Chapter 9
Hogwarts was abuzz.
The announcement of the Yule Ball had unleashed an uncontrollable wave of excitement among the students. Everywhere one went, people were talking about who to ask, what to wear, and who would dance with whom. Even the most reluctant seemed drawn into the electric atmosphere that permeated the corridors and the Great Hall. Even the professors appeared resigned to the tidal wave of excitement that had overtaken Hogwarts.
Harry had confined himself to observing the chaos around him and ignoring the embarrassingly numerous invitations he received. Every day, he got invites—some in the form of little notes secretly slipped between books, others delivered by overly enthusiastic owls. Some girls and a few boys even gathered the nerve to stop him in person, hoping for a positive answer. He would only smile politely and decline graciously, never offering any explanation.
During breakfast, Ron found a piece of parchment in his hands without quite knowing where it had come from.
«What’s this?» Hermione asked suspiciously as he unrolled the note.
Ron read it quickly, then his eyes went wide.
«It’s an invitation. Anonymous.»
Before he could say another word, a tanned, slender hand snatched the parchment from his fingers. Blaise Zabini, with his usual amused smirk, examined the note’s contents and raised an eyebrow.
«Interesting.» he commented in an exasperatingly slow tone, while the intended recipient stiffened.
«Give it back, Zabini.» Ron demanded, ignoring the request and twirling the note between his fingers.
«So, you intend to accept it?» Blaise asked casually.
Ron gritted his jaw. «Why not?» he replied stubbornly, wrenching the note from Blaise’s grasp.
The Slytherin simply shrugged, an almost satisfied air about him.
«In any case, we’ll keep each other company.» he said nonchalantly.
«Draco decided to ditch me and invite Astoria.»
The blonde—who had until that moment ignored the conversation—looked up and shot a cutting glare at Zabini. Blaise barely managed a laugh, pressing his lips together in feigned innocence. Malfoy crossed his arms, visibly irritated, then quickly glanced to the other side of the table. Meanwhile, Harry was eating impassively, as if none of it concerned him.
During dinner, the Great Hall buzzed continuously with excited voices, and the conversation about the Yule Ball seemed to be the only topic of discussion.
Draco was finishing his meal with measured movements, trying to ignore Blaise, who kept casting amused glances his way, when a determined, feminine figure approached the Slytherin table. Pansy Parkinson gracefully dropped into a seat beside him, her face lit up with a triumphant expression.
«Guess what I just discovered?»
Blaise gave her an annoyed look.
«Something more interesting than your latest attempt at flirting with a Durmstrang boy?»
Pansy rolled her eyes.
«Witty.» she replied, then turned toward the blonde, ignoring everyone else.
«Diggory has invited Potter to the ball.»
She paused for a moment, still holding her cutlery. Zabini raised an eyebrow. «And has Potter accepted?»
The girl nodded emphatically. «Obviously, he did it without a second thought.»
The silverware barely chimed against the blonde’s plate as he calmly set down his fork.
«What a surprise.» he commented in a tone so neutral it almost seemed unnatural.
Blaise scrutinized him with interest, then cast a glance at Harry, who was seated not far away with Ron, seemingly indifferent to the news circulating through the school.
Malfoy averted his gaze and leaned back against his chair’s back, arms crossed.
«Diggory, eh?»
«I told you so.» said the girl as he poured himself a bit of water, clearly satisfied.
«It was obvious that someone like him would try to get close.»
Zabini concealed a smile behind his goblet. «And you really think Potter will let himself be caught so easily?»
He didn’t reply; his gaze was once again fixed on the Gryffindor, who continued eating with an irritably calm air.
That evening, the Yule Ball finally arrived, and Hogwarts seemed transformed into a fairy-tale palace.
The Great Hall was unrecognizable. The enchanted ceiling reflected a star‑spangled night sky, while pure white snowflakes drifted slowly without ever touching the floor. The walls were covered in sparkling ice, and at the center of the hall stood an enormous crystal fountain that appeared to glow with its own light.
Round tables adorned with floating candles were arranged along the sides, leaving space for the dance floor, where a light, silvery mist rose from the marble floor.
Amidst it all, Ron Weasley stood out far too much, Blaise thought.
The suit he wore—a gift from Harry—was a deep black with subtle hints of burgundy that seemed to dance as the light changed. The cut was perfect, accentuating his tall, lean figure flawlessly. His hair, for once, wasn’t disheveled but fell in soft waves framing his face. And those blue eyes, alight with the excitement of the evening, seemed more alive than ever.
He was waiting, like the rest of the school, for the champions to make their entrance, but he couldn’t stop his eyes from wandering through the crowd, searching for someone.
«You look more nervous than you should be.»
Ron turned, coming face to face with Blaise Zabini.
If the red‑haired guy looked like a prince straight out of a fairy tale, Blaise had the air of a nobleman who knew exactly how charming he was. His suit, perfectly fitted, was a midnight blue that deepened into black—elegant and sophisticated. The fabric seemed to almost slither with every movement, conforming to the contours of his body with an annoyingly natural ease. His slightly unbuttoned collar revealed a hint of dark skin, and his languid smile suggested he was fully aware of the effect he had on others.
«I’m not nervous.» he replied, trying not to let his tone betray anything.
The taller one tilted his head, watching him with amusement.
«No? Then what’s that tic you’ve got with your hands?»
Weasley lowered his gaze, realizing his fingers were drumming against his thigh without his noticing. He pressed his lips together, but Blaise only smiled in self-satisfied amusement.
Before Ron could respond, the music suddenly changed, and the crowd turned toward the entrance. The champions were arriving.
The music softened for a moment, as if holding its breath along with the crowd, while the doors swung open and the first pair made their entrance.
Fleur Delacour advanced with the grace of an otherworldly creature, her silver-silk gown flowing like liquid water with every step. Her blonde hair, braided with pearls and threads of light, seemed to shine under the reflection of the crystal chandeliers. At her side, her escort—a tall, charming Ravenclaw—appeared to pale in comparison to the breathtaking beauty of the young Veela.
Then Viktor Krum made his appearance, imposing as always, yet with an unexpected elegance. The Durmstrang uniform had been replaced by a refined dark suit that highlighted his athletic build. But what truly captured the attention of many was not him, but rather the girl at his side.
Hermione Granger.
The dress she wore was a delicate shade of periwinkle—light and flowing, as if made of air—simple yet incredibly sophisticated, with a fitted bodice that accentuated her slender figure and a skirt that billowed in gentle waves with every movement. Her hair, miraculously tamed, cascaded in soft curls over her shoulders, framing her face.
The effect was devastating. Not only for the students of Hogwarts, but also for someone in particular. Krum cast her a sidelong glance, brief yet intense. Hermione, meanwhile, seemed oblivious to the stares following her, more interested in something she had noticed in the hall.
Then, the doors opened again.
If Fleur had the grace of a fairy and Krum the presence of a warrior, Cedric possessed the charm of an ancient hero. Tall, with broad shoulders, the black suit with golden accents he wore showcased his athletic figure with perfect elegance. His hair was artfully tousled—that kind of disheveled look that appeared naturally attractive—and his smile was that of someone who knew he was handsome but didn’t flaunt it.
And finally, next to him, there was Harry Potter. For an instant, the very air in the Great Hall seemed to stop as he crossed the threshold.
He wasn’t merely making an entrance. He dominated it.
His crop blazer, black as night, left his lithe, elegant back exposed—a play of fabric that hinted at more than it concealed. Beneath, a fine lace shirt rested lightly against his skin, transparent just enough to reveal the sculpted contours of his torso. Around his waist, a thin silver chain glimmered with every movement, adorned with small green stones that looked as if they were set like droplets of pure poison.
And as if that weren’t scandalous enough for Hogwarts, there were also the trousers. Black, form-fitting yet soft, cut with an almost cruel precision. The fabric caressed his legs without constricting, allowing every movement to flow with the choreographed grace of a dance. But the boldest detail was the side slit running along the outer seam of each leg, revealing flashes of skin with every step—a see‐and‐don’t‐see play that captured attention before the mind could even process why. Finally, on his feet, he wore ankle-high boots: black, perfectly fitted, with a slight heel that elongated his figure.
It was a dangerous, magnetic vision.
His hair, ever rebellious, looked deliberately tousled, as if he had just left a battle—or something even more sinful. His green eyes burned under the hall’s lights, hypnotic. Every step he took on the polished stone of the Great Hall seemed designed to attract attention, yet there was nothing forced in his movements. It was a natural art—the self-assurance of one who knew exactly the effect he had on others.
Eyes followed him to the center of the hall—some admiring, some scandalized, others utterly mesmerized. Some students stood frozen, mouths slightly agape. Others exchanged incredulous glances.
Draco Malfoy clenched his fingers around the goblet he held, feeling it creak under the pressure. Blaise, beside him, let out a low appreciative whistle.
Ron, meanwhile, barely shook his head with an almost proud smile. «And of course, he had to put on a show.»
Not because he wasn’t used to his best friend’s eccentricities, but because Harry seemed… powerful. Untouchable.
Harry paused for a moment, observing the crowd with his usual indifference, then turned toward Cedric, whispering something with a hint of a smile.
The blonde said nothing. His gaze was fixed on him, as cold as ice, his lips set in a thin line. And when Potter turned, as if he had felt that gaze upon him, it was he, naturally, who threw the first blow.
A smile. A flash of amusement in those green eyes. A slight tilt of the head, as if to say: You like what you see, Malfoy?
Draco clenched his jaw and looked away. It was official. He hated that cursed Yule Ball.