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“Potter! Weasley! Will you pay attention?”

Professor McGonagall’s irritated voice cracked like a whip through the Transfiguration class on Thursday, and Harry and Ron both jumped and looked up.

It was the end of the lesson. They had finished their work; the guinea fowl they had been changing into guinea pigs had been shut away in a large cage on Professor McGonagall’s desk (Neville’s still had feathers), and the bell was due to ring at any moment.

Harry and Ron, who had been having a sword fight with a couple of Fred and George’s fake wands at the back of the class, stared at her, Ron holding a tin parrot and Harry, a rubber haddock.

As McGonagall continued talking, explaining the specifics of the homework task (“Describe, with examples, the ways in which Transforming Spells must be adapted when performing Cross-Species Switches”), Harry—who had heard this explanation before—let his mind wander.

He had not been particularly engaged in any lessons as of late, partially due to the fact he had the second task looming over his head, but also because of something else. Judging by the amount of sporadic giggling issuing from every girl in the class, he was not the only one whose thoughts were elsewhere.

The Yule Ball was approaching. A week ago, finding a partner for a dance was the last thing on Harry’s mind, and with the prospect of once again facing a Hungarian Horntail, he hadn’t considered it all that much. But now that he had done the latter, and needed to ask a girl to the ball, he thought he’d rather have another round with the dragon.

Harry had never known so many people to put their names down to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas; he always did, of course, because the alternative was usually going back to Privet Drive, but he had always been very much in the minority before now. This year, as predicted, it seemed that everyone in the fourth year and above was staying, and they all seemed to Harry to be obsessed with the coming ball — or at least all the girls were.

In truth, Harry had not given very much thought to who he was going to take. He had attempted to ask Cho Chang; a very pretty Ravenclaw girl in the year above, but she’d decided to take Cedric Diggory instead and, deflated by the rejection, he couldn’t bring himself to find anyone else. He’d begun to resign himself to datelessness, which wouldn’t be completely terrible considering Ron hadn’t yet found a girl to take either, however, after voicing this thought to Ron, Ron had said—

“Listen, you’re not going to have any trouble. You’re a champion. You’ve just beaten a Hungarian Horntail. I bet they’ll be queuing up to go with you.”

In tribute to their recently repaired friendship, Ron had kept the bitterness in his voice to a bare minimum. Moreover, to Harry’s amazement, he turned out to be quite right.

A curly-haired third-year Hufflepuff girl to whom Harry had never spoken in his life asked him to go to the ball with her the very next day. Harry was so taken aback that he said no before he’d even stopped to consider the matter. The girl walked off looking rather hurt, and Harry had to endure Dean’s, Seamus’s, and Ron’s taunts about her all through History of Magic. The following day, two more girls asked him, a second year and (to his horror) a fifth year who looked as though she might knock him out if he refused. It was this phenomenon that prevented him making any real progress on who to ask himself, much to the chagrin of his peers.

The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of activity as everyone packed their bags and swung them onto their shoulders.

As Harry and Ron exited Transfiguration, Harry found himself suddenly face to face with a rather harried-looking Malfoy.

“Potter,” she said breathlessly, as though she had just run all the way to the sixth floor from the entrance hall. “D’you think — could I… could I have a word?”

Harry glanced at Ron, who stared bewilderedly between them, and there was a very pointed silence for a moment before Hermione appeared from behind Ron, her brows drawn into a frown.

“Why do you want to talk to Harry?” she asked Malfoy suspiciously. A flicker of haughty annoyance crossed Malfoy’s face at this, but strangely, rather than insulting Hermione, she merely flicked her silvery-blonde hair over her shoulder and huffed.

“Never you mind, Granger,” she said, then looked at Harry. “Well? Are you just going to stand there gawking?”

Harry closed his mouth self-consciously.

“No,” he said. “I… er…” He looked at Ron again helplessly, however Ron merely shrugged, then waved him away. Harry stared at Malfoy, who was watching him with her lips pursed tightly, before he gave in and followed Malfoy down the corridor toward a large tapestry of a centaur getting beheaded.

“Alright, what?” he asked, turning around to look at Malfoy as they came to a halt. “If this is about Crabbe and your stupid badges again, I really don’t care what they—”

“It’s not,” said Malfoy sharply.

As Harry looked up, he suddenly noticed that Malfoy looked white as a sheet, and she seemed to be sweating rather a lot.

“Er, okay…” said Harry, reaching forward automatically before he realised what he was doing and quickly pulled his hand away. There was a pointed pause.

“I have a proposition,” said Malfoy importantly. Harry opened his mouth. “Don’t speak,” she snapped. “Father wants me to use the ball as a chance to make connections with powerful international wizards.”

Harry had no idea where this was going.

“He seems to think that I’ll struggle to meet wizards of…” Her nose crinkled distastefully. “Adequate importance, unless I’m able to sit at the champions table. So I’ve decided to offer you an opportunity.”

Harry blinked at her. He waited five seconds, then ten, but when it became clear that no further explanation was forthcoming, Harry rolled his eyes.

“And that opportunity is…?” he prompted, unimpressed. He noticed idly that Malfoy’s hands were shaking. She stuffed them in her robes.

“I’ll allow you to take me as your date to the Yule Ball.”

“You’ll—what?” said Harry, sure he’d misheard. His mouth had gone oddly dry. “What did you say?”

Malfoy looked around herself awkwardly, and her cheeks darkened almost imperceptibly before she steeled herself and met his gaze once again.

“You can take me to the ball,” she said. “As your date—for one night only,” she added, as though there had been any doubt in his mind about that.

Harry searched her eyes for some trace of amusement or mockery, but found nothing.

“I—are you… are you serious?” he said blankly. “You mean, you want to go to the ball with me? With—with me?”

“I don’t want to,” she said viciously. “But we all must make sacrifices for the greater good of our careers.”

“And, what? You s’pose I’m just so desperate to take you that I’ll immediately say yes?” said Harry scornfully. “There are loads of girls who are much nicer than you are. I don’t know what made you think I’d ever want to take you as my date.”

A flicker of vulnerability passed across Malfoy’s face, then it was gone.

“So you’re rejecting my offer?” she said coolly.

Harry blanched. Though his immediate reaction had been dismissal, he gave himself a moment to truly consider what she was suggesting…

If he took Malfoy as his date to the ball, he’d no longer have to cast around for excuses every time a stranger tried to ask him, he could just say he already had a date. He could give her the slip easily to hang out with Ron and Hermione, because she’d almost certainly be caught up with her international relations, and he wouldn’t have to bother trying to ask somebody decent on his own. Moreover, he might even get away with a compromise…

“I’ll accept your offer,” said Harry reasonably, and Malfoy’s face lit up. “But—” he added— “you have to promise you’ll stop being mean to people from now on.”

Malfoy gave a cold laugh.

“Forget it, then,” she scoffed. “I’ll take Blaise.”

“Stop for a year?” said Harry. Malfoy raised her brows.

“A month?”

“A year,” Harry persisted, scowling.

“Two months,” said Malfoy.

“Deal’s off.”

Malfoy rolled her eyes as though Harry were hugely inconveniencing her.

“How about, I promise not to be mean to any of the younger students for a year,” she said. “How’s that?”

“And Muggleborns,” said Harry. “And Neville,” he added quickly. Malfoy arched a perfectly manicured brow.

“Why does Longbottom get special treatment?”

“You know he’s scared of you,” said Harry exasperatedly, and Malfoy laughed. It wasn’t the cold, high laugh that he was used to, but a real, warm laugh. A cheerful laugh.

“Fine,” she conceded, her eyes twinkling. “No being ‘mean’ to Mud—errr…leborns or younger students, or ‘Neville’ for a year. Happy?”

“Very,” said Harry. “And—could you stop making fun of Ron’s hair? Just for one night?”

“Everybody makes fun of Weasley’s hair,” said Malfoy puzzledly, as though this made it remotely better. Harry raised his brows. Malfoy sighed. “Fine,” she conceded. “So bossy.”

“Excuse me?” said Harry sharply.

“Nothing!” said Malfoy, and before Harry had a chance to react, she leaned forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. She pulled back and winked. “See you at the ball, date.”

And with that she walked away, leaving Harry standing alone, reeling and confused and a little stirred up.

The last week of term became increasingly boisterous as it progressed. Rumours about the Yule Ball were flying everywhere, though Harry didn’t believe half of them—for instance, that Dumbledore had bought eight hundred barrels of mulled mead from Madam Rosmerta. It seemed to be fact, however, that he had booked the Weird Sisters. Exactly who or what the Weird Sisters were, Harry could only guess at, never having had access to a wizard’s wireless, but it was easily deduced from the wild excitement of those who had grown up listening to the WWN (Wizarding Wireless Network) that they were a very famous musical group.

Some of the teachers, like Professor Flitwick, gave up trying to teach them much when their minds were so clearly elsewhere; he allowed them to play games in his lesson on Wednesday, and spent most of it talking to Harry about the perfect Summoning Charm he had used during the first task of the Triwizard Tournament.

Other teachers were not so generous. Professors McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the very last second of their classes, and Snape, of course, would no sooner let them play games in class than award Harry the best marks in the year. Staring nastily around at them all, he informed them that he would be testing them on poison antidotes during the last lesson of the term.

“Evil, he is,” Ron said bitterly that night in the Gryffindor common room. “Springing a test on us on the last day. Ruining the last bit of term with a whole load of studying.”

“Mmm… you’re not exactly straining yourself, though, are you?” said Hermione, looking at him over the top of her Potions notes.

Ron was busy building a card castle out of his Exploding Snap pack—a much more interesting pastime than with Muggle cards, because of the chance that the whole thing would blow up at any second.

“It’s Christmas, Hermione,” said Harry lazily; he was rereading Flying with the Cannons for the tenth time in an armchair near the fire.

Hermione looked severely over at him too. “I’d have thought you’d be doing something productive, Harry, even if you don’t want to learn your antidotes!”

“Like what?” Harry said as he watched Joey Jenkins of the Cannons belt a Bludger toward a Ballycastle Bats Chaser.

“That egg!” Hermione hissed.

“Leave him alone, Hermione, he’s earned a bit of a break,” said Ron, and he placed the last two cards on top of the castle so that the whole lot blew up, singeing his eyebrows.

“Nice look, Ron… go well with your dress robes, that will.”

It was Fred and George. They sat down at the table with Harry, Ron, and Hermione as Ron felt how much damage had been done.

“Ron, can we borrow Pigwidgeon?” George asked.

“No, he’s off delivering a letter,” said Ron. “Why?”

“Because George wants to invite him to the ball,” said Fred sarcastically.

“Because we want to send a letter, you stupid great prat,” said George.

“Who d’you two keep writing to?” said Ron.

Fred and George ignored him. Instead, Fred turned to Harry and Hermione and asked, “So… you lot got dates for the ball yet?”

“Nope,” said Ron.

Harry went rigid in his seat, and Flying with the Cannons slipped out of his grasp. He had not yet told anyone who he was going with, for fear that it would not be received well. Ron, Hermione and most of Harry’s other Gryffindor friends hated Malfoy more than nearly anybody else in the school, and though he might usually get away with taking somebody they hadn’t approved, Harry worried that Ron—who’d only recently forgiven him for being picked as Triwizard Champion—would think taking Malfoy as a date to the ball was a step too far.

He was saved from answering by Fred, who had perched himself on the arm of the sofa beside Ron, and was leaning heavily into his personal space.

“Well, you’d better hurry up, mate, or all the good ones will be gone.”

“Who’re you going with, then?” said Ron.

“Angelina,” said Fred promptly, without a trace of embarrassment.

“What?” said Ron, taken aback. “You’ve already asked her?”

“Good point,” said Fred. He turned his head and called across the common room, “Oi! Angelina!”

Angelina, who had been chatting with Alicia Spinnet near the fire, looked over at him.

“What?” she called back.

“Want to come to the ball with me?”

Angelina gave Fred an appraising sort of look.

“All right, then,” she said, and she turned back to Alicia and carried on chatting with a bit of a grin on her face.

“There you go,” said Fred to Harry and Ron, “piece of cake.”

He got to his feet, yawning, and said, “We’d better use a school owl then, George, come on.”

They left. Ron stopped feeling his eyebrows and looked across the smoldering wreck of his card castle at Harry.

“We should get a move on, you know… ask someone. He’s right. We don’t want to end up with a pair of trolls.”

Hermione spluttered indignantly at these words, but Harry was too preoccupied with his thoughts to say anything. She glanced between Ron and Harry, as if seeking endorsement from Harry for her outrage, however she seemed to catch something else in Harry’s gaze, as she narrowed her eyes suspiciously.

“What is it?” she said, and Harry stiffened.

“What?” said Ron.

“Not you,” said Hermione, honed in entirely on Harry, “Harry. What is it? Why have you gone all…” she waved a hand noncommittally.

Harry blinked. He could not suppress the red blush fighting its way up his neck. Hermione gasped.

“Someone’s asked you!” she exclaimed, and Harry cringed.

Ron stared at him in disbelief.

“Harry?” he said, nonplussed.

“Er — well…” Harry started, flushing, not sure how to broach the topic without starting a lot of gossip.

“Bloody hell!” cried Ron, “And you didn’t think to mention it?”

“Oh, stop it, Ron!” said Hermione imperiously, “Harry probably wants to keep it quiet, you know, because everyone will be so interested in whoever he’s taking…”

“You could have at least told us!” Ron continued, much quieter this time as he leaned in towards Harry, “Well?” he said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Who is it?”

Harry blinked, “I… I can’t tell you, yet.”

Hermione frowned, “Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing,” said Harry, for lack of a better reason.

It wasn’t embarrassing, not really. It had been almost a week since Malfoy asked him, and to be entirely honest, he was feeling quite happy about it now. It gave him a good excuse to turn down all the shallow, admiring girls who had definitely been ignoring him until after he defeated a dragon, and it meant he had one less thing to worry about.

In addition to this, since that conversation on Thursday, Harry had found himself thinking more and more about Malfoy. He liked the thought that people might think he and Malfoy were together, which seemed ridiculous because he didn’t really like anything about her… aside from her eyes, and her soft skin… and her long, silvery-blonde hair…

Harry shook his head to dispel these strange thoughts. Despite his growing fondness toward Malfoy, this was indubitably not something that he wanted Ron or Hermione to know about yet, or even worse, Fred and George. It was something he would prefer to keep to himself for as long as possible, and luckily, Hermione seemed to understand this line of thinking.

“That’s all right, Harry,” she said, “You don’t have to tell us yet if you don’t want to.”

Harry smiled at her. Ron looked as though he’d have liked to say something more, but after a quelling look from Hermione, he remained silent.

Over the course of the next few weeks, the Hogwarts staff, demonstrating a continued desire to impress the visitors from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, seemed determined to show the castle at its best over Christmas. When the decorations went up, Harry noticed that they were the most stunning he had yet seen inside the school.

Everlasting icicles had been attached to the banisters of the marble staircase; the usual twelve Christmas trees in the Great Hall were bedecked with everything from luminous holly berries to real, hooting, golden owls, and the suits of armour had all been bewitched to sing carols whenever anyone passed them. It was quite something to hear “O Come, All Ye Faithful” sung by an empty helmet that only knew half the words.

Several times, Filch the caretaker had to extract Peeves from inside the armour, where he had taken to hiding, filling in the gaps in the songs with lyrics of his own invention, all of which were very rude.

In this time, Ron began to get very nervous, as he was yet to ask anyone to the Yule Ball; however, to his great surprise, he and Harry discovered that Hermione had already asked someone. Harry expected this might happen, however it occurred after a rather awkward sequence of events, as Harry entered the Gryffindor common room early in the evening.

Making his way through the portrait hole after a very jolly Fat Lady had trilled at him, Harry looked around, and he saw Ron sitting ashen-faced in a distant corner. Ginny was sitting with him, talking to him in what seemed to be a low, soothing voice.

“What’s up, Ron?” said Harry, joining them.

Ron looked up at Harry, a sort of blind horror on his face.

“Why did I do it?” he said wildly. “I don’t know what made me do it!”

“What?” said Harry.

“He—er—just asked Fleur Delacour to go to the ball with him,” said Ginny. She looked as though she was fighting back a smile, but she kept patting Ron’s arm sympathetically.

“You what?” said Harry, dumbfounded.

“I don’t know what made me do it!” Ron gasped again. “What was I playing at? There were people—all around—I’ve gone mad—everyone watching! I was just walking past her in the entrance hall—she was standing there talking to Malfoy—“

Harry’s stomach did a sort of swoop at the mention of Malfoy, like he’d missed a step walking downstairs.

“—and it just came over me—and I asked her!”

Ron moaned and put his face in his hands. He kept talking, though the words were barely distinguishable.

“She looked at me like I was a sea slug or something. Didn’t even answer. And then—I dunno—I just sort of came to my senses and ran for it.”

“She’s part veela,” said Harry seriously. “You were right—her grandmother was one. It wasn’t your fault, I bet you just walked past when she was turning up the charm for someone.”

“This is mad,” said Ron. “I’m the only one left who hasn’t got anyone—well, except Neville. Hey—guess who he asked? Hermione!”

“What?” said Harry, completely distracted by this startling news.

“Yeah, I know!” said Ron, some of the colour coming back into his face as he started to laugh. “He told me after Potions! Said she’s always been really nice, helping him out with work and stuff—but she told him she was already going with someone. Ha! As if! She just didn’t want to go with Neville… I mean, who would?”

“Don’t!” said Ginny, annoyed. “Don’t laugh—”

Just then Hermione climbed in through the portrait hole.

“Why weren’t you two at dinner?” she said, coming over to join them.

“Because—oh shut up laughing, you two—because Ron’s just been turned down by the girl he asked to the ball!” said Ginny.

That shut Ron up.

“Thanks a bunch, Ginny,” said Ron sourly.

“All the good-looking ones taken, Ron?” said Hermione loftily, a fact for which Harry was quite glad, because it meant that nobody was interested in where he had been. He had, in fact, been watching Malfoy.

“Eloise Midgen starting to look quite pretty now, is she?” continued Hermione irritably, impervious to Harry’s inner turmoil, “Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone somewhere who’ll have you.”

Ron was not paying attention to her words. Instead, he was staring at Hermione as though suddenly seeing her in a whole new light.

“Hermione, Neville’s right—you are a girl…”

“Oh well spotted,” she said acidly.

“Well—you can come with me!” he suggested, as if this was a truly revolutionary idea.

“No, I can’t,” snapped Hermione.

“Oh come on,” he said impatiently, “I need a partner, I’m going to look really stupid if I haven’t got anyone, everyone else has…”

“I can’t come with you,” said Hermione, now blushing, “because I’m already going with someone.”

Harry smiled at Hermione, but Ron seemed intent upon believing that Hermione was simply having them on, and that she had not truly gotten a partner.

“No, you’re not!” said Ron. “You just said that to get rid of Neville!”

“Oh did I?” said Hermione, and her eyes flashed dangerously. “Just because it’s taken you three years to notice, Ron, doesn’t mean no one else has spotted I’m a girl!”

Ron stared at her. Then he grinned again.

“Okay, okay, we know you’re a girl,” he said. “That do? Will you come now?”

“I’ve already told you!” Hermione said very angrily. “I’m going with someone else!”

And she stormed off toward the portrait hole again.

“She’s lying,” said Ron flatly, watching her go.

“She’s not,” said Ginny quietly.

“Who is it then?” said Ron sharply.

“I’m not telling you, it’s her business,” said Ginny.

“Right,” said Ron, who looked extremely put out, “this is getting stupid. What are you all worked up about?” he turned on Ginny, who had also gone scarlet.

“I’m going with—with Neville,” she said, and Ron gaped, “He asked me when Hermione said no, and I thought… well… I’m not going to be able to go otherwise, I’m not in fourth year.” She looked extremely miserable. “I think I’ll go and have dinner,” she said, and she got up and walked off to the portrait hole, her head bowed.

Ron goggled at Harry.

“What’s got into them?” he demanded.

Harry would have liked to agree with him, and ordinarily he would have, but for once, he could not help but take Hermione’s side. He certainly understood the reluctance to tell one’s friends about a date, and Ron insisting that Hermione would not have been able to get someone would surely have only made it worse.

Unwilling to directly contradict Ron due to their careful new friendship as of late, Harry merely shrugged, but rose from where he was sitting to go and look for Hermione.

Ron let him go without another word, far too absorbed in whatever was going on in his own head to care what Harry was up to, and Harry made his way over to the portrait hole, right where Ginny had just disappeared.

It did not take long to find Hermione. She was in the library, with a book on antidotes open in her lap, although it was quite obvious to anyone looking that she was not reading. Her legs were balled up to her chest, and she had pressed a clothed arm to her nose in an attempt to muffle her quiet sobs.

”Hermione?” asked Harry gently.

She looked up at the sound of his voice, and quickly wiped her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her sleeve.

“Are you all right?” said Harry, taking a seat beside her.

It was almost past curfew, but Madam Pince could clearly see that Hermione was upset, and Harry didn’t think even she, with all her many strict rules, would be cruel enough to kick them out immediately.

“Yes,” sniffled Hermione, abandoning all pretence and shoving the book across the desk, “Thanks, Harry.”

“I think I sort of understand how you’re feeling,” said Harry tentatively, a bit unsure how to make her feel better, “I didn’t want to tell anyone who I was going with either. I thought people would make fun of me.”

Hermione blinked up at him. Her eyes were very sad and watery, but there seemed to be some level of hope beneath them, and she offered him a small smile.

“It’s Viktor Krum,” she said without preamble.

Harry was so surprised at her forthcoming attitude that it took several moments for him to come up with an appropriate response, which was lucky, because it gave Hermione time to recover herself.

“You—you—really?” he said, awestruck.

Hermione nodded, a sheepish smile on her face.

In truth, Harry was extremely impressed. Hermione had never seemed very bothered with Viktor Krum, and it was obvious she found his twittering fan club to be extremely annoying, but perhaps that had all been a front. He was very good at Quidditch, and Harry supposed he must be quite smart, given that he was always hanging around the library all the time…

“Wait,” he said suddenly as a thought occurred to him, feeling stupid for only now realising it, “So, Krum always being in the library… that wasn’t because of you, was it?”

Hermione giggled, and for once Harry found that he didn’t find it irritating, like giggling usually was.

“It might’ve been,” she said mysteriously, “I didn’t actually ask him about that, when he asked me. I was more than a little starstruck.”

Harry nodded in understanding, and a comfortable silence settled between them. It had started to rain outside, the sound harsh and sharp on the window panes. It made it difficult to hear anything but the noise of the raindrops and Hermione’s voice directly beside him, but Harry found it quite relaxing, and there was barely anybody else in the library anyway. He decided, in this instance, it was probably safe to tell her who he was going with—if only as an exchange of information.

“I’m going with Malfoy,” said Harry.

He looked up at Hermione, not sure what sort of reaction was expecting, and was met with her mouth hanging open in astonishment.

“You’re going with Malfoy?” she said, “Draco Malfoy?”

She was staring at him very seriously, as though looking for some sort of explanation in his eyes, and Harry nodded, feeling his face flush red. He had not thought he could say anything that could possibly be more shocking than her going to the ball with famed Quidditch star Viktor Krum, but apparently he had been wrong.

“But—but—do you like her?!” she said loudly, then, realising they were in the library, she lowered her voice to a hushed whisper, “I mean—but she’s so—how did you—?”

Her face had turned red, too, and Harry shushed her quickly.

“Look, it’s just a professional thing—“ he amended, abandoning any hope of suggesting it might be more than platonic. He had forgotten how interested everybody was in his love life.

“Oooh, Harry, did she ask you? You know, even though she’s horrible, it’d make sense if she was only teasing you because she fancies you. And she’s actually quite pretty, if you look past all the—“

“Shush!” said Harry, as Hermione’s voice was getting higher and louder the longer she spoke, “Don’t let Ron hear you say that,” he said in lieu of answering, because he found that unfortunately, he rather agreed with her. Hermione scoffed. “She asked me last week, and said she wanted to go together, because —”

“Ooh!” yelped Hermione, and Harry gave up on trying to quiet her. Hopefully Madam Pince took pity on them for Hermione’s earlier sobbing, and would not come over to interrupt. “So she did ask you? Oh, Harry, you don’t think maybe she likes you, do you?” she grinned.

Harry flushed. “It’s just a formal thing, Hermione,” he said, feeling embarrassed at how much her words stirred something in him. “She wants to be at the Champions table because of her dad—y’know, making connections or whatever…”

Could Malfoy like him? It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility… but then, Harry supposed, Malfoy had never expressed any interest in someone other than Blaise Zabini, so it was hard to say whether she might fancy somebody like him after all. She certainly didn’t like Gryffindors, but was that something she might overlook?

They waited a bit longer in the library, discussing the ball in hushed voices, before returning to the common room. The rain had quietened, and Hermione was leaning comfortably against Harry’s shoulder. It was only when Madam Pince, the librarian, discovered that they were still there past curfew; which caused her to throw them out into the corridor with a warning that if they were found in there after hours again, she would be handing out detentions.

Hermione held Harry’s arm all the way back to Gryffindor Tower.

“Oh this is good,” she said, looking much happier now than when Harry had first sat down beside her, “I can’t wait to see the look on Ron’s face when he sees who we’re going with.”

Though he did not voice it aloud, Harry thought privately that she deserved this little bit of vindication. He only hoped that Ron’s wrath would be mostly occupied with two targets, and he would not be facing the brunt of it himself.

Despite the very heavy load of homework that the fourth years had been given for the holidays, Harry was in no mood to work when term ended, and spent the week leading up to Christmas enjoying himself as fully as possible along with everyone else. Gryffindor Tower was hardly less crowded now than during term-time; it seemed to have shrunk slightly too, as its inhabitants were being so much rowdier than usual.

Snow was falling thickly upon the castle and its grounds. The pale blue Beauxbatons carriage looked like a large, chilly, frosted pumpkin next to the gingerbread house that was Hagrid’s cabin, while the Durmstrang ship’s portholes were glazed with ice, the rigging white with frost. The house-elves down in the kitchen were outdoing themselves with a series of rich, warming stews and savory puddings, and only Fleur Delacour seemed to be able to find anything to complain about.

“It is too ‘eavy, all this ‘Ogwarts food,” they heard her saying grumpily as they left the Great Hall behind her one evening. “I will not fit into my dress robes!”

“Oooh there’s a tragedy,” Hermione snapped as Fleur went out into the entrance hall. “She really thinks a lot of herself, doesn’t she?”

“Hermione—who are you going to the ball with?” said Ron.

He kept springing this question on her, hoping to startle her into a response by asking it when she least expected it. It was quite difficult for Harry to keep quiet about the whole thing, as now that he had been told that Hermione would be attending with Krum (and therefore, would be one of the first to dance), she had taken it upon herself to teach Harry how to dance, too.

These sessions were mostly held in empty classrooms after dinner time, or occasionally at lunch when Ron had some other occupation. He was none the wiser to this small extra-curricular dance club they’d started, but Harry thought that if he knew, Ron would not be very pleased that they were doing it without him.

However, Hermione handled Ron’s querying a lot better than Harry would have, as she merely frowned and said, “I’m not telling you, you’ll just make fun of me.”

Ron denied this, and although Harry was sure Ron would not make fun of Hermione if he knew who she was taking to the ball, he also agreed that it probably wasn’t a good idea to tell him who it was. Ron had been quite on edge recently, what with Harry’s sudden admirers and Hermione’s mystery date—when he himself had only found a date (Padma Patil) at the very last minute—and it was for this reason that Harry thought it best to hold off divulging any inflammatory information until absolutely necessary.

It was a calm and quiet evening, with Ron and George playing Exploding Snap in the common room, thereby allowing Harry and Hermione to slip off to an empty classroom undetected. They had organised three unofficial dance lessons together so far and, to Harry’s chagrin, he was not improving particularly quickly. He wasn’t terrible, but he certainly wasn’t good; however up until now they had been dancing without music, which made it much harder to keep in time with the many complicated steps.

Hermione offered to bring music to their next session in an effort to make things easier for both of them, and although Harry did not know how she planned to do this, because Muggle technology went haywire around Hogwarts, he agreed.

It was for this reason that—when he walked into their usual Transfiguration classroom on the fourth floor and saw not only Hermione, but Malfoy waiting there for him—Harry nearly slipped as he kicked the ice off his shoes.

His display of nearly falling over was enough to grab their attention, and both turned to look at him. Harry willed his cheeks not to burn and pretended to be occupied with stomping the snow from his boot.

“Hi, Harry!” said Hermione brightly.

Feeling that he could ignore them no longer, he looked up, “Hi, Hermione,” he said awkwardly, then shot a nervous glance at Malfoy, who was watching him with thinly veiled amusement.

“I invited Malfoy,” said Hermione, apparently sensing Harry’s thoughts, “Because you’re going with her, so I thought it would be better if you could practice together.”

“Oh, right,” said Harry, forcing a smile as he stared between them. “That makes sense.”

He wished Hermione had told him about bringing Malfoy first. For one thing, he was amazed that they’d managed to put aside their prejudices in light of such a small thing as Malfoy going to the ball with a friend of Hermione’s, but he supposed girls were complicated. Perhaps this was an important step in girl culture.

He’d been hoping to get a little better at dancing before having to actually practice with Malfoy herself, but it was too late now and Malfoy’s expression of amusement had faded into something apprehensive; Harry did not want her to think his hesitation was anything to do with her, rather than Harry’s own terrible dancing skills. He swallowed his pride.

“I’m—er—I’m not very good.” Harry said to his feet, then glanced up at Malfoy, who was watching him intently.

Malfoy’s smile turned to something soft, “That’s fine,” she said, then she smirked, “Luckily for you, I am very good, so whatever happens we won’t be completely disastrous.”

Harry scowled at her, but Malfoy’s teasing relaxed him somewhat. He knew they weren’t taking it seriously.

“Okay, I’ve got the music here,” said Hermione, and she gestured to what looked like a wooden box with the end of a trumpet sticking out of the top.

“What’s that?” said Harry, walking over to it.

“A record player,” said Hermione proudly, and Harry frowned. He glanced at Malfoy, who shrugged—Harry supposed she would be the least likely to know what it was, as it was probably a Muggle invention.

“I’ve never seen one like that before,” he said curiously, running a finger along the metal part.

Uncle Vernon had a record player, but it was flat and made of a black sort of rubber on the parts where the vinyls weren’t going to be playing, with a few buttons and knobs to adjust volume. This one looked completely different.

“Yes, well,” said Hermione, “it’s vintage, I had to get my dad to send it over from a shop near his work. It’s the only Muggle music player that won’t go mad because of all the magic at Hogwarts.”

“Oh,” said Harry. “What does it play?”

“I’m not actually sure,” said Hermione, frowning at it. “My dad sent a few records to try, too, so we’ll just have to do our best with those.”

She selected a flat envelope of cardboard from a pile resting beside the record player and turned it upside-down. A thin, glassy-looking black disk slipped into her hand, and she lifted a golden needle on the wooden box before placing the disk underneath.

She fiddled around with the record player a bit more, with both Harry and Malfoy watching her quizzically, when the pleasant notes of a trombone drifted through the air, followed by the gentle voice of a woman singing:

Stars shining bright above you,

Night breezes seem to whisper, I love you

Birds singin’ in the sycamore trees

Dream a little dream of me…

“Oooh, it works!” squealed Hermione, as the song continued to play quietly in the background. Harry glanced at Malfoy, who looked utterly fascinated by the contraption in front of her. “Okay, I think you two should dance together first,” Hermione continued, “because Harry needs the most help,” she shot him an apologetic glance.

“Wait, you want us to dance to this?” Harry said incredulously, flushing.

He had been so distracted watching the record player that he had forgotten why they were there in the first place. The nice music now seemed even more dopey and romantic than Mrs. Weasley’s Celestina Warbeck tracks, particularly when Harry was faced with the prospect of dancing to it with Malfoy.

“It’s a slow dance!” said Hermione, “You have to get a bit of practice with proper music!”

“Alright,” said Malfoy, cutting off any of Harry’s potential protests, “I’ll try leading you first, because I know what to do, then we can swap over, okay?”

Harry nodded stiffly. Hermione waved her wand and the music became suddenly louder, filling the room with the singer’s sweet voice. Malfoy took a step closer. Harry instinctively stepped back.

Malfoy laughed. “You need to let me touch you if this is going to work, you know.”

“Touch me?” Harry choked, his face burning. He did not think he was handling this dancing malarkey terribly well.

“Here,” Malfoy said, stepping forward and ignoring Harry’s awkward blabbing, “Put your left arm on my right shoulder — no, other left — yes,” Harry rested his hand on her shoulder, feeling very hot all over and a bit silly. “All right, now take my hand —“

He slipped his free hand into hers, and realised with a silent flutter of delight that it was soft and warm, and their fingers slotted perfectly together. Malfoy then tucked her right elbow beneath Harry’s left armpit, bringing them closer; she placed her right hand on Harry’s shoulder blade, and guided him gently sideways.

“See?” she said, as she moved them in a sort of slow spin, “It’s not hard, mostly you just need to follow what I’m doing.”

“Oh, you’re much better at explaining it than me,” said Hermione with a sigh from somewhere behind Malfoy.

Harry glanced over Malfoy’s shoulder and caught Hermione’s eye—he had almost forgotten she was there—but she did not seem bothered, she was grinning at him with a sharp smile, one which Harry wasn’t used to seeing on her face, and he ducked out of her line of sight hoping that she could not tell what he was thinking.

“All right, now you’ve got the positioning, we need to do the steps,” said Malfoy importantly, completely oblivious to Harry’s internal panic, “Move your left foot about six inches that way, then bring your right foot over. Repeat this step by stepping to the left with your left foot again and moving your right foot over it.”

She demonstrated the step pattern, briefly releasing Harry to show him, and once they rejoined it was much easier to follow now that Harry had seen it performed in front of him.

“Okay,” he said awkwardly, “What are you going to do, then?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” said Malfoy, “I’ve been taking dancing lessons since I was a toddler. Just do what I told you and I’ll keep us in sync, it’ll be easier that way than you trying to copy me.”

Harry shot Hermione an amused grin. She had been teaching him—to little effect—by asking him to copy her own dance moves. She smiled sheepishly.

The song was nearly over now, but Malfoy and Harry spun slowly around the room, following the step pattern with Harry occasionally stepping on Malfoy’s feet as the song came to a close:

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you

Leave the worries behind you

But in your dreams, whatever may be

You've gotta make me a promise, promise to me

You'll dream, dream a little dream of me…

They finished and Malfoy told him that he was okay, but there was room for improvement; which Harry thought wasn’t too bad considering how disastrously he had been dancing with Hermione in their previous lessons, and Malfoy’s usual tendency to grossly exaggerate the deficiency of his skills.

Hermione put on a much faster song, by a singer that neither Harry nor Malfoy had heard of (which she seemed extremely outraged about), called ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’. It was a much better song, in Harry’s opinion, than the slow one they had first danced to, because it did not remind him at all of Celestina Warbeck’s ’A Cauldron Full Of Hot Strong Love’; and they were soon spinning around and around the empty classroom, having a very good time indeed.

Halfway through the second chorus, Hermione insisted they swap over, and Malfoy began to spin her around and around instead, causing her dark robes to twirl like a billowing black wind behind them. They swapped again right before the end of the song, and Harry was so terrible when paired with Hermione once again that they were all in fits of laughter by the time it was over.

“Well!” said Hermione happily after they had bid goodbye to Malfoy, and started the journey through the elaborately decorated corridors to Gryffindor Tower. “I think that went really well!”

Harry grinned, he was feeling quite happy about it too, because he had danced with Malfoy and it wasn’t terrible—it was very far from terrible, in fact—and he had an inkling that Malfoy enjoyed it almost as much as he had.

“Let’s just hope Ron isn’t too curious where we’ve been,” said Harry, “I’d have liked to invite him, but I don’t think he and Malfoy…” he trailed off.

Hermione nodded in agreement, “I’m sure they’ll get there eventually. For now, let’s just avoid mentioning it.”

When they reached the common room, Ron did not ask them about where they had been. He was sitting on a sofa with Fred, George and Ginny, surrounded by a pile of delicious looking pastries from the kitchens.

“Look, Harry, Hermione!” he called across the room, an iced bun halfway to his mouth, “The house-elves gave us a load of food!”

Harry and Hermione shared a last secretive glance, then went over to join him.

Harry awoke very suddenly on Christmas Day. Wondering what had caused his abrupt return to consciousness, he opened his eyes, and saw something with very large, round, green eyes staring back at him in the darkness, so close they were almost nose to nose.

“Dobby!” Harry yelled, scrambling away from the elf so fast he almost fell out of bed. “Don’t do>/em> that!”

“Dobby is sorry, sir!” squeaked Dobby anxiously, jumping backward with his long fingers over his mouth. “Dobby is only wanting to wish Harry Potter ‘Merry Christmas’ and bring him a present, sir! Harry Potter did say Dobby could come and see him sometimes, sir!”

“It’s okay,” said Harry, still breathing rather faster than usual, “Just… next time, prod me or something instead, alright?”

Dobby nodded, and his huge ears flapped with the movement.

Harry pulled back the curtains around his four-poster, took his glasses from his bedside table, and put them on. His yell had awoken Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville. All of them were peering through the gaps in their own hangings, heavy-eyed and tousle-haired.

“Someone attacking you, Harry?” Seamus asked sleepily.

“No, it’s just Dobby,” Harry muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

“Nah… presents!” said Seamus, spotting the large pile at the foot of his bed.

Ron, Dean, and Neville decided that now they were awake they might as well get down to some present-opening too. This went on for some time, and when Ron offered Dobby this year’s bobbly, homemade sweater from Mrs. Weasley, Dobby came very close to tears, and would not stop waxing lyrical about Ron’s ‘noble, generous, selfless nature…’.

Dobby also gifted Harry some homemade socks, which Harry thought was a very sweet gesture, in spite of the fact that the socks were mismatched, and far too knobbly to be worn with shoes. He slipped them on, sending Dobby close to tears once again, before Dobby announced that they were already making Christmas dinner down in the kitchens, and disappeared with a pop.

Harry’s other presents were much more satisfactory than Dobby’s odd socks—with the obvious exception of the Dursleys’, which consisted of a single tissue, an all-time low. Hermione had given Harry a book called Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland; Ron, a bulging bag of Dungbombs; Sirius, a handy penknife with attachments to unlock any lock and undo any knot; and Hagrid, a vast box of sweets including all Harry’s favorites. There was also, of course, Mrs. Weasley’s usual package, including a new sweater (green, with a picture of a dragon on it—Harry supposed Charlie had told her all about the Horntail), and a large quantity of homemade mince pies.

In amongst this wonderful group, Harry lifted from the pile a small, black velvet box, which had no letter attached and no indication of who had sent it. Glancing over at Dean, then at Ron beside him, who was opening Hermione’s gift (another book), it seemed that nobody else had any idea who had delivered such a gift.

Tentatively, Harry opened it up. You could never be too careful with Wizarding presents, as Fred and George had proven as of late with their new line of joke sweets.

But it was not a sweet. Carefully slipping a hand beneath it, Harry lifted from a bed of tissue what looked like a thin, golden wristwatch. Its face was forest green, with each number on the clock face surrounded by tiny gold snakes, the covering over the top appeared to be made of a fine sort of crystal. It was undoubtedly the most beautiful piece of jewellery Harry had ever seen.

“Wot’s tha’?” said Ron thickly, through a mouthful of chocolate frog.

Harry stared at the watch, then held it up so that Ron could see, “I don’t know,” he said, “It’s really nice, but I’ve got no idea who gave it to me. Do you think the house-elves made a mistake?”

Ron shook his head, then made a muffled sort of choking sound, before he swallowed his mouthful of frog with a big gulp.

“Nah,” he said, “House-elves never make mistakes like that, it’s part of their magic—they’d probably have to punish themselves if they did.”

“Don’t let Hermione hear that,” Harry muttered, and Ron snickered beside him.

“There’s not a note or anything?” he asked, and Harry shook his head, “Hmm… that is weird. Maybe it’s from Sirius, and he was worried that the house-elves would report him if he left a note with it.”

“Sirius already got me a gift, though,” replied Harry, holding up the penknife. Ron frowned.

“Could still be from him. He might’ve thought you’d know they were together— maybethey were attached before or something and they got separated.”

Harry’s brow furrowed in thought. That seemed to be the most logical explanation so far, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that it hadn’t been Sirius who bought it. It was expensive like the Firebolt, certainly, and Harry knew Sirius had money, but it just didn’t seem like the sort of gift he would buy. Why a watch? Why the serpent theme?

Curious questions ran through his mind, but unfortunately, they could only be answered by writing to Sirius, and Harry wanted to go and eat breakfast before making the long trek up to the Owlery. He pushed the watch from his mind for the time being.

After opening the rest of his presents, Harry and Ron met up with Hermione in the common room, and they went down to the Great Hall together. They spent most of the morning in Gryffindor Tower, where everyone was enjoying their presents, then returned once more to the Great Hall for a magnificent lunch, which included at least a hundred turkeys and Christmas puddings, as well as large piles of Cribbage’s Wizarding Crackers.

They went out onto the grounds in the afternoon; the snow was untouched except for the deep channels made by the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students on their way up to the castle. Hermione chose to watch as Harry and the Weasleys set up their snowball fight, instead of joining in, however before they could get started a yell broke through the excited silence.

“Potter!” it called, and Harry turned around, surprised to find Malfoy trotting down the steps from the castle towards them.

“What does she want?” said Ron with a hint of suspicion, and Harry cringed inwardly. He suspected he knew what Malfoy wanted to talk about, but he didn’t know how to signal to Ron not to say anything.

“Potter—could I talk to you?” said Malfoy loudly over the wind, slipping slightly on the icy ground as she got closer.

“Why does she want to speak to you now?” asked Fred, “Can’t it wait? We’re a bit busy!”

Harry tried to react as flippantly as possible, but he wasn’t sure what he should tell them to avoid any unwanted questions. He was about to say something unhelpful and probably fairly stupid, when Hermione came to his rescue.

“Oh, Harry, she probably wants that book back!” she said, and Harry stared.

“You know,” she continued through gritted teeth, with a very pointed look in Malfoy’s direction, “That book… about the… thing. The thing that she was researching, remember? You know!”

“What? You’re lending books to Malfoy? Why?” asked Ron, but Harry ignored this remark.

“Oh!” he said instead, cottoning on, “Right! Yeah, er—just give me a minute, guys,” and he jogged away before his flushed cheeks could embarrass him any further.

He too slipped a little as he reached the spot where Malfoy waited, wrapped from head to foot in thick winter robes, a green Slytherin scarf tied tightly around her neck. She laid a steadying hand on Harry’s arm once Harry was near enough, which flustered Harry so much that he nearly slipped over again.

“Malfoy,” he said, as he finally reached her, “What’s up?”

“Hello,” Malfoy began, “I—erm… I just wanted to ask you about tonight. You know, with the dancing.”

Harry blinked.

“Because the champions have to dance together first. I just wondered whether you would like to lead, or if you want me to keep leading? And it’s a bit a late now, but I wanted to check if you were totally sure about the steps—“

Harry stopped her rambling by nearly falling over again, causing the bit of snow they were standing on to shift downwards and almost send them both crashing headfirst into the ground.

“No, you don’t need to worry,” he said easily after they had both righted themselves, “I’ve practiced loads with Hermione even before you showed me what to do. I’m not amazing, but I’ll be a lot better than last time.”

Malfoy let out a sigh of relief at his words, “Oh,” she said, “Good. That’s good—so, would you like me to lead?”

Harry frowned, “Sorry?”

“Well, normally, the boy leads and the girl follows,” said Malfoy, as though Harry was a very slow child who she was explaining this to, and Harry noticed that some snow had settled on the top of her head, making her look a bit like a Slytherin-themed iced bun, “But it’s usually better if the stronger dancer is the—not that you’re not—” she added quickly, eyeing Harry’s raised brow.

Harry laughed. He had never seen Malfoy so eager to please anyone, least of all Harry, so he couldn’t resist pulling her pigtails a little bit.

“It’s fine,” he said, and Malfoy relaxed, “I think I can still lead, though. I’m not totally useless now that I’ve had a bit of practice—but I doubt I’ll ever be as good as you, what with all your,” he put on a haughty, affected voice, “’Pureblood training’.”

Malfoy scowled, “Good,” she said, “I prefer to follow, I’ve done it more often. Oh—and don’t forget to wear that watch I sent you.”

Harry stared at him, “You sent me that watch?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” said Malfoy, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It has the Malfoy insignia on the back. Didn’t you even look at it? It’s traditional to wear jewellery for a formal Wizarding dance. I assumed you wouldn’t have any.”

Harry gaped. He had not, in fact, looked at the back, but more importantly—

“I’m not wearing anything with the Malfoy insignia on it!”

Malfoy rolled her eyes like Harry was being stupid.

“You can’t even see it!” she snapped.

“I don’t care!” said Harry. “I’m not wearing it!”

“Fine,” said Malfoy irritably. “But you’re going to look a right fool if you’re a champion and you haven’t got any jewellery on. Though I s’pose nobody will be expecting any better from the likes of you.”

And with that, she swept away, stomping back up the hill through the snow to the entrance hall. Harry thought with a pang of confusion that Malfoy had overreacted—why was she so hurt at Harry’s refusal to wear a family heirloom? It wasn’t as though he was a Malfoy…

“Oi!” yelled George, as Harry stood watching Malfoy disappear into the castle, “Hurry up, or we’re gonna start without you!”

Harry had forgotten they were planning a snowball fight, and he quickly half-ran, half-slid back towards the Weasleys and Hermione.

They played in the snow for several hours, until at five o’clock Hermione said she was going back upstairs to get ready for the ball.

“What, you need three hours?” said Ron, looking at her confusedly and paying for his lapse in concentration when a large snowball, thrown by George, hit him hard on the side of the head.

He shook the snow from his hair, but by the time he had resurfaced, Hermione was waking away.

“Who’re you going with?” he yelled after her, but she just waved and disappeared up the stone steps into the castle.

There was no Christmas tea today, as the ball included a feast, so at seven o’clock, when it had become hard to aim properly, the others abandoned their snowball fight and trooped back to the common room. The Fat Lady was sitting in her frame with her friend Violet from downstairs, both of them extremely tipsy, empty boxes of chocolate liqueurs littering the bottom of her picture.

“Dalderbash, that’s the one!” she giggled when they gave the password, and she swung forward to let them inside.

Harry, Ron, Seamus, Dean, and Neville changed into their dress robes in their dormitory, all of them looking very self-conscious, but none as much as Ron, who surveyed himself in the long mirror in the corner with an appalled look on his face.

There was just no getting around the fact that his robes looked more like a dress than anything else. In a desperate attempt to make them look more manly, he used a Severing Charm on the ruff and cuffs. It worked fairly well; at least he was now lace-free, although he hadn’t done a very neat job, and the edges still looked depressingly frayed as the boys set off downstairs.

Harry had debated whether or not to bring the watch as he changed into his own dress robes. He couldn’t deny the fact that it was a lovely piece of jewellery, and it seemed a bit sad to abandon it just because it had the misfortune of belonging to the Malfoys. Not sure what to do, Harry slipped it into his pocket, deciding that he would wear it if it turned out that Malfoy was right, and all the other champions were wearing jewellery of their own.

Both Ron’s date Padma, as well as Malfoy, (though Ron did not know this), had agreed to meet their partners in the entrance hall, so Harry and Ron made their way out of the common room.

Ron looked glum as they walked through the elaborately decorated halls, whereas Harry felt as if he could have sprinted all the way down, perhaps doing an additional lap around the grounds for good measure. He was positively thrumming with energy.

He was nervous for how Ron would react when he saw Harry’s date, then doubly nervous for how everyone else would perceive them. He was scared that he’d mess everything up during the opening dance, but also quite exhilarated for some strange, unexplainable reason. It was a whole salad of emotions, and he would have liked to have simply stayed in his bed, eating his way through his Christmas chocolates, instead of walking downstairs with the air of someone headed for the gallows—but needs must.

The entrance hall was packed with students, much like the Gryffindor common room, all milling around waiting for eight o’clock, when the doors to the Great Hall would be thrown open. Those people who were meeting partners from different Houses were edging through the crowd trying to find one another. Parvati Patil, who had followed Harry and Ron downstairs, found her sister, Padma, and led her over to the two boys.

“Hi,” said Padma, looking very pretty in robes of bright turquoise. She didn’t look too enthusiastic about having Ron as a partner, though; her dark eyes lingered on the frayed neck and sleeves of his dress robes as she looked him up and down.

“Hi,” said Ron, not looking at her, but staring around at the crowd. “Oh no...”

He bent his knees slightly to hide behind Harry, because Fleur Delacour was passing, looking stunning in robes of silver-gray satin, and accompanied by the Ravenclaw Quidditch captain, Roger Davies.

Now though, Harry could no longer focus on Ron, as on the other side of the hall, the doors leading outside had been opened, and from the staircase beside them emerged a large group of Slytherins, Draco Malfoy amongst them.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, then several, and he had to do a little jig on the spot just to start it up again. He locked eyes with Malfoy over the heads of everyone else, and Malfoy shot him a rare smile that had Harry swaying a little where he stood—whether it was from nerves about Ron or something else, he wasn’t sure.

Malfoy quickly manoeuvred around their classmates, wearing dress robes of a deep navy, so dark they appeared almost black until she stepped into the light, inlaid with a soft silver trim around the edge. Harry had told her in a letter to wear something other than green, as he himself was wearing green, and she had certainly delivered. Her sleek, white-blonde hair was smoothed back and she looked much better than usual, which was saying rather a lot. She was actually quite annoyingly attractive, and Harry felt a little zing of electricity rush through his body at the sight of her.

“Hello,” said Malfoy, slightly breathless as she finally reached them.

She looked, on the surface, to be his usual relaxed self, but when Harry stared into her dark eyes, he saw his own giddiness reflected back.

“Er—hi,” replied Harry, nervously. What was wrong with him? This was Malfoy.

Padma Patil let out a little giggle from behind them, and Harry suddenly remembered that they were not alone. He turned, finding himself met with the sight of Padma arm in arm with Ron, who was staring, dumbstruck, at Malfoy.

“What do you want?” he asked her suspiciously, and Harry flushed.

Malfoy did not seem surprised by the hostility, and she merely slipped an arm through Harry’s, not dignifying the question with a response at all.

“Er—Ron…” said Harry awkwardly, staring between his best friend and his date, “I’m—erm—I’m going with Malfoy. She’s my partner.”

Ron did not react for several seconds, and Harry thought that he might have gotten away with it, until the silence stretched for a little too long, and Harry realised with horror that Ron had gone quite red in the face, his brow furrowed in poorly concealed frustration.

Harry glanced nervously at Malfoy, who was staring at the pair of friends, unperturbed, and tried to think of something to say that might make Ron feel better, as there was simply no time to explain what had happened. He opened his mouth, when Professor McGonagall’s voice called over the din, “Champions over here, please!”

Harry shot Ron an apologetic glance, and said to Padma, “See you in a minute.”

He walked forward, gripping Malfoy rather hard, though she didn’t mention it. The chattering crowd parted to let them through.

Professor McGonagall, who was wearing dress robes of red tartan and had arranged a rather ugly wreath of thistles around the brim of her hat, told them to wait on one side of the doors while everyone else went inside; they were to enter the Great Hall in procession when the rest of the students had sat down.

Fleur Delacour and Roger Davies stationed themselves nearest the doors; Davies looked so stunned by his good fortune in having Fleur for a partner that he could hardly take his eyes off her. Harry used the time instead to watch Krum and Hermione, and when his eyes found her, he was astonished by how incredibly beautiful she looked.

She had done something with her hair; it was no longer bushy but sleek and shiny, and twisted up into an elegant knot at the back of her head. She was wearing robes made of a floaty, periwinkle blue material, and she was holding herself differently, somehow—or maybe it was merely the absence of the twenty or so books she usually had slung over her back. She looked nearly as radiant as Malfoy.

“Hi, Harry!” she said, then, awkwardly looking at Malfoy, “Hello, Malfoy.”

Malfoy waved back at her with her own somewhat uncomfortable smile, but when she said “Hello,” it was very politely controlled.

Harry shot Hermione an excited grin. Although he was now oddly thrilled to be partnered with Malfoy, he couldn’t be more glad that Hermione would be with him through this; it made things a lot less scary.

Once everyone else was settled in the Hall, Professor McGonagall told the champions and their partners to line up in pairs and follow her. They did so, and everyone in the Great Hall applauded as they entered and started walking up toward a large round table at the top of the Hall, where the judges were sitting.

The walls of the Hall had all been covered in sparkling silver frost, with hundreds of garlands of mistletoe and ivy crossing the starry black ceiling. The House tables had vanished; instead, there were about a hundred smaller, lantern-lit ones, each seating about a dozen people.

When the champions reached their table, Harry took a seat beside Malfoy, opposite Krum and Hermione. There was no food yet on the glittering golden plates, but small menus were lying in front of each of them. Harry picked his up uncertainly and looked around—there were no waiters. Dumbledore, however, looked carefully down at his own menu, then said very clearly to his plate, “Pork chops!” And pork chops appeared.

Getting the idea, the rest of the table placed their orders with their plates too. Harry glanced up at Hermione to see how she felt about this new and more complicated method of dining—surely it meant plenty of extra work for the house-elves—but for once, Hermione didn’t seem to be thinking about S.P.E.W. She was deep in talk with Viktor Krum, and hardly seemed to notice what she was eating.

“Well, we have a castle also, not as big as this, nor as comfortable, I am thinking,” Krum was telling Hermione. “We have just four floors, and the fires are lit only for magical purposes. Our grounds are larger even than these—though in winter, we have very little daylight, so we are not enjoying them. But in summer we are flying every day, over the lakes and the mountains—”

“Now, now, Viktor!” said Karkaroff with a laugh that didn’t reach his cold eyes, “don’t go giving away anything else, or your charming friend will know exactly where to find us!”

Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Igor, all this secrecy… one would almost think you didn’t want visitors.”

At this comment, Karkaroff and Dumbledore entered a rather heated discussion about the secrets of each of their respective castles, but Harry was not paying them any attention. Krum was now surveying Harry and Malfoy with a look of interest on his face.

Malfoy beside him was practically thrumming with excitement at being near such a famous quidditch star, and Harry had to take a long swig of his pumpkin juice to keep himself from laughing.

“I did not know you two were in a partnership,” said Krum curiously, and Harry felt his face turn scarlet. He choked on his mouthful of juice, pressing a hand over his face to avoid coughing it all over the tablecloth.

“I—er—it’s not—er, we’re just… friends,” blurted Malfoy, who, Harry noted, had turned the exact same shade of red as him, “but that’s not important,” she added quickly, “You were talking more about Durmstrang? I’ve heard lots about it—the curriculum is quite different there.”

Apparently, Krum did not care much to continue asking about Malfoy’s relationship with Harry, because he nodded, interested, as Malfoy was speaking, “Yes, it is a good school. I think it is nicer here, though,” he said, lowering his voice so that the headmasters at the opposite end of the table would not hear, “Everyone here is much more kind to me. And the classes seem more interesting.”

Malfoy’s eyes glinted, and with an expression like she could not believe her luck, she leaned in to better speak directly to Krum.

“Really?” she said, “I heard you learn about the Dark Arts at Durmstrang, is that true?”

Harry met Hermione’s gaze over the top of Malfoy’s bent head. He rolled his eyes, and she grinned back at him.

“Oh, yes,” said Krum, “We do not just learn about them, but we learn to perform them, also. It is not as interesting as you expect,” he added, at Malfoy’s fascinated look, “Sometimes, the teachers use them as punishment, and we do not get into trouble for using them on each other—at least, not any more trouble than if it was a normal spell. People have been very injured by it.”

Malfoy nodded in understanding. Then, in what Harry thought was an extremely unsubtle attempt to direct the conversation to what she actually wanted to talk about, she asked, “So—er—did you learn a lot of Quidditch at Durmstrang?”

Her eyes glittered with childlike curiosity, and Harry was forced to hide his smile by taking a drink from his goblet.

Krum, Malfoy, Harry and occasionally Hermione when she felt up to joining in, had a heated discussion about what it took to become a Quidditch player for a national team. When they had somehow exhausted every possible talking point about Quidditch—and Krum had complimented Harry on his flying in the first task, which made him preen with delight—Malfoy began asking Krum a string of rather dull academic questions, apparently in a concentrated effort to learn more about the specifics of the courses at Durmstrang, so Harry allowed himself to observe the others at the table.

Fleur Delacour was boring Roger Davies to death with talk about Beauxbatons—and how the decorations were so much more extravagant there than they were at Hogwarts.

“This is nothing,” she said dismissively, looking around at the sparkling walls of the Great Hall. “At the Palace of Beauxbatons, we ‘ave ice sculptures all around the dining chamber at Christmas. They do not melt, of course… they are like ‘uge statues of diamond, glittering around the place. And the food is simply superb.”

Roger Davies was watching her talk with a very dazed look on his face, and he kept missing his mouth with his fork. Harry had the impression that Davies was too busy staring at Fleur to take in a word she was saying.

“We have none of this ugly armour in the ‘alls, and if a poltergeist ever entered into Beauxbatons, ‘e would be expelled like that.” She slapped her hand onto the table impatiently.

“What are you looking at?”

“ARGH—“ Harry jumped.

Turning around, he was met with the sight of Malfoy, far too close for Harry’s liking, with a big stupid smirk on her face.

“Go away!” said Harry, shoving her backward.

Apparently, Krum had grown bored with talking to Malfoy, and he wanted to talk to Hermione instead, so Malfoy had resorted to bothering Harry, as she now had nothing else to do.

“I really can’t believe what she’s saying about Beauxbatons,” said Malfoy, ignoring Harry’s shove and returning to her personal space, “She’s exaggerating quite a lot. I’ve been there with Father at Christmastime—it’s not that much better than this, apart from the food.”

Harry scowled, but couldn’t deny that he was interested to know whether Beauxbatons truly was better, “Really?”

Malfoy nodded, “The ice sculptures are about the size of our suits of armour… and they definitely don’t look like they’re made of diamond.”

Harry snorted, glancing back at Fleur, where she had now started on the state of the food at Hogwarts.

“I don’t know what she has to complain about,” he said quietly, “She seems very happy here to me.”

Malfoy sipped her pumpkin juice loftily. “She’s French.”

Harry barked a laugh, then, remembering that it was Malfoy and that she was stupidly attractive—meaning she did not need something else to feel smug about—he quickly reigned himself in. Malfoy raised an eyebrow.

“I heard that,” she said, and Harry glowered at her.

“I had something in my throat,” he lied. He would not give Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing Harry thought she was funny.

“It’s all right, Potter,” said Malfoy airily, as though reading his thoughts, “You can admit you find me funny. Most people do. I’m hilarious.”

In an effort to ignore Malfoy, Harry turned his attention to his plate, then realised with a start that he had barely eaten a thing, too distracted by Krum, and Fleur, and Malfoy annoying him.

“You really ought to eat something, Harry,” said Hermione, “We’ll be dancing soon, and you might feel queasy if you’ve got an empty stomach.”

Harry thought privately that he would feel queasy dancing with Malfoy regardless of whether he had a full stomach or not, because he’d been feeling queasy since she asked him to the ball, but he nodded at her, then started shovelling potato into his mouth at rapid speed.

The food was delectable, as per usual. The house-elves had gone all out for the occasion, and Harry’s chosen dish of steak and kidney pie with mashed potato was so fantastic that he could have eaten three more portions, and still have room for dessert afterward.

When all the food had been consumed, Dumbledore stood up and asked the students to do the same. Then, with a wave of his wand, all the tables zoomed back along the walls leaving the floor clear, and he conjured a raised platform into existence along the right wall. A set of drums, several guitars, a lute, a cello, and some bagpipes were set upon it.

The Weird Sisters now trooped up onto the stage to wildly enthusiastic applause; they were all extremely hairy and dressed in black robes that had been artfully ripped and torn. They picked up their instruments, and Harry, who had been so interested in watching them that he had almost forgotten what was coming, suddenly realised that the lanterns on all the other tables had gone out, and that the other champions and their partners were standing up.

“Come on!” Malfoy hissed. “We’re supposed to dance!”

Harry tripped over his dress robes as he got to his feet. The Weird Sisters struck up a slow, mournful tune; Harry walked onto the brightly lit dance floor, carefully avoiding catching anyone’s eye (he could see Seamus and Dean waving at him and sniggering, but Ron was nowhere to be seen), and next moment, Malfoy had seized his hands, placed one of her own on Harry’s shoulder, and was holding the other tightly in hers.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, Harry thought, revolving slowly on the spot (Malfoy was steering). Malfoy was holding onto him so tightly as they moved through the Hall that Harry felt a bit like a dog at a show that she was putting through its paces. He kept his eyes fixed over the heads of the watching people, and very soon many of them too had come onto the dance floor, so that the champions were no longer the center of attention.

Neville and Ginny were dancing nearby—he could see Ginny wincing frequently as Neville trod on her feet—and Dumbledore was waltzing with Madame Maxime. He was so dwarfed by her that the top of his pointed hat barely tickled her chin; however, she moved very gracefully for a woman so large. Mad-Eye Moody was doing an extremely ungainly two-step with Professor Sinistra, who was nervously avoiding his wooden leg.

Harry heard the final, quavering note from the bagpipe with relief. The Weird Sisters stopped playing, applause filled the hall once more, and Harry let go of Malfoy at once.

“Let’s sit down, shall we?”

“What?” said Malfoy, as the Weird Sisters struck up a new song, which was much faster. “I’m not leaving after one dance, you’re a champion! You can’t embarrass us by abandoning the dance floor at the first opportunity.”

Before Harry knew what was happening, Malfoy had pulled him in much closer, and they began waltzing across the dance floor at quite an impressive speed. Malfoy pushed Harry and twirled in a silly sort of spin, and Harry felt himself come dangerously close to toppling right over, when Malfoy guided his hand deftly beneath her back, and Harry lowered her in a kind of careful dip. Seconds later she was back on her feet, and Harry was suddenly feeling a lot more jubilant.

“Oh—that was fun!” he exclaimed, forgetting his dislike for dancing in the face of such an exciting new realisation, “Do that again!”

Malfoy did. They twirled each other around and around for the rest of the song, Harry attempted a third time to dip Malfoy, wherein he nearly slipped and sent them both crashing to the floor. He could feel the music thrumming through him, and the rhythm flooded his senses, making him feel lighter on his feet—it was a similar sensation to flying.

He and Malfoy continued to dance through the song after that, then the next, and then the next. They were dancing so exuberantly that people around them began backing away in fear of injury, and Harry could not remember the last time he had felt so free.

“We’re the best dancers here,” said Malfoy smugly, in a conspiratorial whisper meant only for Harry, “None of the other champions are anywhere near as good as we are.”

Harry laughed. “I’m not sure about that. I think I’ve stepped on your robes five or six times, and I nearly tripped us both over earlier.”

“Inconsequential,” said Malfoy. “My skill is so good that it makes up for your incompetence. We’ve done far more laps of the dance floor than anyone else.”

Normally, Malfoy’s comment about Harry’s terrible dancing would have annoyed him, but instead it only made him laugh.

When the song finally ended, Harry suggested that they take a break to go and get drinks. Malfoy relinquished her hold on Harry’s arms and disappeared in search of butterbeer, while Harry scouted for a place to sit down.

He spotted Ron, and steeling himself for the oncoming argument, walked over to his table with Padma.

“How’s it going?” Harry asked him, sitting down and wiping his forehead with one hand.

Ron didn’t answer. He was glaring fixedly at Hermione and Krum, who were dancing nearby, refusing to meet Harry’s gaze. Padma was sitting with her arms and legs crossed, one foot jiggling in time to the music. Every now and then she threw a disgruntled look at Ron, who was completely ignoring her.

“Look, Ron, about Malfoy… the thing is—“ he began.

“Don’t.” Ron snapped, and Harry blanched. How was he supposed to explain what had happened if Ron would not listen long enough to hear it?

“Hermione already told me you were coming with Malfoy,” he muttered, and Harry gaped.

“What? When?”

He and Hermione had both agreed not to tell Ron who their partners were, because they had known he would react poorly. If Hermione had told Ron about Malfoy, Harry wondered if he had known pre-emptively about Krum, too. In that case, Harry could not understand why he was still so angry.

“So does that mean—“

“Yes, I know you couldn’t find dates otherwise, and that it’s just because of her dad, and she won’t bully Muggleborns or whatever the deal was that you two came up with,” said Ron, interrupting Harry once again. Harry looked at him, trying to puzzle out whether his obvious anger was aimed at him or Hermione, and Ron sighed. “I’m not annoyed with you. I wish you’d have told me yourself, but I get it—it’s a good idea, anyway. You looked like you were having fun just then.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief so large that he felt like a deflated balloon. Ron’s opinion of his decision had been lingering in his mind all evening, like a large and unpleasant storm cloud.

“Oh, good,” he said breathlessly, “I was worried you’d hate me for it, and y’know, after the whole first task thing—“ Harry trailed off nervously.

Ron looked up at him, and his eyes were full of understanding. He smiled.

“I know. It’s okay, I didn’t want another reason to stop speaking to you much either.”

Harry grinned. At that moment, they were joined by a third presence, as Hermione sat down in an empty chair beside Harry. She was a bit pink in the face from dancing.

“Hi,” said Harry. Ron didn’t say anything.

“It’s hot, isn’t it?” said Hermione, fanning herself with her hand. “Viktor’s just gone to get some drinks.”

Ron gave her a withering look. “Viktor?” he said. “Hasn’t he asked you to call him Vicky yet?”

Hermione looked at him in surprise. “What’s up with you?” she said.

“If you don’t know,” said Ron scathingly, “I’m not going to tell you.”

Hermione stared at him, then at Harry, who shrugged.

“Ron, what—?”

“He’s from Durmstrang!” spat Ron. “He’s competing against Harry! Against Hogwarts! You—you’re—” Ron was obviously casting around for words strong enough to describe Hermione’s crime, “fraternizing with the enemy, that’s what you’re doing!”

Hermione’s mouth fell open.

Harry suddenly felt very awkward indeed. If anyone amongst them was fraternising with the enemy, he had a good idea of who it was—and that idea did not include Hermione. He resisted the urge to stand up and walk away, sensing he should leave before he somehow got dragged in and the whole thing escalated.

“Don’t be so stupid!” Hermione said after a moment. “The enemy! Honestly—who was the one who was all excited when they saw him arrive? Who was the one who wanted his autograph? Who’s got a model of him up in their dormitory?”

Ron chose to ignore this. “I s’pose he asked you to come with him while you were both in the library?”

“Yes, he did,” said Hermione, the pink patches on her cheeks glowing more brightly. “So what?”

“What happened—trying to get him to join spew, were you?”

“No, I wasn’t! If you really want to know, he—he said he’d been coming up to the library every day to try and talk to me, but he hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage!”

Hermione said this very quickly, and blushed so deeply that she turned the same color as the Durmstrang school robes.

“Yeah, well—that’s his story,” said Ron nastily.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Obvious, isn’t it? He’s Karkaroff’s student, isn’t he? He knows who you hang around with… He’s just trying to get closer to Harry—get inside information on him—or get near enough to jinx him—”

Harry winced, thinking that this was definitely a step too far. Hermione looked as though Ron had slapped her. When she spoke, her voice quivered.

“For your information, he hasn’t asked me one single thing about Harry, not one—”

Ron changed tack at the speed of light.

“Then he’s hoping you’ll help him find out what his egg means! I suppose you’ve been putting your heads together during those cosy little library sessions—”

“I’d never help him work out that egg!” said Hermione, looking outraged. “Never. How could you say something like that—I want Harry to win the tournament, Harry knows that, don’t you, Harry?”

“Of course—“ began Harry, but for all Ron and Hermione had reacted, he may as well have been part of the chair he was sitting on.

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” sneered Ron.

“This whole tournament’s supposed to be about getting to know foreign wizards and making friends with them!” said Hermione hotly.

“No it isn’t!” shouted Ron. “It’s about winning!”

With the worst timing of anyone Harry had ever met, Malfoy chose that moment to return with the drinks. Hermione got to her feet, eyes blazing with anger.

“And you’ve got nothing to say about this?” she pointed furiously at Malfoy, who scowled in confusion, “Viktor is an issue, but Harry—Harry is going with someone who—”

Harry reddened with embarrassment, wishing desperately that Hermione would stop speaking.

“—bullied us for the past three years, and you haven’t got a single problem with that?”

“What?” said Malfoy, looking quite understandably offended. She had been getting along well with Hermione tonight, up until this moment.

“You’ve been all over Malfoy the past few days!” bellowed Ron, getting to his feet as well, “At least Harry’s friends with her! You’re taking an opponent just for the sake of it—“

“Let’s go,” said Harry hurriedly to Malfoy, “This is only going to end badly otherwise.”

Malfoy too was red in the face, and was fixing Hermione with such a dangerous and hurt expression that Harry expected she would hex somebody if the conversation continued for much longer. Despite this, she allowed Harry to lead her away, and so, not really knowing where he was taking them, Harry walked out of the Great Hall and through the open doors into the castle grounds, Malfoy in tow.

As they crossed the threshold of the entrance hall, Harry noticed that an area of lawn right in front of the castle had been transformed into a sort of grotto full of fairy lights—meaning hundreds of actual living fairies were sitting in the rosebushes that had been conjured there, occasionally fluttering over the statues of what seemed to be Father Christmas and his reindeer.

The lights in the garden winked and twinkled as they went down the front steps, where they found themselves surrounded not only by bushes, but also winding, ornamental paths and large stone statues. Harry could hear splashing water, which sounded like a fountain. Here and there, people were sitting on carved benches. He and Malfoy set off along one of the winding paths through the rosebushes without speaking, but they had gone only a short way when they heard an unpleasantly familiar voice.

“…don’t see what there is to fuss about, Igor.”

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!”

Karkaroff’s voice sounded anxious and hushed, as though keen not to be overheard. “They have been rising up for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it—”

“Then flee,” said Snape’s voice curtly. “Flee—I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.”

Snape and Karkaroff came around the corner. Snape had his wand out and was blasting rosebushes apart, his expression most ill-natured. Squeals issued from many of the bushes, and dark shapes emerged from them.

“Ten points from Ravenclaw, Fawcett!” Snape snarled as a girl ran past him. “And ten points from Hufflepuff too, Stebbins!” as a boy went rushing after her. “And what are you two doing?” he added, catching sight of Harry and Malfoy on the path ahead.

Karkaroff, Harry saw, looked slightly discomposed to see them standing there. His hand went nervously to his goatee, and he began winding it around his finger.

“We’re walking,” Malfoy told Snape shortly, apparently still in such a bad mood from Hermione’s comments that even the sight of her favourite teacher was not enough to warrant an attempt at politeness, “Not against the law, is it?”

“Keep walking, then!” Snape snarled, and he brushed past them, his long black cloak billowing out behind him. Karkaroff hurried away after Snape.

Harry and Malfoy continued down the path.

The snow had been cleared from the grounds to allow space for students to mingle outside, but after walking in silence for almost ten minutes, they reached the veritable blanket of white ice that stretched from Hagrid’s cabin to the Forbidden Forest and beyond. Harry shivered, and wished he’d brought a cloak.

“They don’t like me,” said Malfoy suddenly, and Harry stared at her in surprise. “Your friends. I thought maybe…” she sighed, and her breath appeared as a cloud of white fog in the freezing air.

They stopped, and Malfoy turned around to look at him. “You’re right,” Harry said, “They don’t like you, not yet, but did you expect it to happen that fast? I mean, you only just agreed to stop being mean to them a few days ago…”

Malfoy glared at him. “I expected they might be kind enough not to say it to my face,” she snapped, then her shoulders sank.

“Does it matter?” said Harry quietly. “It’s not as though you like them.”

Malfoy pursed her lips. Harry frowned.

“You don’t, do you?” he said. “I mean, you’ve never liked us. You’ve never liked me. I don’t…”

There was a pause, and Malfoy stepped away from him.

“Think whatever you want to think, Potter,” she said acidly. “It makes no difference to me.”

“Are you—” Harry paused, unsure how to broach the subject. “Are you saying you… do like me?”

Malfoy said nothing. It was as good as an admission.

“But—but why?” said Harry, baffled. “Why would you be so mean to all my friends and I this whole time? I mean—”

“Why do you think?” Malfoy gave a derisive laugh. “I’m not allowed to be friends with people like you, and Granger and Weasley. It would’ve been one thing if you’d never befriended them in the first place, but—” She broke off, shaking her head— “My father wanted me to get to know you at the start. In first year, do you remember?”

“You offered to shake my hand,” Harry realised. “So you mean… you really did want to be my friend then?”

“Of course I did,” said Malfoy, refusing to meet his eye. “Who wouldn’t? Famous Harry Potter. I thought you were so…” She looked up, and when she met his gaze there was something churning in her eyes. “Brilliant,” she admitted, then, even quieter, “I still do.”

Harry’s face warmed. Unsure whether Malfoy would respond positively or not, Harry steeled himself to be shoved away and slipped a careful hand through Malfoy’s arm, twining it with his own all the way down to their hands. Malfoy went rigid, but as Harry touched his freezing fingers to hers, she linked them together without a word.

“You can still be my friend,” breathed Harry. “If you stop… y’know, hurting people all the time.”

He watched Malfoy’s pale face, brows drawn into a frown and her mouth pinched with concern. Her silver eyes were trained on the ground, but she squeezed Harry’s hand once very tightly.

“I don’t really know how,” she said softly. Harry’s heart gave a weak jolt in his chest. He lifted her fingers to his mouth.

“You could just try,” he murmured. He pressed a kiss to her hand. She looked away.

“I don’t deserve you,” she breathed into the frozen night. He felt her grip tighten around his hand. Her fingers were strangely gentle.

Harry slipped a hand into his pocket, and pulled out the golden wristwatch. Fastening it around his wrist using his mouth, he held it out, so that the green clock-face glinted in the moonlight. Malfoy watched him, enraptured.

“Maybe not,” said Harry, then he held up the wrist with the watch. “But you have me.”