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The Yule Ball for the Triwizard Tournament exchange was in full swing. The Great Hall of Hogwarts had been magically transformed into a glittering spectacle. Candles drifted beneath the enchanted ceiling, swaying gently to the waltz played by the band, while everyone was dressed in their finest robes, shining under the soft lights.
George Russell stood at the edge of the dance floor. His emerald green silk dress robes clung perfectly to his lean frame, with delicate silver embroidery winding up the cuffs—classic Slytherin style, elegant. Holding a glass of pumpkin juice, he wore a polite, practiced smile, though his slightly raised chin betrayed his usual air of poise.
Lewis Hamilton walked over, looking sharp in black velvet. "Where’s Max? Still not here?"
George swirled his drink lightly, his eyes scanning the entrance. "Probably forgot how to walk in proper dress robes. He’s likely moving at a snail’s pace."
Just as the words left his mouth, the heavy oak doors of the Hall swung open.
Max Verstappen stood in the doorway, clad in his full Gryffindor Quidditch kit. Scarlet robes, gold lion patterns, elbow pads, knee guards—he even had his gloves on. His hair was a mess and his face was red from training. He had clearly come straight from the pitch.
A few Slytherin girls nearby gasped. One covered her mouth, trying to hide her giggles and whispers.
George felt a wave of secondhand embarrassment. It was that specific feeling when your boyfriend does something totally wrong for the occasion. He took a deep breath and turned away, pretending to be very interested in the banners on the wall.
"George!" Max’s voice cut through the crowd with his usual blunt energy. "Sorry I’m late! Training ran over. You ready to dance?"
George didn’t turn around. He could feel Max approaching, that familiar scent of sweat and crushed grass—the signature aroma of a Quidditch player—getting closer.
"You’re wearing your kit," George said, his voice as cold as the winter air outside the castle walls.
"Yeah, I just came from the pitch," Max said, seemingly oblivious to the problem. "We were practicing a new tactical play, and Charles said—"
"A ball, Max. This is a formal inter-school ball," George finally turned, his eyes looking distant in the flickering light. "Certain occasions require certain decorum. I cannot... I will not dance the opening waltz with you looking like that."
He turned on his heel just as a tall Durmstrang boy named Nico asked him to dance. George accepted immediately and walked away, never looking back at Max, who was frozen in place.
Did he really not understand?
Back in the Gryffindor Common Room, Max slumped into an armchair by the fire, looking bewildered and hurt. Carlos Sainz sat opposite him, meticulously polishing his wand.
"George is Slytherin, Max," Carlos explained gently. "They’re very particular about decorum and appearance. You know the style—everything has to be elegant and 'proper'."
"But it was our first dance!" Max complained. "The tournament is finally over; we were supposed to celebrate together."
Alex Albon came down the stairs, clutching a stack of books. "I saw George dance two sets with that Durmstrang guy. Now he’s talking to one of the Slytherin girls."
Max bolted upright. "I have to go explain."
"In your Quidditch kit?" Carlos raised an eyebrow.
Max stopped, looking down at his loud, scarlet robes. For the first time, he noticed the jarring contrast between his gear and the subtle, flowing silks of the Slytherin students—it wasn't just a difference in houses, but two entirely different worlds.
"What am I supposed to do?" His voice tinged with genuine panic. "George probably thinks I don't respect his traditions..."
Alex and Carlos exchanged a look. Carlos stood up suddenly. "Wait here."
He hurried up the spiral stairs to the boys' dormitory, returning minutes later with a neatly folded set of dark dress robes.
"These belong to my uncle. He wore them to a Department of International Magical Cooperation dinner," Carlos said, shaking them out. "They might be a bit too formal, but at least they fit the dress code."
The robes were deep plum, exquisitely tailored with intricate silver trim—far more mature and somber than student robes. Max held them up; they looked painfully tight across the shoulders.
"Too small," Max said dejectedly.
Albon pulled out his wand. "Engorgio!"
The robes expanded slightly under the spell, but the cut was still off. Alex frowned, trying a few more adjustment charms. The three of them spent nearly half an hour fussing—using Transfiguration to tweak the fit, Scouring Charms to remove the faint smell of mothballs, and trying to soften the color. The result was what could best be described as "formal attire"—the tailoring was still a bit awkward, but at least it didn't look like sportswear.
"The band is starting their final set," Albon noted, checking the time. "If you want to catch him..."
Max had already pulled on the modified robes. He took a quick glance in the mirror above the hearth, smoothing his hair down. "Well?"
"You look like a teenager trying to pass for an adult," Carlos said honestly. "But it’s a hundred times better than the kit. Go."
The ball was winding down. The band began a final, slow waltz, and the couples on the floor drifted in slow circles. George stood by a pillar draped ingreensilk, having just declined another invitation. His eyes kept darting toward the door, his expression calm, but his fingers were drumming restlessly against his glass.
When Max burst back into the Hall, the final dance had already been playing for a minute. His hair was even messier than before, and the plum robes looked a bit too heavy and stiff on him, but at least he looked like he had tried.
When George saw him, his eyes flickered with a complex mix of emotions—surprise, evaluation, and a tiny, almost imperceptible softening.
Max wove through the crowd, slightly out of breath as he stopped in front of George. "I'm sorry."
"I shouldn't have come in my kit," Max continued, his bluntness feeling incredibly sincere now. "I was too focused on training and I forgot the occasion. I forgot the etiquette. Carlos lent me these, and Alex used a dozen charms... I know it still doesn't look quite right, but..."
He took a deep breath. "Will you have this last dance with me?"
George’s eyebrows rose slightly. The melody was tender and lingering, the lights dimming to create an intimate atmosphere for the finale. George looked from Max’s earnest blue eyes to the ill-fitting but carefully straightened robes, then back to his face. He reached out his hand.
"The last dance."
They stepped onto the floor. Max’s footwork was a bit clumsy, clearly lacking the grace he possessed on a Quidditch broom. George guided him patiently, steering him away from a few missteps.
"Are you really mad at me?" Max asked as they spun.
"A little," George admitted. "I had just finished telling everyone how I’d emphasized the formal dress code to you five times, and then you walked in wearing a jersey. It was quite a 'look', Max."
The music swelled toward the climax, and the ceiling seemed to rain starlight. As the final note faded, Max didn’t let go of George’s hand immediately.
"Next time we dance," he said, "I'll wear something proper. I promise.".