, is just your average person...Nothing out of the ordinary. Spektor glances over at McGonagall and O'Connor, engaged in a jerky one-two-three that was almost unbearable to watch. After what seems like hours but is really only a minute or two, the rest of the guests are signaled to join in. Once incorporated into the fold the crowd, Spektor ventures a glance up at her partner.
"I didn't know you were a dancer." She teases.
"I'm not." He says dismissively. Then, "Thank god that's over with."
"Yeah really." She says. Then, "Not that it was awful though...Dancing with you, I mean. You're good..." She babbles. He surveys her for a moment, his expression unreadable.
"Thanks." He says. "You're not bad..."
"Would you say we...make a good team?" It slips out of her mouth before she can stop it. And just like that, his cheeks turn as red as her lips. She can't help but blush also. This is not happening. Absolutely not. Stupid cheeky good-for-nothing flirt, she scolds herself.
"A bit warm in here, isn't it?" He asks uncomfortably, looking away, glancing around the room for the first time since they've arrived, as if looking for the closest exit.
"I wouldn't say no to a pumpkin juice..." She says. He nods in agreement. She leads him through the crowd to the refreshment table, where they find Julia Pembroke and Kathleen Hannigan hanging around, partaking in some cranberry tarts. A delicate crown of woven holly branches sits atop Kathleen's bright red hair. She's always struck Spektor as having an elf-like look about her.
"Aha so the mystery is solved." Pembroke chuckles, nudging Hannigan. Spektor rolls her eyes. "Could you pass me two of those pumpkin juices?" She asks Pembroke, who is standing in front of the goblets. She hands two to Spektor, smirking all the while.
"You two actually look quite good together." Hannigan says, her voice breathy like a wooden flute, "How long have you been going out then?"
"We're not." Spektor and Riddle say at exactly the same time, with the same degree of conviction.
"Alright then." Hannigan says, and she and Pembroke giggle. "Sure, whatever you say." Riddle's begun to wander down to the other end of the refreshment table.
"Sorry, excuse me." Spektor says, inching away.
"Go on then, go find your lover boy." Says Pembroke, shooing her away. Spektor scowls and stalks off to where Riddle's standing, at the far end of the refreshment table. He picks up a cauldron cake and, when he notices her approaching, offers it to her. She accepts it and takes a bite.
"So what's this Yule King and Queen thing then?" Spektor asks.
"Haven't you ever been to one of these things before?" He asks sourly, repeating Dippet's earlier comment to him.
"Are you kidding? I probably wouldn't be here right now if you didn't ask me." She says. Was she slipped a truth serum or something? Because she's practically spewing this stuff. Riddle raises his eyebrows, snapping, if only for a second, out of his mood.
"Hmmm. I heard you turned Lestrange down. He was rather beat up about it really..."
"You didn't tell him you asked me? I thought you two were friends?"
"You didn't tell him I asked you? I thought you two were friends." Riddle smirks.
"Alright. I get it. What's your point?" Spektor's fiddling with the hem of her sleeve.
"The Yule King and Queen are chosen by the students at the end of the dance. It's a popularity contest, really. McGonagall and I have the 'honor' of crowning them. There's a little ceremony. Everyone claps."
"You can't just change the subject like that." Spektor snaps.
"Do you want to have another dance?" Riddle asks.
"Wait, what?"
"Another dance. Yes or no?" He almost sounds angry.
"Um. Sure." She says, pleased, but also confused. But they are at a dance after all. That is what they are here to do. He offers her his hand, which she takes, this time without as much hesitation, and he leads her back onto the dance floor. Without the pressure and formality of the previous dance, he quickly relaxes, and she finds herself doing the same. Whatever anger or moodiness that was building up inside him is starting to erode.
"Are you beginning to enjoy yourself?" She scoffs, smiling.
"Isn't that the point?" He says, cracking a smile himself.
"That's what I hear." She says. He twirls her, hair a dark cloud around her face, and when she comes back around she locks eyes with him. Maybe she's picked up a thing or two from Fairchild. Or maybe she should give herself more credit.
"And are you...enjoying yourself?" He asks. She doesn't answer—just gives a small nod. The music slows. Riddle draws her closer, close enough to get a real nose-full of that rosemary lavender perfume she is wearing, to feel her breath on his neck. She can feel his heart beating fast.
"You're rushing." He whispers in her ear. It's true. She takes a deep breath and slows a bit.
Then, something within compels her to lower her head, to rest it on his shoulder. She breathes in, noting his scent—dust and ink, with a faint hint of woodsmoke. His heart beats faster. For a few minutes everything is a dream. Then an annoying voice over Spektor's shoulder draws them back into reality.
"How long has this been going on then, hmm?" It's Lestrange, and he's pissed. Of course he is. Why can't people mind their own business? Must everyone over-react about everything? Spektor jerks around, Riddle stiffens, his mouth drawn into a thin frown.
"What?" Spektor shrugs.
"You could've just told me." Lestrange huffs. "You think it's fun to just lead me on?"
"Lead you on?" Spektor repeats, confused. "Was I...?"
"Back off, Lestrange." Riddle orders. Lestrange raises his eyebrows.
"I don't have to do what you say!" Lestrange spits.
"You don't?" Riddle says, dangerously casual, raising his eyebrows. Lestrange considers that for a moment. He can't fight Riddle. Nobody can. He's seen what Riddle's done to those who try.
"It's not like it matters..." Lestrange says offhandedly. "Why should I care who Spektor's fucking?" A dangerous silence falls. It takes Lestrange a moment to realize the depth of the shit is he's just stepped in. Before he realizes what's happening, a fist is colliding with the side of his face. He stumbles back and falls flat on his ass. His left eye is throbbing. Squinting up at the figure standing over him, he almost wets himself. It's Victoria Spektor, her knuckles bleeding, her lips twisted in what looks like a grin. Perhaps it's just the angle he's seeing her from. She offers a hand to help him up. He takes it eagerly. Once he's standing on his feet she clocks him again, this time in the jaw. He staggers back, cupping his jaw in his hands. Those around them are starting to back away now, clearing the space for what seems like a fight. But this isn't really a fight. Lestrange contemplates a counter attack, but he doesn't really want to fight back. She's just standing there, hands at her sides, watching him. No. He doesn't deserve this. They've known each other almost their entire lives. They're meant to be together. The wound to his pride is perhaps worse than the injuries he's sustained to his face, and pride, in the end, wins out. He steps forward, reaches his hand inside the pocket of his dress robes, and is just about to draw his wand, when Riddle steps forward, shielding her from the potential attack.
"Careful..." Riddle's tone is venomous. "If you draw your wand, Lestrange, I can guarantee you'll regret it." Lestrange freezes, his eyes wide, panicked. Nobody moves.
"Go wash up. You look awful." Spektor advises. Lestrange shoots her a thoroughly wounded look and makes a hasty exit. The small crowd of onlookers disperse. Riddle turns to Spektor, who's glancing down at her hands. She can't tell if the blood is hers or Lestrange's.
"Remind me to never offend you." He says. She looks up and laughs.
"I don't think I'll need to remind you." She says, then heaves a sigh. "Honestly, I've been wanting to do that for a long time."
"You look pleased." He says. She winks. They're walking back towards the refreshment table when they're suddenly both rooted to the ground where they stand. Spektor nudges him, pointing above their heads at a clump of mistletoe dangled by the hand of Peeves, the resident poltergeist and insufferable troublemaker.
"Oh go pick on someone else, you tosser." Riddle shouts angrily at Peeves. The poltergeist just sticks his tongue out, blowing a raspberry in Riddle's face. You could say he has a bit of a fondness for tormenting Riddle, and there's nothing he can do about it. Riddle then shifts his gaze to Spektor, standing by his side, dark eyes glinting in the candlelight. Black, actually. Her eyes are black. He never noticed. How strange. He could've sworn they were gray.
"I have to kiss you now?" She raises an eyebrow.
"Unfortunately." He says, turning fully to face her. He cautiously reaches out a hand and brushes her hair to the side. She tilts her chin up, and after what feels like eternity, his lips are on hers, so softly, a very restrained kiss. Then he breaks away, eyes still locked on her, frowning slightly as he studies her. He immediately wants to kiss her again—although he has no idea whether she would accept another. And for some reason that matters. In her expression there are no clues. She appears to be lost in a thought.
Peeves disappears along with the mistletoe to go torment some other unsuspecting couple. Time starts to creep back up to normal speed again, but they're both still stuck in this weird state, physically able to move now, but not bothering to. He traces the edge of her face with his thumb, then feels her arms reach up to drape around his shoulders—an action prompting a sudden sinking feeling inside his chest. She moves in swiftly, her lips pressing against his, lingering a bit before pulling away.
"Well then..." He muses. She winks. His cheeks flash scarlet again. He moves in for another kiss, but she places a finger to his lips.
"Not here." She whispers. He nods.
