They arrived panting at McGonagall's door less than a minute late. As Harry raised his hand to knock, it opened, and he nearly fell in.

"Mr. Potter, about time." She said, looking over her glasses as he collected himself. "Good afternoon, Miss. Parkinson."

"Good afternoon, Professor." Pansy said, sniggering and managing a small curtsey.

"Sorry Professor." Said Harry, recovering.

"Not to worry Potter, after three years I am quite familiar with your relationship with the time." McGonagall sighed as she opened the door for them to enter.

Harry had been into McGonagall's office several times, for a range of reasons. It remained as austere as ever, with neat filing cabinets, her small, tidy writing desk. The only decorations, other than a small portrait of a smiling man with a large beard and moustaches, were a large Gryffindor banner and the House Cup on a tall marble plinth. Pansy was staring around, looking confused.

Harry wondered how there would be space for their purpose.

"Don't worry, Potter." McGonagall said, seeming to read his mind as usual. "This way, if you please." She gestured to the door opposite the one through which they had entered.

"Professor?" Harry said.

"Yes Potter, I realise that the last time you were in my office, warned you that should you ever knock on the door to my private quarters again I would turn your hide into a new handbag. But in this case, I'll make an exception."

Harry looked at Pansy who shivered visibly.

"Fear not Miss. Parkinson, I don't bite." McGonagall said, briskly ushering them through the door.

Inside was a large, airy room, sparsely decorated like her office in her favoured green tartan and gold of Gryffindor. Beside a roaring fire, on a pair of uncomfortable looking chairs, sat an old woman in vibrant, shimmering ivory robes and a young man in the sharpest muggle-style suit Harry had ever seen. At the sight of them, Pansy drew in a gasping breath.

Clearing her throat, McGonagall stepped forward. "Mr. Potter, Miss. Parkinson, allow me to introduce you to Gownwright Aelisabeth Shearer and her assistant Mr…?"

"Patel, Roopesh Patel." The young man said, standing awkwardly and smoothing down his curly black moustache.

"Gownwright Shearer, Mr. Patel, I have here Mr. Harry Potter and Miss. Pansy Parkinson."

The old woman stood with what looked like a great effort and stepped forward. When standing she was tall and straight but was clearly at least as old as McGonagall.

Pansy, unable to contain herself, rushed forward, taking the old woman's hand. "Madam Shearer, oh my word, it is such a great pleasure to meet you!"

"And you, dear child, a pleasure." She said, in a high, reedy voice.

The Gownwright offered a many-ringed hand to Harry. Her grip was firm, papery and cool. "Madam Shearer," he said, bowing and trying to follow Pansy's lead without the gushing, "thank you so much for making time for us."

"My darling boy," she said, grinning an impossibly bright and wide smile, "even for one as busy and well-renowned as myself, work stops when Harry Potter calls!"

Patel came forward then, bowing to Harry and shaking his hand vigorously. "Mr. Potter, it is a great pleasure to meet you." He said, his accent a curious mix of Indian and Cockney.

Harry grinned, a little embarrassed, but glad that none had used the nickname he hated so much.

Pansy looked at him then to McGonagall then back to Harry. "This is what you meant by 'something to do with the ball', Potter?" She asked, her voice a constricted squeak.

"Yes, Miss. Parkinson." McGonagall said. "I have, as Mr. Potter would no doubt say, 'called in a favour'."

Pansy screamed her excitement, actually jumping for joy and jumping into Harry's arms. When she pulled back, there were tears of joy in her eyes. She turned around to the guests and stood, bouncing on her toes.

"So… what do we do now?" Harry asked, completely out of his depth.

"Now, why dear boy: we measure!" the old woman said.

Snapping her fingers, Patel drew out a number of tape measures which he set to hanging in the air, quivering slightly just like Pansy.

"Measure?" Pansy said, pausing and looking at each of them in turn. "You haven't bought… what?"

"My darling girl," started Shearer, with more than a hint of brusqueness, "this is the first time that the Tri-Wizard Tournament has been held since nineteen-twenty; the idea that a champion or their partner's gown might not be custom-made for them would be shameful. I made the gown for the partner of that last Hogwarts Champion, though I was just an apprentice then. It would be my great pleasure if you'd allow me to make yours."

Harry looked at McGonagall as Pansy broke down into a mixture of excited screaming and crying.

She leaned in closer to him at his dumbfounded expression and whispered, "I confess I was not exactly honest with you, Potter. The Gownwright is possibly the most renowned dressmaker Britain has produced in… at least a century, and Mr. Patel is – supposedly – a visionary. Hogwarts has sent a great deal of business her way, as I'm sure you can imagine."

Harry found himself unable to do anything but stare at his devious head of house, mouth agape.

"Minerva," Shearer said, over Pansy's continued giggling, "you're a cruel woman, not telling either of them about this."

McGonagall shrugged. "One gets one's fun where one can."

The Gownwright burst out a sharp bark of laughter and turned back to Pansy who had finally started to get herself together. "I understand, dear, that your partner has the final say on the design?"

Pansy nodded, eyes flicking to Harry. "He does."

"In that case, Mr. Potter, please go with Mr. Patel to discuss styling. Miss. Parkinson, down to your small clothes, please."

Harry turned and grinned at McGonagall as he walked back into her office, followed by Patel. Behind him, there came the sound of the measures shuffling and rattling.

"I'll just go for a stroll, I think." McGonagall said, as Patel drew out an enormous book of what Harry assumed to be photographs of dresses from his inside pocket.

Half an hour later, decisions made (thanks almost entirely to Mr. Patel) Harry had chosen the design, cut, fit and everything else to do with the dress. His mind was abuzz with the vision he had – with help – planned.

McGonagall had reappeared after fifteen minutes with a flask of something that smelled distinctly like hot chocolate with added whisky and had helped him tone down a few of his more audacious choices.

Patel excused himself, going back into the private quarters with cries of, "Don't panic, you don't have anything I haven't seen before!", leaving Harry and McGonagall alone.

"Professor?" Harry asked.

"Mmm?" McGonagall sounded, somehow looking very relaxed while remaining rod-straight.

"I just wanted to say 'thank you' for this. I never imagined anything like it. I thought… I thought you'd just contacted someone like Madam Malkin."

"Yes, that was the impression I had hoped you would take away. I must say, Harry, that I had rather thought you might ask Miss. Granger or Miss. Weasley to the ball, and I was very cautious about the idea of you taking Miss. Parkinson."

He smiled a little awkwardly, trying not to rankle at someone else bringing up Ginny – the memory of her hot, sweet scent was not a welcome intrusion. "You're not the only one."

"But, having kept an eye on you over the last couple of days, I must say I'm impressed. You've been carrying yourself in very much the way I would expect of a Gryffindor Tri-Wizard Champion. You have been quite the gentleman – for the most part."

Harry blushed.

"I have often wondered whether we should hold more formal balls and events for our students – beyond the usual ones at the end of fifth- and seventh years. It might be an idea worth scrutiny…" She said, taking a sip of her cocoa which filled the air with a hint of Scotch.

"That'd be nice, Professor." Harry said, struggling to find anything to say that didn't sound ridiculous in his head. "Summer would be nice, no need for furs or cloaks."

She nodded. "Of course. We've seen to it that most of the castle will be adequately warm for any festivities, but it would be nice to hold them during the light nights."

At that the door opened and Pansy emerged, beaming. Somehow her hair had been done, transformed into artful sweeps and curls. She was shivering with excitement again.

"Thank you, Professor." She said, curtseying so deep, Harry wondered how it was possible.

Harry and McGonagall stood.

"You're very welcome, Miss. Parkinson." McGonagall said curtly. "Now, you make sure to be the best partner you can be with our Champion here. He might well need your assistance in the coming months – regardless of any immature opinions your fellow Slytherins, or his fellow Gryffindors might put forth. If you have any trouble, ensure you come to me or Professor Snape. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am." She replied, with another less deep, but more proper curtsy.

Shearer and Patel came through the door.

"All done," she said, smiling, "she will be a vision."

"Thank you so much again," blurted Pansy.

"Yes, thank you madam." Harry said, shaking both of their hands again.

"You're very welcome." Shearer said before turning to McGonagall. "What a pair they will make Minerva."

"I know." Said McGonagall, smiling brightly.

"Patel has to get on his way if we are to have this miracle completed by Christmas day." Shearer said, dismissing Patel with a wave of her hand. "But I won't be needed for some time. What about a drink in the Three Broomsticks?"

"Very good." Said McGonagall, ushing them all out of the room and tapping the lock with her wand, which clicked loudly.

"Now go and enjoy yourselves, you two." Shearer said, shaking hands with Harry and Pansy one last time.

The pair thanked McGonagall and Shearer again, then again for good measure before Shearer put a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Harry, I just wanted to say," she said softly, speaking just to him, "this has been a great pleasure. I made your mother's wedding dress, sixteen years ago – a special favour for your late grandfather Potter – and this has quite taken me back. She really is a very special girl."

"Thank you, madam." Harry said, then looking at Pansy. "She really is."

Then McGonagall and Shearer took their leave, walking down the corridor arm-in-arm.

Pansy turned to Harry, eyes wide and amazed.

"What ARE you?!" she cried, throwing herself into his arms.

He caught her, holding her off the floor and they kissed. The whole corridor, dimly lit by the torches, was suddenly as bright as the morning had been outside, lit with silver light and golden sparks.