novelraw Chapter 127: The Lift at the Yule Ball
Chapter 127: The Lift at the Yule Ball
"You're not up to something, are you?" She walked awkwardly through the door he had opened for her, looked around the empty classroom, and said, "Just dancing practice?"
It was Christmas Eve, and the procrastinating dance partners were finally planning a last-minute practice session.
"Only dancing practice," he assured her, following her in. "I won't do anything unnecessary."
"Nothing unnecessary?" she asked sceptically. "That's what you said when you invited me to the Three Broomsticks. And then you—"
Draco could tell from her nervously pressed lips that she was uneasy.
Well, he actually wanted to bring up their kiss too. But she didn't seem to want to touch that subject at all.
Draco took only a few seconds to decide to drop the topic entirely. He quickly adopted an innocent look and reminded her cheerfully, "Tomorrow is the Yule Ball—we haven't much time left."
"In that case, all right." The girl made up her mind, stood awkwardly in front of him, and sighed. "Let's practice. Let's begin."
"Yes, let's begin." Draco stood up straight, chest out, and smiled directly at her, finally asking the question he'd been waiting to ask for so long. "Beautiful lady, would you do me the honor of this dance?"
"You look rather serious," Hermione said in a forcedly cheerful tone, trying to hide the shyness his words stirred up in her.
Draco didn't respond to her deflection as he usually might. He remained silent, extending his right hand respectfully, palm up, bowing slightly, his left hand behind his back, his grey eyes smiling as he stared intently at her.
"First I should state that I'm not particularly gifted at dancing," she said, hurrying to place her hand in his.
"It's all right. I'm not very accomplished either. Please bear with me." He said gently, taking her hand in his, a smile spreading across his face despite himself. "Now, I'm going to hold you. If you feel uncomfortable at any point, just tell me."
She nodded slightly, feeling his right hand—five fingers together—gently and steadily come to rest against her left shoulder blade. His left hand enveloped her right, their thumbs touching and pointing upwards.
"Is this all right?" he asked softly.
"Yes," she said cautiously.
"Your posture is quite good. Now, your right hand and arm follow mine. Try to let me lead, yes?" the boy said casually, his gaze holding hers. "Place your left hand on my right upper arm, thumb and forefinger open. That's right—very good. Turn to face left, toward my right side. When we dance, keep track of what's behind me—"
"To avoid colliding with other couples?" she said.
"Precisely. Good." He gave her an approving look. "If someone is coming from a particular direction, just tap your finger to signal me—on the side they're approaching from. Right, the music's starting. Let's try a run-through first."
The gramophone in the corner dutifully began to play. It was a beautiful waltz—the melody floating up like something between a sigh and a song. Hermione straightened her back, assumed the position, and looked at the boy in front of her.
He led her forward. Moving forward, sideways, feet together—she was caught off guard and swept into the dance like a fledgling bird not yet ready to fly, carried by a platinum wind into a smoky grey sky.
"Turn... to the side... good. Now, tilt... rise... fall... good. Remember, concentrate your strength through your central axis." He guided her in a low voice, close enough that his words brushed against the hair on her cheek.
Hermione twirled with him across the center of the classroom, so nervous she could barely breathe.
She couldn't ignore certain details. Their hands were clasped together, their hips and ribs close. A bright melody floated in the air, and iridescent shadows swayed in the flickering candlelight.
He was surrounding her, in a manner that was both protective and dangerously close. The faint scent of cedarwood always reminded her of their kiss. At moments he drew near enough that his eyes flickered in the trembling light of the wall lamp—as if a single glance could turn into a kiss—which left her both nervous and breathless.
But the boy kept his word.
He didn't do anything unnecessary. He didn't kiss her. Instead he smiled and led her onward, his ears faintly red, his eyes fixed on her intently.
With just one look from him, her footwork began to falter. Those clear, smoky grey eyes held her captive, nearly erasing every step she had practiced so diligently with Ginny.
It was only a few simple movements—nothing more than holding each other and turning—but things she had thought would be perfectly simple were now charged with a frantic, life-or-death kind of urgency.
Hermione tried looking away from his eyes and tracking her steps through her peripheral vision, but she still managed to tread on his foot.
"I'm sorry." She immediately lost her confidence, and her steps began to stutter.
"It's all right," Draco said, deftly steering them through a small circle to smooth over her little lapse. "Don't look at your toes—lift your head and look at me. If you step on me, don't stop; keep following my lead. There will be dozens of couples on the dance floor at the Ball, and no one will notice a small mistake; but if you stop, the couples around you will likely stop as well, which is practically announcing to the room that something went wrong—isn't it?"
"Right." Hermione shifted her gaze to the bridge of his nose, hoping to avoid drifting. But this remedy was entirely ineffective—his nose was rather handsome too—and her mind immediately recalled the ticklish sensation of it brushing her cheek during their kiss.
She could feel him watching her. After a while, under his steady gaze, she grew increasingly distracted, her ribs feeling like an over-wrung dishcloth.
Dancing under Draco Malfoy's gaze was a disaster waiting to happen. Finally, she lost her balance and stumbled sideways, her arms suddenly useless.
"Oops—sorry—"
"It's fine." Draco quickly used his strength to pull her gently back to him, saving her from a twisted ankle. "Relax—don't resist me. Don't overthink. You don't need to exert any force; just follow my lead, yes?"
"But I don't know what your next step will be—" Hermione caught her breath in his arms, looked up at his calm, steady eyes, and whispered, "Shouldn't we map everything out in advance? The route, the sequence?"
"Hermione, dancing is dynamic—the only constant is change. A formal ball is different from a private rehearsal. There are unexpected moments that require improvisation. Nobody knows when an enthusiastic pair will come careening in from behind and block your path, so you should never try to plan everything in advance." Draco patted her back reassuringly and led her into the dance once more.
"That makes sense," she muttered, stubbornly meeting his bright, smiling eyes. "But I don't like being directionless. I don't like the feeling of losing control."
"I know. You like to be in control—" he chuckled, gazing into her slightly troubled eyes. "You were born a little queen, weren't you?"
"You can't say that." Her face flushed, and her breathing quickened. "I know the man leads in this style of dance. I simply forget it sometimes. I always want to do something myself. I'm always worried I won't find my balance."
"Then try holding still and let me find your centre of gravity. Don't feel pressured; don't think; don't try to anticipate my movements," Draco said softly, increasingly flustered by the way she breathed when she was nervous. "You only need to relax, trust me, follow me—and I'll guide you, direct you, and support you."
"All right." Hermione felt her face warming steadily.
"Support..." He was choosing words that were confusing and perhaps somewhat misleading, but his expression was serious and focused, entirely as though they were discussing nothing but footwork.
"I'll give you signals through my body. When we dance, I'll lightly press below your left shoulder blade; when we change steps or patterns, I'll tap you there as well." Draco watched her gradually flushing cheeks, attempting to appear composed. "Can you feel that?"
"Yes."
"When I want to move forward, I'll flick my toe before shifting my weight, and you'll feel a kind of forward pressure." He moved slightly closer—watching her rapidly fluttering eyelashes—his breath warm near her neck. "My right hand will ease, and your back will lose its support. Can you feel that?"
"Yes."
"When I want to step back, I'll draw my leg back before shifting my weight. At that point, my right hand will press against you—a signal." He spread his palm gently against her back, trying to steady his own nerves, and smiled encouragingly into her bright, slightly shy brown eyes. "At that point, you move forward. That's right—just like that. Quick reaction. Well done."
The girl smiled slightly. Holding his hand, listening to his gentle, patient, and appreciative words, she felt a warmth spread through the cold room. Her heart gradually settled; though she was still shy, she was no longer so flustered.
"Then there's the spinning. Spinning is the essence of the waltz. A basic spin is counter-movement, tilt, sway, and undulation all done in one smooth motion, forming an arc. All movements should be fluid and rhythmic. When you spin, I'll guide and then release you gently." He explained in careful detail, slowly and lightly guiding her, leading her through a perfect spin in his palm. "Feel everything with your whole body—pretend you're floating on water, letting the current carry you. Can you do that?"
"Yes." Hermione smiled unconsciously at the graceful feeling of the spin. "I thought I'd practiced quite well, but I didn't realise there was still so much to pay attention to."
"Your basic skills are very good, which is remarkable for a beginner." Draco studied her carefully, wary of any sign of discouragement. "This kind of dance requires coordination, rhythm, and a degree of trust between partners. What we lack is simply practice. We'll only get better."
She glanced at him happily, nodded with trust, and smiled broadly.
"We've already developed a bit of understanding, haven't we?" Draco raised his hand, guiding her. "Shall we spin a few more times?"
Spinning under her partner's guidance was an entirely new experience for Hermione. When practicing with Ginny, she had always struggled to spin properly because of the height difference. With him, it all felt effortless.
So she spun in his hands, round and round, reveling in the joy carried by the rushing air of each rotation. Finally, she spun so much that she was dizzy and nearly flew clean out of his hands; at the critical moment, he reached out and caught her, and she fell into his arms without any hesitation at all.
Draco held her tightly, smiling contentedly. She had landed in his arms without warning—like a dazzling star falling into a dark ocean that had always yearned for its light. He watched the shimmering joy in her eyes.
Suddenly, he wanted to kiss her again. He had developed a craving for her lips.
But he had made a promise, and he couldn't break it.
So he compromised—capriciously keeping his arm around her waist without immediately releasing her—and stared into her hazy eyes and increasingly flushed face, murmuring, "In a dance, generally speaking, the male partner leads through his hands, legs, arms, and core—not just his shoulders—otherwise it disrupts his partner's centre of gravity. The whole body has to be involved."
"I see," Hermione murmured, still feeling the pleasant dizziness from the spinning, and still half-lost in his warm, steady embrace.
She was becoming rather attached to being held by him. His arms always gave her a sense of safety. He always looked after her so carefully; she never worried about being hurt when she was close to him.
"Admit it, Hermione—you've been fond of him for a very, very long time," the small voice in her head whispered. "You simply can't resist his pull—his smile, his touch, his embrace."
You even genuinely enjoy his kisses. You hypocritical girl, you solemnly declare "No!" while secretly rejoicing. The little devil, hands on its hips, asked smugly, "Don't you want him to kiss you right now?"
Well—Hermione secretly admitted she was rather hoping for it. He probably wouldn't, would he? He had promised "only dancing practice." But if he chose to go back on his word and do something other than dancing, she probably wouldn't be angry about it.
A gentle kiss wouldn't be terrible. Hermione thought, for a fleeting, treacherous moment, her fingers tightening slightly in his grasp.
The little voice in her head seemed to be doing its own spinning, erasing all rational thought. Before her reason vanished entirely, she buried her face in his shoulder—regretfully avoiding his lips—and sighed softly.
No, get hold of yourself, Hermione! You are not the sort of girl who loses her head over a pretty face! You're here to practice dancing! She scolded herself, reinforcing the walls of her better judgment.
And so she was entirely unaware that a very cunning boy had secretly pressed a kiss to her hair and was now quietly probing her well-known weakness—a total inability to back down from a challenge—in his next words, attempting to lower her guard a little further.
The scheming Slytherin cleared his throat and said with great authority from above her head, "Some less experienced dancers find certain poses too intimate; they can't quite grasp the idea of 'physical communication' between partners. I'm not forcing you to understand, of course. If any of this makes you feel uncomfortable or uneasy, just say so, and I'll keep more distance."
"Oh, it's perfectly fine," she said absentmindedly. "I feel absolutely fine."
"You—you don't mind me holding you like this, do you?" Draco smiled slyly and asked in a coaxing tone, keeping his voice calm and collected.
He still clearly remembered her embarrassment after he had kissed her in the library. She had seemed almost to avoid his embrace afterwards. He needed to be certain she didn't mind.
"Of course not—I really quite like—" Hermione said firmly. At that instant, she felt a rumble of laughter in his chest, and her head cleared slightly. She hurriedly adjusted her alarmingly candid tone. "Oh—I mean, if you're going to do something, you ought to do it properly. Be professional about it. I simply don't want to be a mediocre dancer! I'm doing this purely to improve!"
"Of course, of course," he said, suppressing a laugh, his tone brimming with satisfaction. "You always strive for excellence."
"That's right," Hermione said, her face very pink as she pulled herself out of his arms, straightened up, and resumed the starting position. "What others can do, I can do too."
"Excellent—then shall we try a lift?" His grey eyes gleamed with triumph as he pressed his advantage. "Would you like to try?"
He watched the girl's mouth drop open slightly—looking as though the very idea had never crossed her mind as a genuine possibility. "Oh, Draco, I don't think I'm ready for something so advanced—"
"Let's try," he said gently, taking her hand again and assuming a casual stance, as though it were nothing at all. "It's still early. We have plenty of time."
On Christmas morning, Lavender Brown was suddenly awakened by a bright white light.
Still half asleep, she wrapped herself in her Gryffindor blanket and padded to the window. The grounds outside Hogwarts Castle were dazzlingly white—there had been another heavy snowfall overnight.
She rubbed her eyes, a wave of excitement washing over her as her brain came fully awake.
Today was Christmas! She walked eagerly to the foot of her bed, surveyed the various gift boxes piled there, and a broad smile spread across her face.
She looked around and was pleased to note that at the foot of Parvati Patil's bed—generally acknowledged as the prettiest girl in the year—the pile of gifts wasn't significantly larger than hers; and Hermione Granger's next to her was even less impressive, the little swot's narrow social circle reflected in a small pile that was nothing to speak of compared to Lavender's own.
Some girls simply enjoy making these sorts of comparisons. It wasn't that Lavender bore any particular ill will toward other girls; she simply derived a quiet sense of accomplishment from the exercise. She relished the feeling of being especially well-liked.
"Wake up! Get up!" Lavender called out cheerfully. "Happy Christmas!"
Rustling sounds came gradually from behind the wine-red curtains, and the girls poked their sleepy heads out through the gaps, blinking vaguely at the light.
"Did you have a nightmare, Lavender?" Parvati complained, still half asleep. "Or did your Divination homework predict something ominous?"
"No! It's morning! Christmas presents have arrived—let's open them!" Lavender exclaimed.
The girls gasped with delight, jumping out of bed one after another in their pyjamas, hair disheveled, to tear open their gifts and chatter excitedly. The dormitory was filled with laughter and exclamations as the girls pored over each other's presents, occasionally letting out sounds of genuine admiration.
When Hermione finally emerged from behind her curtains, yawning, Lavender was the only one still in the bedroom, slowly and methodically unwrapping her gifts as though performing some important ritual.
"Oh, you're finally up. Must have been practicing dancing rather late last night? I heard you come in." Lavender glanced curiously at Hermione—watching her slowly lift a box from the top of her pile—and asked, "What's that?"
It was a mysterious, rectangular, flat box in a silvery green color—a color only a Slytherin would choose—which stood out starkly against the other gold and red packages.
Hermione looked at the wrapping, and a faint smile immediately appeared on her lips, along with a slight blush. "I'm not certain what it is either."
"Open it and see!" Lavender urged. "Aren't you curious?"
Hermione was, naturally, curious. Under Lavender's expectant gaze, she decisively tore open the wrapping paper—inside was a rather large black velvet jewellery box.
Puzzled, she opened it. A silver necklace set with sapphires and diamonds lay against the black velvet, shimmering with a quiet and profound lustre.
Hermione stared at the sapphire, momentarily speechless.
Was this not a little too extravagant?
"Merlin's beard!" Lavender gasped, her eyes widening, exclaiming, "Oh, the colors are so beautiful—absolutely gorgeous—completely wonderful!"
Hermione thought so too—it had a noble, elegant beauty—it reminded her of antique private collections she'd seen in photographs of French museums.
The necklace's design was breathtaking. A large, oval-shaped royal blue sapphire was set on a silver base, surrounded by sparkling diamonds radiating outwards in a snowflake pattern. It resembled a pure, deep blue lake, its edges covered with frost, shimmering brilliantly in the winter sun.
"It's extraordinary... Look at the size of that sapphire! And all those diamonds..." Lavender leaned closer, examining it carefully. "I'd wager it's very expensive. Extremely expensive."
The total value of every gift from everyone in the dormitory probably wouldn't amount to a fraction of the price of that necklace, Lavender thought very honestly—and felt her earlier smugness about the quantity of her own gifts quietly deflate.
"I rather suspect so," Hermione said softly, gazing at the deep, rich lustre reflected in the stone.
The truth was—she stared at the necklace—she wasn't entirely sure whether she ought to accept it.
"Try it on! Hermione, I'd wager you'll look absolutely radiant wearing it tonight!" Lavender, who had none of Hermione's reservations, silently lifted the delicate silver chain from the box and fastened it around Hermione's neck before pulling her to the full-length mirror. "Look—it suits you perfectly. The moment you put it on, everything about you changes."
Hermione gazed at the girl in the mirror. The necklace glowed softly against her skin, exuding an air of quiet elegance.
At this, Lavender excitedly shook the wrapping paper and turned the jewellery box over and over, searching for any card or note from the giver, but found nothing.
"Mysterious too—not even a signature." She said in a surprised tone, looking at Hermione hopefully, searching for some clue on the girl's face. "Who on earth would be this generous?"
"Ah—I couldn't say," Hermione said hurriedly, noticing in the mirror that the girl reflected there was growing pinker by the moment.
She knew perfectly well who it was. From the instant she'd first seen the box, she had known the answer—aside from Draco Malfoy with his thoroughly extravagant tendencies, who else would be so completely outrageous as to give her a conspicuous antique necklace as a Christmas present?
Lavender stared at Hermione suspiciously, quite certain she was hiding something. But Hermione said nothing more, and smiled privately at her reflection.
"I just noticed," Lavender said at last, "that your front teeth seem smaller than they used to be. They look quite nice now."
"Oh, yes." Hermione smiled, a hint of smugness in her voice. "It's been some time. It was Madam Pomfrey who suggested it."
Madam Pomfrey's intervention had puzzled Hermione for quite a while, actually. Logically speaking, managing the endless stream of injuries and ailments at the Hospital Wing ought to have left this dedicated witch thoroughly occupied. Hermione genuinely hadn't expected Madam Pomfrey to have the leisure to concern herself with dental matters—it had made no sense at all.
She suddenly remembered the peculiar smile Madam Pomfrey had given her after the procedure—a smile that inexplicably reminded her of an enthusiastic matchmaking aunt—full of some inexplicable satisfaction and quiet anticipation.
Lavender's voice drew her back from the memory.
"In any case, you absolutely must wear it tonight!"
"Oh, Lavender, I'm not sure—"
"You don't like it?" Lavender asked in surprise.
"Of course I like it, and I'm very grateful for such a gift, but it seems a bit—" Hermione said hesitantly.
"The best way to express gratitude to someone who gives you something beautiful is not to refuse it, but to wear it and let them see!" Lavender said, gazing at Hermione from head to toe with genuine admiration. "It matches your dress perfectly tonight. It's going to be stunning."
The faithful Hogwarts clock emitted a soft glow in the darkness of Christmas Eve.
When the minute hand was just a few ticks from eight o'clock, the entrance hall was already alive with students. Some were trying to find their partners from visiting schools, weaving through the crowd with varying degrees of success.
"Oh, Merlin, that one's rather something—" By the staircase in the entrance hall, a girl from Beauxbatons nudged her friend and giggled. "He's a rare find indeed."
Her companion turned to look and saw a tall, upright young man making his way through the crowd with easy confidence. He was wearing a well-tailored black velvet formal robe with a high collar, an intricately patterned white shirt beneath, exuding an unmistakable air of pureblood breeding.
The young man was quite handsome. He had a dashing, self-assured quality about him, and his platinum blond hair was styled smoothly and neatly, catching the light of the floating candles brightly.
"Looks like Hogwarts has a few decent boys after all," the girl said archly, glancing at him again. "Unfortunately, someone's already claimed him."
The boy seemed accustomed to such scrutiny. He walked past the Beauxbatons girls without batting an eye and made his way toward Harry and Ron—who had already reunited with their partners.
Ron clutched the frayed edge of his collar and hurriedly asked, "Are you sure Hermione will dance with you tonight? We're certain to win our bet, right?" He was still anxious about the Galleons he'd wagered with Fred and George.
"I think your bet is safe—you won't lose tonight, at least." Draco smiled with impeccable timing, unusually unbothered about being used as a wager, and glanced around. "Where is she? Hasn't she come down yet?"
"She's been acting strange—she ran back to get ready before five o'clock," Ron said. "Who needs three whole hours to get ready for a ball?"
"Every girl does!" Ginny Weasley swept past her brother, arm in arm with Neville Longbottom, and couldn't resist rolling her eyes. She glanced briefly at Draco, found nothing to criticize about her prediction, and said with some dissatisfaction, "Malfoy—watch the staircase. Pay attention. You'll thank me."
And so the boy, having been instructed to keep his eyes wide open, waited patiently by the stairs, his gaze fixed on the top landing, waiting for the eight o'clock bell and for the girl who had been keeping him in suspense to slowly descend.
Then, suddenly, she appeared—the figure that haunted his dreams stepped out from the far side of the staircase.
She was a stunningly beautiful stranger—at least in the eyes of most Hogwarts students who passed her in corridors every day. She wore a flowing gown in soft periwinkle blue, her figure perfectly proportioned, her waist slender, like a radiant butterfly descending serenely down the marble steps.
Her brown hair was smooth and glossy, styled into an elegant updo. She had a long, slender neck, and the sapphire necklace adorned her porcelain-pale collarbone, radiating a rich, noble warmth.
A momentary hush seemed to fall over the noisy entrance hall.
The clock struck eight.
Time seemed to stand still, and yet also to have just begun.
Harry's partner Parvati broke the silence with a soft gasp: "She looks so beautiful!" The crowd snapped out of their collective reverie, followed her gaze, and began to murmur.
"Is that girl from your school? I've never seen her," Padma said to her sister in a dreamy voice. "She looks as elegant as a princess. When did your school get a girl like that?"
"That's my roommate—Hermione Granger," Parvati said, still somewhat stunned. "Merlin's beard. I didn't quite believe it when Lavender told me."
"What? Her—that's impossible, I've seen that bookish Granger before, but she's so beautiful—" Padma stammered.
"Yes," Draco said softly, afraid a louder voice would shatter the moment. "She is."
He had seen her like this once before—in his previous life, when he'd been struck completely speechless—yet he was still utterly captivated.
He could no longer hear what anyone around him was saying. Her bright, sparkling eyes searched the entrance hall until they found his, and then stayed.
She began to smile. She was radiant. She was like starlight shimmering on the surface of a dark lake. She walked down the stairs toward him, each step striking somewhere deep in his chest.
Finally, she stood before him—luminous and beautiful, her rosy lips parting slightly.
"Have you been waiting long, Draco?" Hermione asked softly, a faint flush on her cheeks, entirely aware of every watching eye.
"No," Draco said softly, with an absent smile. "I only just arrived. Perfect timing."
Merlin, he wanted to kiss her again. He always wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to kiss her right there in front of everyone—in front of the gaping Harry and Ron, in front of Krum who was watching from not far away with barely concealed surprise—kiss her until she went soft in his arms and had to catch her breath.
But he held back. Reason told him he couldn't ruin a moment like this for her.
She should not be treated carelessly by anyone, nor made into a spectacle for others to mock and whisper about.
She was beautiful, precious, and deserved better than that.
She deserved to be treated like something rare—to command everyone's respect and admiration.
Draco gave her a look of quiet approval, and with deliberate restraint offered his arm so she could place her slightly trembling hand on it, then led her slowly toward the entrance of the Great Hall.
All around them, the whispering crowd confirmed with astonishment the identity of the strikingly beautiful young woman—Hermione Granger.
No one dared to question whether Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy were well-matched. They looked like something out of a fairy tale, equally elegant and striking, radiating a captivating brilliance.
The girls who had previously sniped that Hermione had used a Love Potion now cast distinctly envious glances her way. The nearby boys stared, unable to quite believe their own eyes.
Hermione pretended not to notice. She turned her head slightly to peek at her partner, lips moving as she whispered, "How... did I do?"
"So beautiful—" Draco lowered his eyes, his gaze gently tracing her pink, softly glowing cheeks. "Very beautiful."
And so she held her head high and smiled with quiet pride. No longer thinking about anyone's glances or whispers, she walked with him gracefully through the crowd and into the Great Hall.
Four champions stood waiting at the entrance. Harry and his Gryffindor partner stood at the end of the line, followed by Cedric Diggory and Ravenclaw Seeker Cho Chang. They walked past the visibly tense Krum, and Draco noted with smug satisfaction that Hermione's radiance quite eclipsed the girl on Krum's arm.
Now no one will think Krum gave up on inviting Hermione, he thought, widening his smile.
The long-anticipated mystery of Fleur Delacour's dance partner was finally resolved at that moment—a revelation that broke the hearts of approximately half the male population of Hogwarts—she had chosen none of the boys who had queued up to invite her.
To everyone's astonishment, the breathtaking witch in silver-grey satin robes was on the arm of a tall, graceful wizard with striking dark hair and grey eyes: Sirius Black, substitute instructor for Defense Against the Dark Arts.
He stood casually at the entrance in a long black velvet robe, and turned back with a grin to greet Draco as he passed. In that instant, Draco fancied he could actually hear the collective sound of approximately half the school's hearts breaking simultaneously.
Fleur and Sirius were the true spectacle of the evening, and their pairing had the dual effect of capturing every student's imagination and making Draco and Hermione's arrangement seem, by comparison, nearly unremarkable.
"Did you see Harry's face?" Draco said to Hermione with a grin, hoping to ease her nerves. "When he saw Sirius's partner?"
"I think his mouth could have swallowed a whole Golden Egg," Hermione said, eyes sparkling. "And Ron—he looked like he'd been hit with a Stunner."
"Quite." Pleased to see her relaxing, he suggested, "Shall we find our seats?"
The Great Hall was exquisitely transformed. The walls were covered with shimmering silver frost, the ceiling an enchanted starry night sky, and hundreds of mistletoe branches and ivy wreaths hung overhead. One hundred small tables filled the space where the four long House tables had stood.
They found their seats near the staff table and announced their desired dishes to the gleaming empty plates. Hermione hurriedly ordered something, having no real idea what the Hungarian goulash on her plate tasted like; Draco had been watching her without interruption from the moment they sat down, giving her no chance to breathe.
This produced a peculiar, unsettling sensation—as though she were the center of something vast. His gaze traced over her, igniting something underneath her skin, threatening to reduce her entirely to warm, dazzled ash.
That expression of his was too much. And he was so striking tonight. He resembled a young man from a Renaissance portrait, his sharp features catching the starlight from the ceiling in a way that was simply unfair to anyone trying to think clearly. Under that light, the clean lines of his face radiated warmth, enough to make any girl forget the meaning of the word "reason."
Hermione was being rather irrational tonight herself. If those perfect lips were to speak and ask something of her—however unreasonable—she would probably agree without a second thought.
"The necklace suits you very well." Draco's gaze lingered at her neck. In her third year, she had worn a delicate gold chain—the Time-Turner—and it had been lovely in its way, but it hadn't suited her.
Gold was rather ordinary. Silver was far more becoming. He thought, as only a Malfoy would.
A girl like Hermione Granger, who had her own sort of quiet elegance, deserved to wear something that honored it; otherwise, it was a waste of her beautiful collarbones.
So when he'd spotted the silver necklace in the shop window, he had known instantly it would suit her. Besides, sapphire was the birthstone for September; born in September herself, she would probably appreciate it.
"I love it," Hermione said, feeling her neck warm under his gaze. "But—it wasn't too expensive, was it?"
"Keep it. I don't think anyone could wear it better." Draco's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "It matches the color of your robes, doesn't it?"
"It—yes, it does. But how did you know I'd be wearing this color?" she asked, puzzled.
"Just a guess," Draco said, rather guiltily. Her question was a little too perceptive. Was he supposed to explain that he'd already known what she would wear?
He quickly changed the subject, covering her suspicious look with a flood of distraction. "I should mention—it's been inscribed with several Protective Charms. Wearing it shields you from a number of minor hexes and jinxes..."
"Like that ring you gave me?" she asked curiously.
"Yes, and considerably stronger than the ring..." Draco launched into an elaborate explanation, talking at some length about the enchantments involved, and quite successfully redirected her attention.
After dinner, Professor Dumbledore waved his wand, the tables glided back against the walls, and the floor opened up for dancing. The Weird Sisters, to expectant applause, took the stage.
A moment later, the music began. The four champions led the first dance.
Draco watched Sirius lead Fleur Delacour onto the dance floor with effortless ease, drawing applause and cheers from the staff table.
Almost immediately, the surrounding crowd slowly surged forward.
"Shall we dance?" Draco smiled at the girl beside him.
"I'll probably step on your foot," Hermione said, attempting composure, entirely unaware that her eyes gave her away—a rare, unmistakable flicker of nervousness in her chocolate-brown pupils.
"It's all right. Relax." To the slow, elegant melody, he leaned closer to her and said quietly, "Empty your mind and let me lead."
The scent of cedarwood brushed her ear and cheek, sending a jolt straight through her.
Let me lead. These words were simultaneously embarrassing and rather more suggestive than he probably intended. Her robes were thin in the warm hall, but his words had somehow made her very warm indeed.
His hands, though, were warmer than anything. Before she could think, he had already taken her hand and guided her onto the dance floor, his other hand settling firmly at her side, the heat of it radiating through the thin fabric of her gown.
The boy held her hand with the care one reserved for something rare. In his gaze, she noticed a brightness she hadn't seen before—not the cool indifference she'd once known, nor the stillness of a lake in winter, but a clear, luminous quality, like the sky after a rainstorm.
She was drawn to his eyes. Like any girl blinded by something beautiful, in the shimmering Great Hall, amid the dreamy, candlelit atmosphere, she was held in her partner's hands—firmly, completely guided—and lifted above the dance floor.
Perhaps "partner" was too modest a word; when he danced, he moved like someone entirely at home in the world. He guided her through spins and steps and turns with casual ease, each movement flowing like water through her limbs and overwhelming her mind, leaving her no room to be stiff.
With him there, she no longer needed to anxiously think ahead as she had done in every practice session. He played her like something he knew by heart, holding some invisible thread that guided her to precisely the right movement at every turn of the music.
She could trust her body entirely to his lead. Just as he'd said—she let him guide her; and at the crucial moment in the music, he even gave her the lift, raising her so high that she heard envious sighs from girls nearby.
At that moment, her flowing robes drew a dazzling arc through the air. With a small gasp, she instinctively caught his shoulder and found his eyes full of laughter, his hands securely at her waist.
So this was what real dancing felt like. It called to mind beautiful words: soft, light, flowing, effortless. Not stiff, not tense, not awkward in the least.
At one moment, she seemed to glimpse something perfect—a resonance between them, a harmony so complete it startled her. She had no time to examine what it meant; she was too busy smiling at him with excitement and delight, feeling tremendous joy simply in the fact of it.
He was just as happy, perhaps happier. This was nearly the first time since his rebirth that he had felt happiness quite like this—comparable only to that kiss in the library.
No nightmares, no death, no Dark Lord, no weight pressing in from the shadows.
Tonight, Draco didn't want to think about any of it. Only spinning, dancing, and the girl in his arms.
She was the most beautiful thing in the room that night, smiling at him with trust. She had surrendered the control she guarded so fiercely, and bloomed joyfully in his hands.
At that moment, through the shimmering light cast by the enchanted ceiling, Draco was absolutely certain that he was reflected in her star-bright brown eyes.
Only him.
By convention, dance partners only danced together for one song at a formal ball—after that, couples were expected to circulate and broaden their social horizons.
"Are you thirsty?" The first dance had ended, and they stepped off the floor to rest. Draco, noting that she had immediately tensed back up again, asked considerately, "Something to drink?"
"Yes, please." Hermione realized only then that her mouth was dry and her cheeks were burning. She fanned herself gently with her hand, found a chair at the edge of the dance floor, and sat obediently to wait.
Draco wove through the noisy crowd of students and managed to secure two cups of pumpkin juice. Just as he was making his way back to Hermione, through a gap in the crowd, he spotted Viktor Krum bowing toward her, apparently asking her to dance.
Hermione looked around anxiously, not finding Draco. A moment later, Krum said something further, and she nodded reluctantly, following him onto the dance floor.
Draco was at a loss to describe his feelings. He placed the two cups on the nearest table, took the empty seat in the corner, and sat down. The Great Hall was sweltering. He irritably stripped off his outer robe and tossed it aside, tugging at his collar—for reasons he couldn't quite name, he felt extremely uncomfortable, his throat oddly tight.
After a while, he became dimly aware that Harry—utterly dejected—and Ron—looking slightly green—had materialized in the seats beside him.
Harry hadn't even registered Draco's presence. His partner was nowhere to be seen, but he didn't appear to care; he was staring intently at a fixed point in the crowd. Draco followed his gaze and found Cho Chang, Ravenclaw's Seeker.
Draco vaguely recalled that in his previous life, Harry had briefly been involved with Cho Chang in his fifth year. He remembered it particularly well because he had later used Cho's friend Marietta to learn the location of the DA's secret meeting place—the Room of Requirement. So Harry had already developed feelings for her this early? Draco felt a genuine, uncharacteristic twinge of sympathy.
Worse still—he found he could empathize with the dejected expression rather more than he would have liked.
Ron did spot Draco. He offered a listless greeting, showing no interest in setting foot on the dance floor. He was still preoccupied with his ghastly dress robes, which in Draco's considered opinion looked as though they'd been rescued from the bottom of a medieval Squib's wardrobe.
Ron's partner looked distinctly unenthusiastic. "Are you ever going to ask me to dance?" Padma asked, rolling her eyes.
"No." Ron frowned, still fiddling with his collar and cuffs, which appeared to have been hacked at with some poorly performed Severing Charm, the edges fraying. Padma promptly accepted an invitation from a polite Durmstrang boy and departed without a backward glance.
Ron sighed, finally abandoning his attempts to salvage the robes. He gazed out at the dancing crowd and said enviously, "Blimey—Hermione's dancing with Krum! I'd love to—" He turned to Draco. "D'you think I could get Hermione to ask Krum for a signed photograph?"
Draco took a sip of pumpkin juice, his expression unreadable, and stared across the dance floor at Hermione. The feeling of her hand in his still lingered—but her hand belonged to someone else now.
This realization settled unpleasantly in his stomach.
Krum had better keep his hands exactly where they were supposed to be. If he dared do anything the slightest bit inappropriate, he would very much regret it. Draco gritted his teeth and crushed the empty paper cup into an unrecognizable shape.
As the music ended, Viktor Krum finally let her go. That infuriating Durmstrang champion—his eyes swept deliberately across the crowd and found Draco's gaze.
Those eyes were filled, quite clearly, with challenge, pride, and a specific intention to provoke.
The absolute nerve of him. It was deliberate. Krum was telling him that even if Hermione wasn't his dance partner, he could still dance with her whenever he chose.
Draco could no longer bear it.
Krum had completely ruined this night.
He stood abruptly and walked out of the Great Hall, resolved to leave the whole insufferable, noisy, dreadful situation behind.