cxci. the yule ball

Harriet decided she must have gone utterly barmy when she agreed to go to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum.

As the day approached and final exams for the term loomed, every other word out of anyone's mouth seemed to concern the dance. People were desperate to find dates at the last minute, with younger years trying to convince their older peers to invite them while those in the middle made gross, simpering faces at one another or giggled like morons.

Some of the little prats she tutored kept asking Harriet if she meant to attend and who she'd be going with. The first time Izumi Takagi stuck her nose in the air and broached the subject, Harriet was struck with the sudden uncomfortable realization that no person in their right mind would believe she'd been asked by Viktor Krum.

So Harriet ignored the question whenever it came up, just as she ignored the package Snape had dropped into her hands from Mr. Flamel. It had found a place in the bottom of her trunk, unopened, and now Harriet had to dig it out and face the music.

Two days before the ball, Professor Slytherin summoned the entire House to one of the roomier halls in the dungeons and told them he'd be teaching them to dance, lest they embarrass him with their awkward stumbling. He had tutors on hand for the lesson, but somehow Harriet still ended up having to take a turn with the bastard, hating every second of it.

She did well enough, resisting the urge to step on Slytherin's toes, though the longer she danced and the more she watched the others, the more Harriet remembered she'd have to do the same thing in front of the entire school. The thought filled her with dread.

Harriet threw herself into revisions, willing time to drag and for the exams to take forever. Unfortunately, they ended right on time, and as the very same day their holiday began, Harriet woke to the unpleasant voices of her dormmates excitedly getting things ready for the ruddy dance.

We should be going to Grimmauld, she thought, glum, glaring at the blurry canopy overhead. We should be going to Grimmauld with Remus to see Sirius, not being ninnies for a stupid ball!

"I thought you'd be more excited," Elara told her as she attempted to get Harriet out of bed past noon. Instead, Harriet laid like a sullen sloth, refusing to move, resisting her friend's more pointed poking. She'd resisted all morning, stirring only to accept a bit of breakfast and lunch from Mably's concerned hands. "What with your date being Vi—."

Harriet sat up in a flurry of mussed sheets, slapping a hand over Elara's mouth.

"Don't!"

Elara yanked her hand off, scowling. "Don't grab me."

"Don't say his name!"

Sighing, Elara used her height to lever Harriet off the mattress and onto her feet, the shorter witch refusing to stand upright under her own power. "What is the matter? You do realize everyone will know you're going with him in just a few hours, yes?"

Harriet slumped, and Elara caught her by the upper arms. She didn't want to be reminded. People were going to make fun of her, think it was a pity date—and maybe it was. She couldn't rule that out either.

"You're heavy," Elara grunted, giving Harriet a shove so she'd sit on the end of her own bed. Across the room, Greengrass and Parkinson huddled by Pansy's overburdened carrel stacked with makeup while Runcorn sorted through the absurd collection of shoes she carted to school every year. "Come now, you'll have a lovely time. He's lucky to be going with you." She brushed Harriet's fringe from her eyes. "Harriet…do you like him?"

"Who?"

"Him, you ninny."

"Oh. I dunno. I guess? He's not much for talking really. I asked him if he'd like to play a pick-up Quidditch game, and he said he's more concerned with training for the Tournament right now."

Elara gave her a strange look. "That's not…precisely what I meant."

Harriet slumped over on her side in the rumpled duvet and balled-up blanket. "Who are you goin' with, then?"

"Draco."

"Draco?"

Elara shrugged, unbothered. "We've no interest in one another, obviously, and it spared him from Parkinson's claws."

Harriet rolled enough to see Pansy, who had her nails painted and pointy. She giggled.

"He's a male relative, and it's only 'proper' he escort an untended witch in his family." Elara formed quotations with her fingers, her eyes dangerously close to rolling in disdain. "Besides, we both know the person he'd rather take has other commitments."

From the bathroom, they could hear Hermione having a rather heated row with the enchanted mirror.

"Go get her before she breaks it again. The prefects will have our heads…."

Elara left, returning with Hermione, who had half of her hair drenched in some kind of slick potion and grumbled irritably under her breath. "What are you still doing in bed?" she demanded of Harriet, who had the presence of mind to sit up. "You need to start getting ready! Go bathe, for goodness' sake!"

"Fine, I'll go. Merlin," Harriet snapped, grabbing her dressing gown from the footboard.

"Don't forget to use the leave-in conditioner."

Harriet considered not doing as told just to spite the command, but she knew that was silly and knew being purposely difficult meant everything would only be worse. She wondered if drowning herself was an option, but her friends would no doubt come to drag her out eventually.

When she returned, dripping water but decidedly more awake, nothing much had changed aside from Hermione now being at the mirror hung on the inside of her wardrobe. Elara had a comb in hand, helping spread the goopy potion through her thick curls.

Harriet made motions toward throwing herself back into her bed, but Hermione stopped her.

"Harriet, do you have your robes?"

"Yes."

"Where are they? We haven't seen them yet."

Harriet sighed, a short breath exhaled through her teeth. "I haven't either."

"What? You haven't checked them?"

At that point, nothing could dissuade Hermione from badgering Harriet, who acknowledged she had to get the bloody robes out at some point or else hide under her bed with her snakes. Face scrunched, she undid the latch on her trunk and fished for the wrapped package.

The commotion drew the attention of their dormmates.

"Is Potter actually going?" Pansy said, coming over to stand by Elara, her eyelids heavy with thick black mascara. "Who did you trick into that? Did you have to ask Filch as your date?"

"'Course not," Harriet replied, distracted as she searched her trunk. "I couldn't tempt him away from his one true love. What time are you meeting him, Parkinson?"

A snort escaped Greengrass, who quickly covered her nose and blushed. Pansy scowled.

Harriet managed to get the wrapping off the package and saw nothing but a great deal of silky dark gray fabric, and when she shifted it, something glittered and clicked against itself.

"Does that even fit you?" Runcorn interjected. "It looks too big for your scrawny frame."

Puzzled, Harriet unearthed a sleeve—or what she thought was a sleeve—and the more stiffly cut edge of the bodice.

"It's such an old style!" Pansy taunted, snatching the sleeve from Harriet's hand. A firm tug dragged more of the dress robes from the packaging, revealing the embellished design on the shoulders, a burst of leaves in gold seeming to drip and flutter along the dark silk and brush along the tall collar. "Did you borrow this from your nan, Potter?"

"Where's yours, then?" Elara demanded as Harriet yanked the sleeve back into her own hand and stuffed it into the packaging. "I think you're jealous, as I've seen the gold in your earrings. They look like synthetic Muggle nonsense."

"Shut up, Black!"

Harriet abandoned the main room and returned to the bathroom, lugging her package along behind her. She tore off the rest of the parchment wrapping and found a pair of simple black slippers tucked into the bottom. Inside one slipper was an envelope, and when Harriet peeked inside, she found matching jewelry.

Deciding to grab the dragon by the tail, Harriet shed her dressing gown and shoved the robes on over her head.

She felt the Charms in the stitching tighten and flex as the cold silk slid against her body, and Harriet shivered as the hem puddled around her bare feet. Peering into the mirror, Harriet thought the robes looked elegant—much too elegant for her. The gathered material of the skirt rippled from the sash studded in diamonds, and the bodice fit close to her chest. The color appeared a shimmering silver where the light touched it, but otherwise remained a very dark gray. She'd already noted the gold on the shoulders but not the clear crystals gleaming on the edges like dew on the leaves, interspersed down the long, flowing length of the sleeves. The gold returned on the trailing hem like autumn leaves kicked and stirred by passing feet.

Harriet touched her sternum, one finger trailing the neckline's sharp, low dip. It was shaped like an open-ended diamond, rounded at the bottom over the bodice. Considering her flat chest, the cut didn't show much at all—nothing aside from the spidery limbs of her scar crawling out from under the slope of the sleeve covering her shoulder.

"Your hair is a nightmare, dear," said the mirror in that annoying, gently chiding tone it preferred.

"I know."

"A bit of concealer would go a long way for that scar—."

Harriet grabbed her shoes and the envelope before leaving the bathroom. She ignored the looks she got marching back to her bed.

Hermione did a double-take as she passed, and a dollop of potion plopped onto the floor. "Oh, Harriet!"

"I know. I look ridiculous."

"No! You look beautiful!" Hermione gushed. "That gown is lovely."

"Robes, Hermione," Elara corrected as she came over, fixing how the fabric settled on Harriet's shoulders. The Charms in the fabric flexed and shifted as they adjusted.

"Is there really a difference?"

"Enough to be noted." Elara drew her fingertips along Harriet's back to point out how the stitching and design varied from a traditional gown. Harriet wriggled in place.

"It's too long. I gonna trip on it."

"No, you're not. Here, let me see this." Elara took the envelope from her and sorted through the contents—gold rings and matching bracelets—to find a simple satin loop. "You put this here around your wrist, like this…." She pulled it onto Harriet's skinny arm and adjusted the size. "And it attaches here on the hem so you can lift the train and dance."

Harriet huffed air through her nose at the thought of dancing, but she didn't say anything to her friends.

"You should have done your hair first."

"Why? What's wrong with doing my hair like usual?"

That question received no verbal answer, just a little shove toward Hermione's mirror and the waiting brushes and combs. In due course, she found herself caped with a towel over her shoulders, grimacing as Sleekeazy's Hair Potion dripped along her scalp and flattened her hair.

Harriet had a better appreciation for how long routines could take after trying to be tidier with her own appearance, but she'd underestimated how much work went into preparing for something like a ball. There was plucking and pulling, finicky depilatory spells, and Charms to lift and keep things contained. Usually, when the fourth-year Slytherin witches were forced to spend any amount of time together, they couldn't stop sniping and snarling at one another, but with the dance looming, they came together to help one another.

Elara fixed her hair, weaving it into a loose plait, the strands smooth and compliant under the weight of the potion and excess conditioner. A whispered bit of Transfiguration had white, soft petaled flowers threaded through the loops. Parkinson and Greengrass stood by while Harriet smeared the makeup Narcissa Malfoy had bought for her over her face until they could take no more and intervened. Pansy was a dreadful cow, but she had a much better eye for cosmetics.

When the hour grew late, and Harriet had a moment to sit and fiddle with her trailing sleeve, she peeked into a mirror. The girl returning her gaze didn't look familiar; the wildness of her hair had been pulled back and shaped into something approaching beautiful, and the little spots of acne along her chin and forehead had vanished completely under the Charmed concealer. Only smooth, faultless skin remained.

The concealer hadn't touched the curse scar. If anything, it made the disfigurement poking out above the collar's top and across the open front look all the more bright and livid, like bright white cracks spreading through porcelain.

Her eyes loomed, bright and sharp, edged in black liner applied by Elara's steady hand. The shadow on her lids glinted, matched by the shine of pale gold and diamonds on her earrings, the gems Charmed to line the outer edge of her ear and hang from her lobes, catching the light.

"You really shouldn't worry about anything tonight," Hermione told her as Harriet stood at her side, holding hair clips for her to take. "You look beautiful, and your robes suit you." She took another clip to pin back a wayward curl.

Harriet hummed a soft, noncommittal noise. "I know. Thanks." Hermione took another pin from her hand. "Did Mrs. Malfoy pick out your robes?"

"Yes—her and the nosiest shop assistant I've ever seen in my life."

Hermione's robes looked more like a dress than Harriet's, with ruching over the bodice and delicate cream-colored lace covering the partially transparent sleeves that trailed from her elbows. The edge of the sleeves had a slight scalloping that matched the lace, and the white satin gown rippled down to a pair of pretty, winged heels. Harriet had no idea how she walked in. The slick potion she'd combed through her hair had tamed the frizz and transformed the bushiness into large, sleek curls. Hermione used the pins and clips to pull the wayward strands out of her face.

Elara, in contrast, looked almost as if she wore school robes—until she shifted, and the overcoat parted enough to reveal the dark burgundy beneath, the expensive cashmere embroidered with silver closures all the way up to her throat. The sleeves eclipsed part of her hand, but didn't hang or trail like Hermione's and Harriet's. Shapes moved on the silk lining of the overcoat like bodies of hidden sea creatures roving through murky water. It didn't have the flashiness of Pansy's blue, fluttery robes or Runcorn's green ball gown, but Harriet knew just enough about clothes to understand Mrs. Malfoy must have spent a small fortune on Elara's outfit.

Eventually, Harriet got tired of the noise and Millicent's noxious perfumes, so she decided to brave the common room to wait. The corridor was full of witches in and out of their dorm rooms, trading clips and makeup brushes, pins and extra clothes. Those younger students who couldn't attend hung around in bunches, looking on with curious or envious faces. They swarmed Harriet, cooing over her robes until she managed—red-faced and anxious—to extract herself.

She found Malfoy seated on one of the sofas, his shoulders slumped under his fancy clothes.

"Hey, Potter," he said, surprising Harriet with his somber, muted tone. He didn't even look up as she came to perch her hip on the furled sofa arm next to him.

"Malfoy," she acknowledged, fidgeting. "Where're Crabbe and Goyle?"

"Waiting for their dates in the entrance hall."

"Oh." She wondered who the lumbering pair had managed to ask out. One practice dance with Vincent had nearly crushed Harriet's poor toes. "Looking forward to the dance?"

"You're an idiot."

Malfoy glowered at his hands folded between his knees, slouched forward enough for his pale hair to fall toward his scrunched brow. He had one of his family rings on, and for a moment, he looked overwhelmingly like his father. The image cleared when Harriet blinked, but the impression remained.

"Oi, you're the idiot moping here like your whole life is over," Harriet snapped. She kept her voice low enough not to attract attention from the other wizards milling about the room—and she chose to ignore the moping she'd indulged in this morning. "You know, if you hadn't been a coward and asked her yourself, she would've said yes."

More witches filtered out from the girls' corridor, some finding their dates, some mingling, some headed for the common room entrance and the passages beyond. Hermione and Elara followed as well, the former reminding Harriet of stories about faerie royalty. She looked bright as sunshine next to Elara's black outfit.

Draco raised his head enough to look at her, then away. His hands tightened into fists.

"Don't be stupid, Potter."

xXx

Nervous sweat tickled the inside of Harriet's palms. She wiped them on her long sleeves as she walked, feeling closed in by the bodies surrounding her as the Slytherins joined the Hufflepuffs and moved toward the entrance hall. Her heart beat too loud for her to hear much of anything else.

The castle doors had been flung wide, revealing a cluster of hedges and flowering bushes warded against the falling snow, tiny tea lights floating in the air. Harriet had never seen so many people clustered in the entrance before, and never in such a wide array of colors and fabrics. The wizards mostly dressed in dark tones, though a few had chosen brighter hues, and a lot of the Durmstrang wizards and witches had chosen robes in scarlet and vermilion. They made for a bright, garish picture against the somber stone walls.

Krum stood off to the side with the other champions and Professor McGonagall dressed in her emerald green robes with a matching hat. The doors to the Great Hall opened and admitted the crowd.

"Champions over here, please," McGonagall ordered, her officious voice rising above the laughter and clamor. "Mr. Krum, where is your date?"

"She is coming."

"Well, she had best arrive soon. The champions are meant to enter together—."

Harriet sidled closer and bumped her arm, earning a severe glance. She felt quite like a startled, wide-eyed owl peering up at McGonagall.

"Ah! Here she is," Krum said. He studied her from head to toe—and Harriet didn't miss how he lingered on her scar longer than was polite."You look beautiful, Harriet."

"Thanks," Harriet replied with an uncertain smile, her hands still damp and her heart threatening to run for it. "You—your robes are nice, too."

As Krum held out his arm for her to take, Harriet surveyed the others. Fleur stood with Roger Davies, a seventh-year Ravenclaw who couldn't stop staring like a gormless twit at the side of her head, though Fleur, in her floating, ethereal attire, hardly seemed to notice. Diggory grinned at Harriet, waiting with Cho Chang, the Ravenclaw Seeker, and Longbottom was with a seventh-year Gryffindor Harriet couldn't recall the name of. He stared at Harriet in apparent horror.

The severeness in the professor's face flickered into surprise, her eyebrows creeping toward her hairline. "Oh, well. Very good, Miss Potter. If you would all form a line and follow me…."

The champions trailed McGonagall into the Great Hall under a gale of applause. Harriet refused to look left or right at the spectating faces, but she managed to see how shimmering veils of sparkling frost adorned the walls, the faerie lights dripping with the falling snow from the enchanted ceiling. It looked glamorous, in her opinion, and magical.

Taking a breath, Harriet turned her head to survey the head of the room and the table awaiting them. She cursed under her breath.

"Is something the matter?" Krum asked.

"No," Harriet replied, glaring at the Minister for Magic. "Everything's fine."

It seemed an inevitable force of fate, or some miserable magnets of the universe, led Harriet and her date to the free seats by Gaunt. She could have switched with Viktor—but that would have put her by Headmaster Karkaroff, which was hardly a better option. Karkaroff was already into the wine, his hand shaking around the goblet as he gulped it down.

"Miss Potter. Aren't you a vision," Gaunt commented as Harriet sank, unwilling, into her chair. His usual attire never failed to impress, but the cut of his robes for the evening looked all the more intimidating, the golden pin of the Guardians stuck to his lapel. "Won't you introduce me to your date?"

Harriet did so, mumbling, and Gaunt and Krum shooks hands briefly before Krum sat down. Karkaroff reached over to squeeze his arm, and Krum grimaced at the force of his bony fingers pressing too close.

On the other side of Gaunt, Harriet caught Dumbledore's eye, and the Headmaster gave her an encouraging smile.

"How are your studies going, Miss Potter?" Gaunt persisted despite Harriet's clear reluctance to speak. "Are you expecting good marks when they're returned?"

"Yes. Sir."

For the briefest instant, their gazes met. Harriet had been desperate for someone else to interfere, and her eyes happened to cross his on accident. At that moment, Harriet felt an immense cold pressure on her face, like a chilled pillow being held to her nose and mouth. Her breath caught, she jerked away on instinct, and the pressure faded.

Gaunt made a soft tsk sound and straightened in his seat.

Dinner commenced with Dumbledore ordering by speaking to his plate. Her interaction with Gaunt had frazzled her so much that Harriet ordered the same thing as the Headmaster despite having no appetite. She made vague eating motions with her fork, stirring meat gravy into her potatoes and green beans. She chanced a glance over the other tables and didn't fail to notice the incredulous looks and blatant whispering.

Merlin's balls.

"D'you have Chris—Yule at Durmstrang?" she asked Viktor, grasping for something to say. She poked her porkchop. "Or do you go home at the holidays to be with your family?"

"Ve have many decorations at Durmstrang, like here. The Yule is an important holiday for us."

"Really? I've read the solstice has significance for—." She paused. "Different kinds of magic."

"Yes. Ve have rituals that must be done." Krum spooned some borscht into his mouth.

"Do you decorate the same? Well, not like this, cos' this for the Yule Ball. But Hagrid usually brings in trees."

"I think Hogwarts is nicer. Very homey."

"Now, Viktor," Karkaroff interrupted. "Show some pride in your school! Durmstrang may not be as public as Hogwarts, but it boasts its own beauty."

Gaunt scoffed ever so slightly and sipped his wine. Harriet had never been exposed to the Minister for such an extended period of time, so she'd never noticed the similarities between him and her Defense professor aside from their uncanny likeness. Gaunt had the same arrogant set in his posture as Slytherin, and they drank from their goblets in the same manner. Gaunt seemed more high-strung, however, like a live-wire who suffered the presence of others only on the meagerest bit of patience.

"Zis is nothing compared to Beauxbatons," Fleur declared with a flourish of her hand. Her accent sounded thicker than usual, and Harriet wondered if she was putting on airs for her dumbstruck date. "Poudlard iz so drafty, and we would never put up with zat dreadful poltergeist! Of course, ze Palace iz glamorous. We have ice sculptures zat look as if they were made of diamonds, and ze walls—."

"I've seen it," Harriet blurted before she could think better. She gave her poor food another stab with the fork and blushed when all eyes at the table turned to her.

"Ah!" Madam Maxime snapped her fingers. "I 'ave seen you before! You are the ward of—Nicolas!"

No one else probably noticed the brief hesitation, but Harriet did. Gaunt had stilled next to her, and his head jerked up to stare at Maxime. Harriet silently thanked her lucky stars for the woman's circumspection.

"Nicolas?" the Minister said aloud, softly, slowly, weighing the name as he began to ponder.

"Mr. Weasley, where is Barty this evening?" Dumbledore asked, acting as if Gaunt hadn't spoken. "I would have thought he'd be eager to attend the festivities."

"He's been terribly under the weather," Percy replied with a superior nod of his head. "The stress of the Tournament must be getting to him, I'd say. He hasn't been quite right since the World Cup…."

Krum kept looking at Harriet. "Do I have something on my face?" she whispered.

"No. I simply think you are lovely."

Harriet turned bright red and fumbled for her pumpkin juice, ignoring the anxious twisting in her stomach, thinking about what Elara had said that afternoon. What had she meant? Did Harriet like him? What did liking really mean?

Needing a distraction, she looked around the room again.

At one of the other staff tables, Hagrid sat wearing the ugliest suit Harriet had ever seen. He gave her a thumbs up and continued making eyes at Madame Maxime—who made eyes right back at him, fluttering her lashes with her head set into a coquettish tilt.

The whole world's gone barmy….

Harriet almost spat out her juice when she scanned another table and spotted Snape dressed in his best robes like everyone else, his black hair tied back in a low queue. She didn't think she'd ever seen the bloke's ears before, and it felt weird to realize he had ears, that he was anything other than a dark, looming storm cloud who had no business having ears or those long-fingered hands or broad shoulders. She preferred thinking of him as a spooky omen out of a storybook rather than a person of flesh and blood.

Next to Snape, Professor Slytherin leaned slightly toward the Potions Master and spoke in the general direction of his ear. Whatever he said, Snape didn't seem all the interested, not that he ever did.

Movement caught Harriet's attention from the last staff table, and she blinked when she found Remus seated next to Sirius. The latter cared nothing for propriety and boldly waved across the aisle, his smile wide and bright. Harriet returned the wave, and she couldn't help her impish grin when Sirius held up a camera and pointed at it. Remus continued eating his dinner, ignoring his date's antics, though his lips quirked slightly.

Harriet thought she could already hear Elara's groaning.

A hoot interrupted the clatter of cutlery and faerie wings, a black owl coming to land on the table before the Minister, a letter tied to its leg. Expression pinched with annoyance, Gaunt wiped his mouth on his napkin and took the letter with a sharp tug. The owl set flight once more. Gaunt scowled as he read.

"Bad news, Marvolo?" Dumbledore asked. If someone didn't know the wizard, they might have missed the slight mockery in Dumbledore's airy tone, and as Harriet turned to look at him, she swore he winked. Had Dumbledore arranged for the letter to arrive?

"It appears I must cut my visit short, Dumbledore," Gaunt said, snapping the parchment closed once more. A wordless spell disintegrated it into ash without a flame, and he tossed it onto his plate. "If you'll excuse me."

Harriet breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Minister Gaunt Summoned his cloak and departed, ignoring the speculative looks following his path through the room. She didn't care what urgent business had interrupted his scheming and only hoped it kept him preoccupied for the rest of the evening.

Good riddance.

"A shame," Percy commented. "I had hoped to bend the Minister's ear for a moment on a new bill about cauldron regulation…."

Well, maybe Gaunt should have stayed if it meant getting bored half to death by Percy Weasley and his cauldron bottom thickness legislation.

Too soon, the last bite of treacle had been cleared from the platters, and Dumbledore rose to his feet, bidding everyone else to do the same. A simple wave of his wand vanished the tables, and the band came in through the staff entrance onto the dais where the High Table usually sat. The lighting shifted, dimmed, and a somber melody was struck.

"Come," Krum said as he placed Harriet's hand on his arm. "The champions lead the first dance."

"Great…." Harriet muttered, glad she hadn't eaten much of anything. The anxious feeling returned as she gripped Krum's wrist as tightly as she could, knuckles turning white, and tried to stop her stomach from turning itself inside out.

The whispering intensified.

"Isn't that Potter, the Slytherin?"

"Why did he ask her to the ball?"

"Her robes are so old-fashioned—."

"She's only a fourth year!"

"Merlin, that scar is hideous—."

"She's so strange—."

Harriet ground her teeth and pushed the noise away. She reached inside herself for the concentration she used in Defense, when she had to ignore the Gryffindors and Slytherin and the bite of bruises to do her best. Krum led them into the first step of the dance, and the rest followed swiftly after.

She was surprised by Viktor's grace; he flew like he was meant to be in the air, but on the ground, he walked rather duck-footed and had a rough gait. Harriet had half expected to have her toes smushed, but he danced well, like the pure-blood twits she'd practiced with in Slytherin's class, if not better. He made it easy for Harriet to follow, the pair twirling among the others in a seamless waltz, soon joined by more students and staff. As the floor filled, the tension in Harriet's spine lessened.

She spotted Elara nearby with Draco, who'd pulled himself out of his funk enough to give Elara a proper dance. Farther away were Hermione and Terry. They couldn't seem to stop smiling at one another, and a certain glow hung in the air, oblivious and happy.

The song came to an end, and Harriet went to step back and go to Elara, who'd dropped Draco's hands and looked ready to leave the dance floor. Krum gave her hand a sudden, tight squeeze.

"Ouch," she said, not because it hurt but rather because he'd startled her. Harriet glared.

"I am sorry," Krum replied with a slight dip of his chin. "I did not realize you meant to go."

"It's all right." Harriet shot him an askance look, as he still had her hand in his.

"One more dance? Please?"

"Okay…."

Harriet allowed herself to be swept into motion again, the music still slow enough for a gentle waltz. Unfortunately, she didn't enjoy the second dance any more than she had the first. She could still feel the weight of too many eyes upon her, and Krum's hand gripped too tight as if he thought she'd dart away at any second.

The second song ended, and as the next started—a livelier beat—Harriet thought Krum might not let go, but Sirius chose that moment to invite himself over. The grin he wore reminded her of his Animagus form—all sharp, hungry teeth. "May I dance with my god-daughter, Krum?"

"Of course." Viktor dropped her hands and nodded. He said something after that, but the wail of instruments and Sirius' quick tug pulled Harriet away before she could hear.

"He'd better be treating you well," Sirius told her, a slight frown playing over his mouth. He looked better than he had when Harriet last saw him, his complexion less pale and his cheeks less sunken. The hand under her own felt warmer and heavier with muscle. The harshest callouses had been worn smooth. "I can have a word with him if you need me to."

"He's fine, Sirius. We're just here as friends. Er, I think." Harriet wasn't sure on that part. She couldn't imagine he wanted anything more with her, and thinking about it didn't get Harriet giddy or bubbly like Hermione got when she chatted about Terry. It just made her feel ill. "You didn't say you were going to be here in your last letter!"

"Maybe I'm just keeping you lot on your toes." Sirius tipped her a heavy wink, and Harriet laughed. "I want pictures of you and your god-sister and Hermione. Go grab your surly Seeker over there, and we'll round up the others…."

Sirius got his pictures—and then some. Others saw the flash and click of his magical camera and suddenly wanted pictures of their own, begging for a quick shot they could send home to their parents or save for the memories. He was quickly overwhelmed, and Harriet was sure he'd end up playing the impromptu photographer for the rest of the evening.

"Serves you right," Remus told him, though he stayed by Sirius' side. "You could have waited until later."

"Don't be a spoilsport, Remus…."

Terry whisked Hermione back into the thick of things as the band—the Weird Sisters—started playing more modern songs and most of the staff quit the floor. Harriet followed Elara to the refreshment table, eager to reach the sidelines.

"I can't believe Remus brought him," Elara grumbled as she picked up one of the short crystal glasses filled with red liquid. Flitwick hovered nearby, watching the table, but Harriet could spy the Weasley twins hidden behind a convenient curtain. She wondered how long it'd be until the punch bowl was spiked. "I thought he was going to chase me down with that wretched thing."

"I think it's nice," Harriet admitted. "We wouldn't have pictures if he hadn't bothered, and Morgana knows I'll probably never wear something like this again."

Elara snorted and shook her head, taking a sip of her drink.

"D'you think my dad would've done something similar?" A small, fond grin broke across Harriet's face as she imagined the possibility of James Potter crashing the party with her godfather. She didn't know him very well, but she thought it sounded like something he'd do.

Elara paused. "I'm sorry he's not here for us to find out."

"S'alright. Do you reckon Mr. and Mrs. Flamel would like some of the photographs too?"

"Yes. Yes, they would."

They stood and watched the others for several minutes. Elara said Draco had gone off to sulk, and Harriet didn't see Viktor, not that she wanted to dance more. She much preferred lurking to being the center of attention.

Elara stiffened as silvery laughter filtered past them like the shaking of wind chimes. Fleur Delacour giggled at something Roger Davies said and sent the Ravenclaw off to get her a drink, flipping the glossy wave of her glowing hair. Elara stared at her, unmoving, and her eyes seemed to gaze a million leagues away.

Harriet turned from Elara to Fleur and back again. She arched a brow. "You know, she's a bit of a haughty priss," she commented. "Very high-maintenance."

Elara shrugged one shoulder and finally moved to lower her cup to the table. "I know," she replied, clearing her throat. "I think I like that about her."

Harriet laughed, and Elara cracked a sheepish grin as a blush colored her pale face. A buzzing noise passed by Harriet's ear, and she batted away a beetle that must have gotten in through the open doors and was probably fleeing the hungry faeries. "You should ask her to dance."

Sighing, Elara's expression slipped, and she shook her head. "That isn't proper."

"Bully to what's proper. I still think you should ask, and bollocks to anyone who says different. It's nobody's business but yours."

Elara smiled again, but the gesture didn't light up her expression as it had before. Rather, she looked sad. "Don't worry about me," she said. "Your date is looking for you."

"He's not my date," Harriet grumbled, but she did turn to find Krum had come in search of her. She decided to take her own advice and not care quite so much about what others thought of her, so she returned to dance with Viktor when he offered, liking the faster, louder music. Elara joined them in the crowd soon after.

Another hour passed before Viktor took her hand and led her back to the refreshment table for drinks. George Weasley wagged his brow as she passed and whistled. "You might want to skip the punch, snakey cousin."

Harriet took that to mean Flitwick had finally nodded off and he and his brother had managed to spike the bowl, so she opted for water instead. Viktor didn't let go of her hand, and in lieu of leading her back toward the others when they returned their glasses, he nudged her toward the entrance and the cold, beckoning air.

"Come," he said, bringing the back of her hand to his mouth to kiss the back of her knuckles. Harriet jumped as if shocked, her skin burning. "I wish to show you something."

"I—! What—?" Harriet's mouth made a mess of the words she meant to say—though, if asked, she wouldn't have a clue what those words were in the first place. Viktor Krum had kissed her. It'd only been her hand, and only for a moment, but it'd been a kiss. Bloody hell. Did he mean to really kiss her? Was this a real date?

Her chest felt tight, her hands clammy.

They stepped into the scant moonlight on the front steps, the snow melting where it met the wards overhead and the season-defying foliage grew. Krum's thumb swept against the backs of her fingers.

Harriet thought she should go back inside. She should. She didn't want to leave her friends. Did that mean she didn't like Viktor? Should she keep following him? She didn't know. She couldn't think.

"I—. I don't—."

A shadow crossed the path, and someone stepped out from a break in the hedges. The tea lights illuminated Professor Slytherin's haunting face in weak, warbling light—enough to glint like blood in his ghoulish eyes.

Eyes now locked on Krum's hand holding Harriet's.

"My, my," he said. "What have we here?"


A/N:

Snape: Has ears.

Harriet: "And I took that personally."