A/N: Not sure how I feel about this one. I whittled it down from 9k to little under 6k and I'm still not pleased. Oh well.

"I can't believe he's your date," Ernie grumbles, his arms folded across his chest.

He looks rather ridiculous in his mustard yellow dress robes, but Susan supposes they must be a family heirloom. That's what a lot of the students are wearing tonight, including herself. When Aunt Amelia had owled hers last week, she'd taken the time to note that the dress robes had belonged to Susan's grandmother.

At least they don't look like dress robes from the 1890s. There are more than a few wizards who have the unfortunate luck of looking like they belong in a painted portrait or in a history book rather than 1994. There's a fifth-year who looks quite morose in his, which are the exact shade of vomit. And then there's the seventh-year who's sneering in disgust as she looks herself over in a mirror; the magenta of her robes clashes terribly with her hair.

"No one else asked," Susan says evenly. "If you're so upset over it, remember that you could've."

The tips of Ernie's ears turn tomato red. "Sorry, Susie, you're more of a sister to me." And that part's true; they've known each other since they were in nappies. When your homes are little more than a ten-minute broom flight away from one another, that tends to happen.

"Thank Merlin, I would've hated to have to turn you down."

Megan's dress robes are an obnoxiously bright shade of purple with neon yellow stars towards the end. They look like something Headmaster Dumbledore would wear, rather than what a fourteen-year-old girl would choose for the Yule Ball. "What's the craic?"

"Wondering why Susan's going with Hexberg is all," answers Ernie, shrugging before Megan links arms with him.

"I've long since learned to stop questioning anything any of you do," says Justin, readjusting the sleeves on his robes. "God, I don't understand why we have to wear these - a tuxedo would be much more preferable."

Everyone who isn't muggleborn stares at him blankly.

"Tuxedo?" Ernie asks.

Susan frowns. "Do Muggles wear them?"

"To any special event," Justin answers.

"That's strange," Ernie says, clearly confused but sounding jovial nevertheless. "Well - best we'd all head down, then, I think Merritt's already waiting at the Great Hall."

Susan plays with her plait, looking through the crowd as she hopes to catch a glimpse of Magnus. "We'll catch up to all of you later?"

Her friends leave without another word.

(She swears, though, that Justin mutters something under his breath.)

"Oh, honestly," Daphne huffs, "You'd think I was cursing you with how you're acting."

"I'm simply wondering why this process needs to take so long." She's got her eyelids shut while her best friend dabs more eyeshadow onto the creases. Regina's had them closed for so long that she thinks she might fall asleep. Whatever Daphne's been doing, it's been with a gentle and slow hand; she's terrified of messing up and having to start all over again.

She rolls her eyes. "It's an art, Regina."

"It's like putting makeup on a pig," Pansy snaps from across the room.

"One day," Tracey says, "Just one day I'd like to not hear the two of you have a row. It's exhausting. I think my magical core has been permanently depleted by at least ten percent because of it."

"I'm just telling the truth!"

Daphne drags some eyeliner across Regina's waterline. "Learn to think before you speak the truth, then. Okay, open your eyes, I'm done."

Regina does so. Of course, it's green and silver, but it looks…nice.

"Thanks," she says. "It looks great, Daph, really."

She looks rather smug as she gets to work on her own look. "I know."

Susan is waiting for Magnus by the entrance of the common room, twiddling her thumbs, anxiously peering into the crowd of Hufflepuffs, presumably to spot him. Her red hair is still in its' usual plait, braided with silver. Instead of the black robes hemmed with yellow that Magnus is so used to seeing her in, her dress robes are navy blue. There's a silver necklace she's got on, but the pendant is too small for him to make out across the room.

She looks…wow. Magnus didn't realize how pretty she was until tonight.

"You look very handsome," she says shyly as they meet, eyes roaming up and down as she takes how he'd just shaved an hour ago, the light amount of Sleekeazy in his hair, and of course, his dress robes.

He's just glad the robes Mother shipped to him didn't look like they were bought before his sorting (or before the sixteenth century, for that matter). The robes and pants are a deep black, but the oxford shirt and tie are a similar shade of dark blue to Susan's dress. It seems that she can't bear the thought of dressing him up in his current houses' colours, so Mother took to dressing him up in Silen's.

"And you beautiful," he says. "Shall we go downstairs? I cannot stand being caught in this crowd for very long…"

They exit the common room before the majority of the throng of students leave, which makes Magnus stifle a sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted to deal with was being crowded among all the Hufflepuffs eligible to attend the Yule Ball. It's a short trek from the common room to the Great Hall - certainly shorter than the Ravenclaw or the Gryffindor's paths - but it'd still be ridiculous.

Susan stumbles a bit as they make their way up the stairs. "Sorry," she squeaks out, "I'm wearing heels and I'm not very used to them."

"It's alright." Magnus knows she's got heels on; usually, Susan stands almost half a foot shorter than him. "Take your time, if you must."

Even though she walks quite a bit slower than either of them are used to, they still manage to get to the entrance hall before eight. Magnus wishes they were late, if only by a few minutes. Perhaps then, they could have avoided the worst of the crowds. Students of all ages, houses, and schools are mingling together, waiting impatiently for the doors to the Great Hall to open and for the Yule Ball to begin. He has to keep a constant eye on Susan or else she might disappear entirely.

She grabs his hand, giving it a tight squeeze.

"So we don't get separated," she explains, bouncing on the heels of her feet as she looks at the Great Hall's large wooden doors once again.

He glances over his shoulder to see the Slytherins walking up the stairs leading to the dungeon. Magnus recognizes his old friends almost immediately: Theo in black and silver dress robes, Blaise wearing robes of a deep shade of purple that compliments his skin, Draco with his black velvet robes, the one with the collar…And there's Regina, wearing green robes. Notably, she doesn't seem to have a date.

It's ironic. She was berating him for not finding a date, whereas she never got one at all. Knowing her, it was by choice rather than for lack of suitors.

When Professor McGonagall opens the doors to the Great Hall, Magnus notes that the thistle wreath on her hat looks rather outrageous. The Hall itself, however, looks absolutely breathtaking. The silver frost that makes the walls glimmer and sparkle seems to personify winter itself.

"It's wonderful," Susan breathes out, and Magnus finds himself nodding in agreement.

She chooses one of the closer tables for them to sit at; they're surrounded by their fellow fourth-years. Megan seems to be Macmillan's date; Hannah is sitting beside a boy with long, dark hair who Magnus can only deduce to be Michael Corner; Finch-Fletchley is with a dark-skinned girl from Ravenclaw; and Merritt doesn't have a date.

Almost everyone at the table immerses themselves in conversation: how pretty the Great Hall looks, why on earth Hagrid decided to wear a furry brown suit, who they believe is going to win the Triwizard Tournament (though the last conversation is rather biased towards Cedric). Magnus chooses to only chime in occasionally, murmuring vague agreements with whatever Hannah or Susan has said.

Dinner, he quickly decides, is a very boring affair.

"This," Millicent declares, "was a waste of time and energy."

Regina is quite inclined to agree. She spent two and a half hours getting ready - well, two and a half hours of Daphne getting her ready. After weeks of apparently agonizing deliberation, Daphne decided to simply put her hair in a long, tumbling braid that falls to the small of her back. Whatever makeup she brushed over Regina's face smoothed out her pores, blurred any imperfections that she seems to notice on a daily basis.

She looks…pretty. At least, she did when she last caught a glimpse of her reflection.

But the Yule Ball itself is boring, dreadfully so. Apparently, Millicent's date skipped out on her the moment the event actually began, after dinner and the Champion's first dances. So far, that's been the most interesting part.

Everything else, though? Abominable. For example: The Weird Sisters aren't playing any of their biggest hits. They're playing instrumental covers of other popular wizarding songs. She wonders if it would have been any better if Dumbledore had managed to get Wands and Violets to play, but quickly decides she wouldn't be able to tolerate an entire evening of Yarnel Yeets' subpar guitar playing.

Maybe she should have accepted Draco's request. At least hearing him ramble on about Potter would be more amusing than sitting on a bench, watching annoyingly lovestruck couples shuffle awkwardly to Celestina Warbeck covers. Well, annoying lovestruck couples, sans Potter; he looks rather displeased with whoever he's attending the ball with.

And Draco's too busy dealing with Pansy. Her robes are very frilly and are an appalling shade of pink that suits absolutely no one. Regina wonders if she chose them herself or if it was something her parents owled to her without a second thought. She hopes it's the latter; she hopes Pansy hates it. Draco certainly does. He seems to be looking at her getup with a barely disguised look of disgust. Or maybe he's disgusted by the fact that she's his date. Regina's not a mind reader, so it could go either way.

"Is that your brother dancing with Susan Bones?" Millicent asks, pulling Regina out of her thoughts as they both sit up a bit to get a better look.

Regina follows her line of gaze. There's Magnus, looking softer than she can ever remember him being, smiling as he twirls a redhead around on the dance floor. He always did take to dance classes better than she or Erik ever did (once he got the hang of it, at least - he was dreadful at the beginning). She wonders if he notices that there are Daily Prophet reporters attending the ball; she wonders if he realizes they're going to take pictures of them together.

At least the societal pages of the Prophet are sure to be interesting.

"Sure is," she confirms.

"Salazar be damned," Millicent says. "He really has lost his mind."

Regina snorts as she gets another goblet of hot apple cider. She wishes she could imbibe in the mead that the staff is allowed to have, but such is life. "Truth be told, sometimes I doubt he ever had it to begin with."

"But - Susan Bones? Really?"

"I suppose your options are limited," she says, "when you're not in Slytherin."

Millicent nods sagely. She either doesn't recognize that Regina is being sarcastic or doesn't care to point it out. Either way, Regina finds herself not caring.

"I'm not very good at this," Susan says apologetically.

She didn't have to say that. Magnus won't tell her outright, but she's dreadful at dancing. He's pretty sure she's stepped on his feet at least two times in the last song alone. It makes him wonder why she insisted on going out onto the dance floor with the rest of the students, but she probably wanted to get the whole Ball experience.

"It's okay," he says as the Weird Sisters go into their third rendition of some cheesy love song from the 1940s. "You don't have to be."

"I feel like I'm going to trip and fall at any moment." It must be the heels. He also wonders why she decided to wear them.

"I won't let you." He sounds quite a bit more confident than he feels, but it makes her eyes light up never the less. She's absolutely enthralled in spite of her anxiety…

…Anxiety that quickly proves to exist for good reason. Susan stumbles just a bit; not enough to completely fall over, but enough that she might, and reflexively, she wraps her arms around Magnus's neck, her face on his chest.

"Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!" she squeaks out, trying to steady her balance before standing up straight again.

"It's fine," he says calmly, "You are fine."

And she is. Susan pulls herself together quickly. He puts his hands on her hips. She keeps her arms around his neck, likely somewhat afraid of letting go. It's more intimate than he was expecting this to go, but he doesn't exactly…mind.

"I really like this song," she says softly, trying to change the topic.

"Do you?" he asks. "I can't recognize it."

It's one of those songs that every wizarding couple plays at their wedding, he's sure of that; he knows he's heard it before. There's the slow strumming of the guitar, and the lead singer sounds like he's crooning - a far cry from the usual grungy, guttural tone he uses in the band's original work.

Susan smells like vanilla and icing. He never noticed that before. Then his mind flashes to Hannah, ever so briefly, just enough to make his smile a bit wider.

He's about to say something, but the telltale click and flash of a camera distract him.

Magnus looks over at the camera-wizard for a moment, processing his very existence. He's not right in the thicket of the crowd, but he's close enough to get decent pictures of most of the highborn purebloods in attendance. It seems wildly out of place, all things considered: a reporter, who looks like she only graduated from Hogwarts a few years ago at best, followed around by an equally as young, camera-wielding boy.

He should've realized that an event like this would inevitably lead to some coverage in the Daily Prophet - and perhaps in international wizarding newspapers, whatever they've got in France and the Daglig Magi - but it'd slipped his mind. If he were still in Slytherin, he'd have known…He'd have known better. And his date would be someone much more suitable, to put it bluntly. Suitable for his family, at least.

He resists the urge to curse under his breath. He hates having his picture taken.

"They're taking pictures?" Susan asks, breaking the physical contact they're enmeshed in.

Magnus makes eye contact with the camera-wizard. "Yes. Of us."

"Excuse you?" She takes a step back - and wobbles, just a little bit. "Why-?"

His response is a bit more snippy than he intends it to be. "We are at an event that hasn't happened in several centuries, featuring an internationally famous athlete, the Boy-Who-Lived, the only son of an esteemed English pureblood family, and the eldest daughter of an equally esteemed French pureblood family. I am the eldest son and heir apparent to a Noble House, and you are the last living heir to an equally Noble House. I am certain you can draw conclusions from there."

Susan blanches. "I - you - we - - what?"

"There are many terms and conditions that accompany following pureblood culture. Unfortunately, having your picture in the society section of the Prophet is one of them." He suppresses another urge to curse. There are many things Magnus would tweak and alter about life as a lord; this is one of them. He hates the pictures that inevitably show up in the next few days, and he hates the subsequent responses he will undoubtedly receive from Father concerning how he looks in them. Stand up straighter. Don't slouch. Hold your head up high. Comb your hair more often, for Salazar's sake.

Magnus doesn't want to think about Father's reaction to Susan accompanying him to the ball. In fact, he doesn't want to think about any comments he will soon be reading. They'll likely be the only letter he receives from Father for at least another few months. He hasn't sent another since that rather scathing one last time.

"How'd they even get in here?" she asks.

"I do not know," he says, shrugging lightly. "But here they are, and right now, they want to capture us."

"I - I really don't like that," Susan says weakly. "Shouldn't they be asking if we're okay with having our pictures taken?"

He purses his lips. He's never thought about whether that was an option. "They assume we are. No one ever throws a fuss about these sorts of things. You've never dealt with this?"

"No," she says, shaking her head. "No one really cares about this stuff, remember?"

"Evidently, they do," he replies, "If the society section still exists."

Susan's face is still as white as a ghost's. The camera's moved away from them, but only for a moment. Magnus knows how they play. They'll come back around within ten minutes, hoping for some better shots. Logically, he should probably look absolutely dismayed when they do. Father's response may be lukewarm if he looks like he isn't enjoying himself.

But then Magnus thinks of how upset he'll be either way, and how upset Susan is, and, well, it's easier to make the choice to calm down someone who's upset at the moment rather than someone who will be upset in the future.

"I know you do not like it," he murmurs, "but if you smile and act as if you do, it will be over much quicker."

"Promise?" she asks.

Magnus nods. "I promise."

It's like he's unlocked something in her. Almost immediately, Susan stands up a bit straighter. She gives him a dazzling grin and begins to talk about something positively banal - banal enough that he isn't entirely certain what they're even discussing. Magnus finds himself doing the same. Their smiles are almost as bright as the few flashes of the camera before the camera-wizard finds another pureblood to focus on.

Damn, Magnus thinks, she would have been a great highborn if anyone had bothered to teach her the culture proper.

Then, for the first time, a thought burrows its' way into the back of his mind:

Is this really what the rest of my life will be like?

Pansy has been glaring at her for the better part of five minutes.

Regina doesn't understand why; to know the inner machinations of the Parkinson girls' mind is a one way path to insanity. If it were her, she would've started glaring the moment the ball began, not over halfway through it. Perhaps someone had been there when Draco initially asked her to the Yule Ball, and word has finally slipped out…

"Malfoy alert," says Millicent, getting up. "I'm not sticking around. Rowena have mercy on your soul."

Ah. That explains it, then.

She's all alone when Draco walks up to the table she and Millicent have been - or, well, were - sitting at for the majority of the Ball. "Regina."

She barely flicks a glance his way, choosing instead to stare at her nails. Daphne spent an inordinate time painting them to match the colour of her dress robes - then, as if that wasn't enough, turned them silver towards the tips. "Draco."

Out of the corner of her eyes, she notices that he gives her a once over, taking in the braid, the green dress robes, the makeup on her face. "You look wonderful."

"Thank you," she responds, looking up. The collar of his dress robes creeps up his neck. His hair is perfectly slicked back, as usual. His cheekbones look sharper than usual, and there's a glimmer of merriment in his eyes. He looks…handsome. She supposes he always looks handsome, but it's particularly evident tonight.

"You look…okay."

"Just okay?" He smirks.

Regina keeps her response dull and even. "Just okay."

He sighs dramatically, shaking his head. "I'll have you know that these robes were specially ordered from Thimble and Thread. They likely cost more than any of the bloody professors make in a single term here, and you have the audacity to say I just look okay?"

"Well." Regina pretends to absorb the information he's presented to her, putting a finger over her mouth contemplatively. Then, she gives him a once over of her own. "You're right. I suppose that's not an accurate way to describe you. You look adequate."

The look on Draco's face goes from satiated to like he swallowed a lemon. But then Regina smiles, and he smiles back, even if it may be a tad reluctantly.

"May I have this dance?" he extends his hand. They've got about another thirty seconds before the Weird Sisters launch into another song, she supposes.

"I suppose you may," she replies, foregoing the pureblood courtesies that he's attempting to follow. She takes a hold of his hand, using it for balance as she stands up. "If I sit here for much longer, I may die of boredom."

He chuckles. "You do look rather bored."

"I thought there would be more pzazz involved with this whole affair," she says as they make their way to the centre of the floor.

"You want to know what I think?"

"Not particularly," she replies, smirking.

Draco rolls his eyes. "I think that nothing they could've done here would impress you."

"Probably not," she concedes.

The band starts up, and almost immediately, it's as if Draco turns into a different person.

Narcissa Malfoy likely enrolled her son in more dance classes than Mother ever did for her. Regina reckons that she's pretty decent at ballroom dancing - at least, her instructor always told her that her skills were 'acceptable' - but Draco is deftly capable. Even though they're doing little more than swaying around, trying to avoid other students, it feels more like they're floating on a cloud rather than in the Great Hall.

It's…enjoyable. She likes it.

She's not sure how she feels about that.

Draco's body is much warmer than Regina anticipated it being. His demeanor is so outwardly cold most of the time; it seems only natural that his body temperature would be much and the same. But his hands are soft and warm, and their fingers are laced together, and Regina's reminded of nights at Durmstrang, schoolgirl crushes, and unrequited love, and suddenly she's feeling too much too much too much.

"Are you alright?"

Draco's voice is kinder than she anticipated. His brows are furrowed together with concern.

Her throat's tighter than it ought to be. It takes her a second to choke out a response. "Quite. I just - haven't danced like this in some time. It brought back memories."

"Do you remember the time we all took class together?" He smirks. "Your brother wasn't very good at it then - I think he and Daphne both fell onto one another. If I recall correctly, she was so upset-"

Regina finishes the sentence for him. "She had a bought of accidental magic and pushed him across the room."

He chuckles. "She's always been a powerful witch."

"That she has."

The song comes to an end, and Regina is simultaneously relieved and disappointed by that realization (she tries to focus more on the former than the latter emotion). She pulls away from Draco, a bit too sharply than she intended. The warmth of his body against hers' is gone, and she notices how cold the Great Hall is.

She can't let her emotions show. "I suppose you were a decent dancing partner, Draco."

"Can't you ever give me a genuine compliment?" he asks, smirking. "Would it kill you?"

There's a deadpan look on her face as she gives an equally monotone response. "Yes. I had a blood curse placed on me. If I'm to give you a compliment, then I'll spontaneously combust."

"Ah, yes, the notorious spontaneous combustion blood curse," Draco says, his eyes flickering away from Regina - then, his head turns entirely.

"What are you…?"

She follows his gaze, and there's Magnus, again, still dancing with that Bones girl. Draco's eyes begin to narrow. The last thing that Regina wants is to have to deal with another iteration of her brother versus Draco, and she knows that if she doesn't do something within the next five seconds, he's going to saunter over there, so -

"Draco." Regina's voice is firm as she pulls him back in, grabbing onto his hands. "Care for another? You're more decent than I thought you were. In fact, I almost enjoyed myself."

There's a pause, and she worries whether he's going to say anything in defiance.

Then: "Only almost?"

"I'll deliver the final verdict after another dance," she says solemnly, pulling one of his hands so that it rests on her hip. "Or two."

The look in Draco's eyes lets her know she's won.

For all of fifteen seconds, that is.

Regina blinks owlishly as she hears the telltale flashes of a camera. Turning her head slightly to the left, she sees a camera-wizard eagerly taking pictures of Yule Ball attendees - but not the muggleborns or the half-bloods. No, he's focused on the Triwizard champions, of course - taking special care to snap a few pictures of Potter - before turning his attention to the purebloods.

"Oh, did you not know?" Draco says casually. "Father had mentioned to me that the Daily Prophet would be covering the event…"

The camera flashes in their direction. She doesn't have to guess that he's snapped a picture - or three, judging by the subsequent flashes - of her and Draco.

It's in this moment that she notices how everything going on between them seems to be artfully crafted. Draco's hand is on the small of her back, the other clasped in hers.

He smirks. "Political maneuver."

"You think it's a political maneuver that our pictures will show up in the bloody societal section?" she asks, hissing the final words through gritted teeth.

"Of course," Draco answers breezily. "You know how the older ladies love to gossip about who will marry whom."

"You could've finessed this with Parkinson," Regina points out.

"Do I need to explain the rules of the game again?"

"No need," she mutters as Draco rolls his eyes and frowns, just for a moment. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Pansy comes stalking up to the both of them.

"Oh, Draco," Pansy says in an overly simpering tone, "Did she hurt you? I've been wondering if you've been okay…"

Regina stares blankly at Pansy for a few moments before interjecting. "Do you really believe I would hurt him at a highly publicized event? It'll be a miracle if you've passed all your exams, Parkinson."

"Oh, shut it, you!" snaps the pug-faced girl as she moves closer to Draco. "See, I told you that you shouldn't have danced with her, she's so awfully rude…"

What the bloody hell is she even on about? Regina takes a step back, hoping that she'll step on Pansy's dress robes and leave a dark scuff on them.

She can't quite hear Draco's mumbled response, but it sounds irate.

Still with that tone in her voice, Pansy starts tugging on his arm, leading him back into the mass of dancing couples. "Come on, let me help you calm down, I know you like this song-"

The blasted girl was waiting until he showed even a hint of unhappiness before swooping in. With the knowledge that there's at least one reporter in the Great Hall she's sure this will be covered in the Prophet. Regina starts to feel bile fill the back of her throat, deciding to walk away before she vomits all over the floor.

Anger simmers inside her chest for the next several hours. Regina does her best to avoid just about everyone who knows her (and those who don't).

"Can I get a quote from you, Lady Hexberg?" asks the reporter, a freckle-faced, wide-eyed girl who looks almost afraid of having to talk to her.

"No comment," Regina says curtly. "How'd you even get in here? Since when did they let you lot into Hogwarts?"

The reporter has a thick Scottish brogue that almost sounds like a parody of the accent. "Since the Yule Ball, ma'am. Mister Bagman insisted that there be coverage of this and all Triwizard Tournament-related events. Miss Skeeter tried to get in on the scoop, but m'boss, he said he wanted new blood to cover it-"

Regina cuts her off. "I didn't ask for your life story."

Frightened by the biting tone in her voice, the reporter squeaks out an apology before disappearing into the crowd to find another victim.

Her mood grows even more sour with every passing minute. It's a relief when the clock strikes midnight. It gives Regina permission to scurry away to the dormitories before anyone else can come and accost her, before she has to regale them all with the tale of how her Yule Ball went, with Draco dancing with her and societal pictures and reporters acting like her opinion matters just because she's a Hexberg.

Merlin, she thinks, this can't be how the rest of my life goes.

When he finally gets a dance with Hannah, Magnus wants to kick his past self for not acting sooner.

Another slow song has started to play, a cover of a Celestina Warbeck song that Mother always hums along with whenever it comes on the radio. Just like the last time they danced, Magnus puts his hand on the small of Hannah's back; his other hand goes to meet her own. At least this time, his stomach isn't overly warm with firewhiskey. His mind's a bit clearer; he's able to savour this better.

"You look nice," she says softly, looking down towards his dress robes.

"As do you."

And she does, truly. Hannah's dress is a gorgeous shade of honey. Once again, he wishes that he'd worked up the courage to ask her out earlier instead of that Michael Corner boy getting to it first. Not that Susan hasn't been a good date, mind, but she's - well, she isn't Hannah.

"I'm still sorry," she says. "Y'know I would've accepted, right?"

He smiles. "I know. You don't need to be sorry."

"But I am."

Their bodies are so close that he can feel her radiating body heat. She still smells like freshly picked citruses. He leads once more like he had done the last time, gently moving them around in circles. Every second seems like it's going by too soon.

Which is why he decides to speak up now before he loses his chance again.

"The next trip to Hogsmeade," he says quietly, "Let's spend some time alone. If you would like."

His throat's dry and his stomach's knotted as he makes the suggestion, but relief floods his chest when Hannah's eyes light up. "It's a date?"

"It's a date."

The song fades out, though truthfully, Magnus hardly notices. It's only when Susan taps on Hannah's shoulder that he realizes the Yule Ball is winding down.

"Sorry," Hannah says brusquely. "I'll talk to you both later, Michael probably wants one last dance…"

She walks away, throwing one last tiny smile at Magnus before disappearing into the crowd.

Susan bites her lip like she wants to say something that shouldn't be said. Then - "Did you know that when you put two awful dancers together, you both nearly stumble into a nearby table?"

He chuckles. "Sounds like you had a rather eventful dance with - who was that?"

"Seamus Finnegan," she says. "Nice enough fellow, he's in Gryffindor, but I'm glad he's not my date. I reckon we almost killed a couple of Ravenclaws towards the end, I stepped on his feet and he nearly fell backward…"

"I doubt Seamus Finnegan would have asked you out the pureblood way," Magnus answers. "Perhaps that would have canceled out the lack of dancing skills."

"In your defense, you didn't do that until I pointed it out." She takes another step closer to him. "Now, please give me one last dance so I can tell everyone you were a perfect date."

He grins. "Fair enough."

A/N: I straight-up refuse to believe there was no external coverage of the Yule Ball. You're telling me an event like this - one that hasn't been thrown in centuries - didn't have at least one reporter there (bar Skeeter in her Animagus form)? Especially when some of the Champions are Krum and Harry? Nah. They're there. Canon Harry was just too oblivious and unhappy with the whole affair to notice ;)