Chapter 1: The Calm Before the Ball
The air inside Gryffindor Tower had lightened—no more awkward silences or half-hearted
glances between Ron and me. The frost outside the castle windows couldn't compare to what
had stood between us after my name flew out of the Goblet of Fire, but that chill had finally
melted. The trio was back: Ron, Hermione, and me—just as it should be.
I still couldn't quite believe I'd faced a Hungarian Horntail and lived to tell the tale. The roar of
the crowd, the searing heat of the dragon's breath—it all played back in flashes, like a nightmare
that had somehow ended with applause. Winning had been surreal. Surviving… even more so.
But today, there was peace. For now.
Ron shuffled over, two plates balanced in his hands, his hair sticking up in places that made it
look like he'd just been in a scuffle with a Blast-Ended Skrewt. He plopped beside me, shoving
one of the plates my way, the other already half-devoured.
"Treacle tart," I said, surprised. "My favourite."
Ron gave a sheepish grin. "It's the least I could do… y'know, after being a total git."
I forked a bite of tart into my mouth—warm, syrupy, perfect. "It's all right. You're back. That's
what matters."
Just then, Neville burst in, cheeks flushed. "Harry, McGonagall wants everyone in the Great
Hall—now."
He left as quickly as he came, but not before shooting Ron a glance so cold it might've come
from the dungeons themselves.
Ron groaned, eyeing his untouched pumpkin pasties. "Blimey, I wasn't even halfway through
that."
"We'll eat later," I said, already standing.
We barely made it out of the common room before running smack into a wall of Slytherins.
Crabbe and Goyle stood in front like trollish bookends. And between them… Malfoy.
His sneer was nearly as polished as his prefect badge. "Running off to your next heroic stunt,
Potter? Another dragon to duel?"
Before I could respond, Ron stepped in, his voice firm. "At least he can. Unlike you."
Malfoy's gaze snapped to Ron. "My father—"
"—Will hear about this," Ron mimicked with a mocking bow. "Honestly, don't you ever get tired of
repeating yourself?"
Malfoy's pale face twisted. In a flash, he grabbed Ron by the collar, yanking him forward.
"You're still a Weasley. Which means you'll always be second-rate."
But just as quickly, the corridor echoed with the unmistakable wheezing drawl of Filch. "Students
to the Great Hall! Now!"
Ron shoved Malfoy's hands off and stalked forward, dragging me with him, his ears pink with
fury.
The Great Hall had been transformed. The enchanted ceiling shimmered with falling snowflakes
that never quite touched the floor. Golden baubles hovered mid-air, twinkling with candlelight.
Long tables had vanished, replaced with a polished dance floor and elegant chairs lining the
walls.
McGonagall stood at the front, her expression pinched tighter than a Cornish pixie's grip.
"The Yule Ball is not just a dance," she began crisply. "It is a tradition. A *formal* tradition. That
means dress robes, proper manners, and the expectation that even *Gryffindors* know how to
waltz."
A few snickers erupted from the back. McGonagall silenced them with a look that could shatter
glass.
"You will each need a partner. Invitations may be extended immediately following this meeting. I
expect you to act with maturity… for once."
I exchanged a look with Ron, whose face had gone the same colour as his hair.
Waltzing. Partners. Dress robes.
I'd fought a dragon. But this… this felt more terrifying than the entire Triwizard Tournament.
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