Gold Rush

“You can’t tell Harry,” Saoirse said softly as she returned to the table, a new book tucked under her arm.

They sat in the back of the library, hidden among the towering shelves. Maelys head was buried in her Potion’s book, scribbling notes feverishly in the margins.

“Why not?” she snapped, an uncharacteristic sharpness in her voice. “What if it saves his life?” She set her quill down with a frustrated thud.

“And what if he’s not in danger?” Saoirse countered, folding her arms.

“Yeah, Mae, the kid’s been through enough this week alone,” Camryn added, sympathy softening her voice. “Scaring him won’t do any good.”

“But I saw it,” Maelys insisted, louder than she meant to. A few students turned their heads, and she immediately lowered her voice. “I saw him die.”

“You said you didn’t recognize the boy,” Saoirse reminded her, flipping through her Ancient Runes textbook without looking up.

“I didn’t,” Maelys admitted, her voice faltering. “It wasn’t very clear, but—”

“But nothing,” Saoirse cut in firmly. “The vision has nothing to do with Harry.”

“In the vision, the voice said, kill the spare.” Maelys’ hands clenched the edges of her book. “Harry is the spare champion. There were only supposed to be three.”

“That’s not nothing,” Camryn spoke up, propping her feet up on the table.

Saoirse exhaled, clearly trying to stay patient. “Fine. But you shouldn’t tell Harry unless you get a clear vision of him. If you really need to tell someone, tell Dumbledore—but no one else. This stays between us until we know more.” Her voice left no room for argument.

Maelys glanced between them, noticing the tension still lingering. She knew it had everything to do with her snapping at them about the vision. With a sigh, she decided to change the subject.

“Any idea what the first task is?” she asked, hoping to steer the conversation toward something less heavy.

“No idea,” Saoirse said, not even looking up from her textbook.

“Dragons,” Cam answered casually.

Maelys and Saoirse both snapped their heads up. “How on earth do you know that?” Saoirse demanded, her eyes narrowing. 

“Charlie brought them over from Romania,” Cam said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. When they still looked confused, she sighed. “Charlie Weasley. The eldest Weasley. The dragon expert Weasley.”

Her friends exchanged glances, still looking lost.

“Come on, guys, I talk about the Weasleys enough that you’d think you’d remember a few names,” Cam huffed, shaking her head.

“I had no idea there would be a quiz,” Maelys giggled. “There are like a million of them. How am I supposed to keep track?”

“Does Harry have any idea?” Saoirse asked, leaning in slightly.

“Not as far as I know,” Cam said. “I only know because Fred told me. I wanted to see them, but he wouldn’t let me—said it was too dangerous.” She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed with his protective streak.

“Someone should tell him,” Saoirse said, voice firm.

“I’ll tell him,” Maelys offered without hesitation.

Cam and Saoirse exchanged a quick glance before turning back to her, their expressions wary.

“Only tell him about the dragons,” Cam said, her voice serious. 

“And don’t try to tell him about the visions, Maelys,” Saoirse added, her voice quieter but just as serious. “This is bigger than that.”

Before Maelys could respond, the doors to the library opened. A group of Durmstrang boys strode in, Nikolai at the helm—because of course, he was.

Camryn didn’t have to look up to know he was already looking at her. He always was. Somehow, no matter the crowd, he managed to find her, like she was the only person in the room.

She sat up quickly, yanking her feet off the table, suddenly hyper-aware of how she looked, how she slouched. Her fingers flew to the clip in her hair, pulling it out and fussing with the strands, trying to smooth them down, to make them look effortless instead of completely unkempt. She knew if she so much as glanced in his direction, she’d find him staring.

“Any idea who that is?” Saoirse asked, not so subtly pointing directly at Nikolai.

Maelys, with even less subtlety, turned all the way around to look. Camryn, internally freaking out, tried to remain cool and detached.

“No idea,” she said, a hesitant edge to her voice. “Looks like one of the Durmstrang boys.”

Saoirse raised an eyebrow. “Looks like?”

“Cam, he’s practically burning holes through you with those eyes,” Maelys smirked. “Merlin’s beard he’s got it bad.”

Camryn felt heat rush to her cheeks. She quickly looked away, pretending to be suddenly very interested in her Charms’ homework. “You’re imagining things.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Saoirse said smugly, nudging her in the arm.

Maelys grinned. “You should wave or something.”

Cam shot them both a glare. “Absolutely not.”

Nikolai stood up suddenly.

“Oh my god,” Camryn whispered to herself, panic rising in her chest.

He walked past their table, heading toward the bookshelves. He didn’t even glance at the titles or authors before plucking a random book from the shelf. The girls sat frozen, dead silent, as Cam held her breath.

On his way back to his seat, he slowed as he passed behind her.

“Hello, Camryn,” he said, his deep voice laced with that thick Bulgarian accent. The way he said her name sent a shiver down her spine.

“Hi,” she managed, finally exhaling the breath she was holding.

She watched as he returned to his table, still trying to process what had just happened—

THUD.

Pain shot through her arm as Saoirse smacked her with a hardcover textbook.

“Ow!” Cam whisper-yelled, clutching her arm.

“You lying bitch,” Saoirse hissed. “You totally know who that is.”

“Okay, fine!” Cam threw up her hands in surrender. “I may have spoken to him, like, one time.”

“Spill,” Maelys demanded, leaning in.

Camryn sighed. “I was running from Filch and bumped into him by mistake.” She looked at their unimpressed faces. “End of story.”

“Uh-huh,” Saoirse said, clearly unconvinced.

“Maybe he’ll ask you to the ball,” Maelys added slyly.

“What ball?” Cam asked, only to be smacked in the arm again. “What now?!” she hissed.

“Do you ever pay attention?” Saoirse groaned.

“Clearly not,” Cam muttered, rubbing her sore arm.

“On Christmas Eve, there’s going to be a ball,” Maelys explained. “Everyone’s supposed to bring a date.”

“Our first dancing lesson is next Saturday after the first task,” Saoirse added.

Camryn groaned. “Like ballroom dancing?”

“No, like breakdancing,” Saoirse deadpanned.

“Hilarious,” Camryn giggled, rolling her eyes before turning her attention back to her homework.

The girls burst into laughter, their voices carrying across the library before a sharp “Shhh!” cut through the air.

They turned to see a Ravenclaw at a nearby table, glaring at them over the top of a massive textbook.

Cam held up her hands in surrender, biting back another laugh. “Alright, alright, we’ll behave.”

Maelys smirked. “For now.”

Saoirse rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin as they attempted—poorly—to stifle their giggles.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Cam and the twins had made at least 200 Galleons in bets on the first task—practically everyone had bet against Harry and lost. The Gryffindor common room was electric, pulsing with energy as loud music played and students packed in, celebrating. Fred and George had Harry hoisted up on their very tall shoulders, and in his hands, he clutched the golden dragon egg—the prize he’d won and the vessel containing his next clue.

Camryn had mastered the art of sneaking into places she technically wasn’t supposed to be in her first year. Getting the girls into the Gryffindor common room for post-Quidditch parties had become second nature, and tonight was no different. Well, almost. Maelys had claimed she had “something to attend to,” whatever that was supposed to mean. Saoirse, as reluctant as ever, had nearly refused to come, but Cam had convinced her it would be worth it.

“We knew you wouldn’t die!” the twins shouted in unison.

“Lose a leg,” Fred added.

“Or an arm!” George continued.

“Pack it in altogether?” they said together.

“Never!” Cam and Saoirse joined in the teasing.

“Go on, Harry. What’s the clue?” Seamus called over the noise.

“Who wants me to open it?” Harry asked, holding up the egg.

The room erupted in cheers.

“Do you want me to open it?” he asked one last time, grinning before twisting the cap.

The egg fell open, and suddenly, the room was filled with an ear-piercing, otherworldly screech. It was the loudest, most awful noise Cam had ever heard. She slapped her hands over her ears, wincing. Around her, students recoiled in pain, faces scrunched in discomfort. Fred and George, caught off guard, didn’t even bother setting Harry down before covering their own ears—letting him drop unceremoniously to the floor.

Harry scrambled to slam the egg shut, and the room instantly fell silent.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron’s voice cut through the tension.

Everyone turned to stare. The air shifted awkwardly—everyone knew Ron and Harry had barely spoken since Harry’s name came out of the Goblet.

“All right, everyone! Go back to your knitting. This is gonna be uncomfortable enough without all you nosy sods listening in,” Fred announced, waving his hands dramatically. The crowd took the hint and slowly dispersed.

Cam cracked open a few bottles of hard butterbeer, passing them around as the four of them settled in. Back in their first year, Cam—with the assistance of Fred and George—had stolen the Marauder’s Map from Filch’s office. Eventually, the twins surrendered it to Harry (a decision Cam had opposed until she found out it had once belonged to his father). But before that, she had memorized the important secret passageways, making her own makeshift, non-magical map. She still used the tunnel to Honeydukes’ cellar to smuggle in the occasional case of hard butterbeer or bottle of firewhiskey.

George flopped onto the couch beside Fred, stretching his legs out with a contented sigh. “Where’s Maelys on this fine Friday night?” he asked lazily, tipping his bottle back for another swig.

Saoirse sat on the floor with her usual perfect posture, legs tucked neatly beneath her. Cam, on the other hand, perched on the arm of the couch next to Fred, her knee resting just beside his.

“She’s ‘attending to something,’” Saoirse said, rolling her eyes.

“Well, that’s mysterious,” Fred mused, the corners of his mouth twitching up in amusement. He stretched his arms along the back of the couch, his left arm hanging lazily off the side—just next to Cam.

“You wanna hear my theory?” Cam asked, a sly smirk forming on her lips.

Saoirse raised an eyebrow. “You have theories about our best friend?”

“Do tell,” the twins said in unison, leaning in slightly, their curiosity piqued.

Cam glanced around as if checking for eavesdroppers before flashing a mischievous grin. “I think she’s at another private lesson with Snape.”

Fred made a face. “At nine p.m. on a Friday?”

“Why on earth would she be with him?” George added, equally bewildered.

Cam simply shrugged, her smirk widening.

Saoirse frowned. “I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”

“I’m only suggesting that our dear friend has a crush on a certain Potions Master,” Cam teased, wiggling her eyebrows dramatically.

“That’s absurd,” Saoirse scoffed.

“Well, whatever the real reason is, she’s missing out,” George said, shaking his head.

“Oh yeah, tonight’s gonna be good,” Fred added with a grin.

As if absentmindedly, Fred lifted his arm and began running his fingers lightly along the side of Cam’s thigh. The touch was barely there—casual, effortless—but her breath hitched, nonetheless. Her heart skipped a beat, a slow, heavy warmth spreading through her chest. The noise of the common room dulled, her awareness tunneling to the point of contact.

Saoirse was saying something to George, but Cam barely registered it. Her head felt light, almost hazy, as if the butterbeer had finally caught up to her. Fred didn’t seem to notice what he was doing—like touching her was second nature, something easy, familiar. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus, but her mind kept circling back to the heat of his fingertips through the fabric of her jeans.

Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was just Fred being Fred.

Cam’s swirling thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a sudden commotion—Seamus and Dean, locked in a half-wrestle, half-drunken scuffle, staggered backward. Before she could react, they crashed into her, sending her toppling off the arm of the couch—right into Fred’s lap.

Butterbeer sloshed from their bottles, splashing across the group. Saoirse let out a sharp gasp as the cold liquid soaked through her shirt, while Fred made a surprised noise beneath Cam.

“Seamus, come on,” Fred groaned, shoving at him with one hand, the other instinctively resting on Cam’s hip to steady her. She was sprawled awkwardly across his legs, the warmth of his hands sending an entirely different kind of heat rushing to her face.

“I’m sorry!” Seamus yelped, scrambling upright. “It’s Dean’s fault, anyway!”

“Hey!” Dean shot back, shoving Seamus in return.

Saoirse let out an exasperated sigh, standing up and attempting to shake the butterbeer from her shirt. The effort was useless—it clung to the fabric, sticky and cold. With a resigned huff, she wiped a few stray drops from her arm and shot Cam an unimpressed look.

“Okay, I’m gonna go,” she announced, clearly fed up.

“Let me walk you out,” Cam offered, trying to push herself upright.

Saoirse shot her a knowing look, her gaze flicking pointedly to Cam’s current predicament—still half-sprawled across Fred’s lap. A smirk tugged at her lips. “No, you stay put,” she teased.

Cam opened her mouth to protest, but before she could, George—ever the gentleman—stood and extended a hand to Saoirse. “Come on, I’ve got you.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Saoirse took his arm, throwing one last smirk over her shoulder before following him toward the exit.

Cam turned back to Fred, only to realize just how close they were. His face hovered just inches from hers, the warm glow of the common room fire casting shadows across his sharp features. For a brief, breathless moment, she swore he leaned in—his gaze flickering down to her lips. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her mind suddenly blank.

But before she could say or do anything, Seamus and Dean—still caught up in their ridiculous scuffle—slammed into the couch once more.

“Damn it, Seamus,” Fred groaned, jostled sideways.

And just like that, the moment was gone. Without thinking, he all but dropped her onto the cushions as he stood, already reaching out to rough the two up.

Cam barely had time to process what had just happened—if it had even happened at all. If she even wanted it to happen.

“You good, Connolly?” George asked as he returned, a few more butterbeer in hand.

Cam took one of the open bottles, but after a quick sip, she sighed. “I think I need something a little stronger.”

George smirked. “That can be arranged.” He reached for the half-empty bottle of fire whiskey sitting on the table.

“Freddie!” Cam called across the room.

Fred looked up, still holding Seamus and Dean in headlocks under each arm.

“Shots?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Fred grinned. “Come on, boys. Let’s go apologize to the nice lady,” he joked, finally releasing them.

Seamus straightened his wrinkled shirt. “Sorry for knocking Fred into you.”

“And sorry about your friend,” Dean added.

Cam waved them off with a smirk. “Save your apologies, boys,” she said, already pouring out shots.

The firelight flickered against the glasses as she passed them around. The air was buzzing with laughter and the lingering scent of butterbeer and smoke.

Seamus, emboldened by a few too many drinks, threw down a challenge. “Alright, Connolly. Shot for shot. Let’s see if you’re really as tough as you think you are.”

A circle quickly formed around them, voices egging them on as George poured the shots. One after another, they drank—Seamus trying to keep up, but with each slam of his glass onto the table, his confidence wavered. Cam, on the other hand, remained perfectly composed, her smirk only growing with each shot she downed.

By the time Seamus wobbled on his feet, his face flushed and unfocused, Cam lifted her last shot, winked at Fred and George, and threw it back effortlessly. Seamus groaned, swaying slightly before collapsing onto the couch in defeat.

“That’s our girl,” the twins said in unison, throwing their arms around her shoulders as the room erupted in cheers.

As the night wore on, someone cranked up the volume on the record player, filling the common room with lively music. The energy in the air was electric—laughter, clinking bottles, and the occasional crash as someone knocked over a chair in their drunken excitement.

Cam danced between Fred and George, letting them spin her around effortlessly. They passed her back and forth, twirling her until she was dizzy with laughter. Occasionally, one of them would dip her low, making her giggle like a little kid before pulling her back up into another spin. The warmth of the fire, the buzz of the drinks, and the way their hands found her waist so easily made the moment feel intoxicating in more ways than one.

Between dances, they threw back more shots, the fire whiskey burning smoothly down their throats. Cam was, as always, the reigning champ—her face barely twitching as she tossed them back without a chaser.

As the night dwindled, students slowly began retreating to their dormitories, the once-rowdy common room settling into a warm, comfortable haze. Fred helped Dean haul a very unconscious Seamus up to their room, leaving Camryn and George to continue their ridiculous excuse for ballroom dancing. They held hands, twirling sloppily, their movements exaggerated and uncoordinated as they mimicked what they imagined they’d be forced to learn the next day.

Fred returned a few minutes later, collapsing onto the couch and stretching his arms out along the back. His gaze naturally found Cam. Even though she was dancing like a complete fool—her steps clumsy, her laughter unrestrained—he was utterly mesmerized.

It wasn’t just the way she moved, though that was captivating enough. It was the way her hair flipped wildly with each spin, how her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how she threw her head back every time something struck her as truly funny. Her laugh was loud and unapologetic, the kind that filled a room and made everyone around her want to join in. It was genuine—never forced, never practiced.

Fred had been chasing that laugh since the day he met her.

He still remembered their first night at Hogwarts, when they’d both been sorted into Gryffindor. She had been quiet then—nervous, uncertain, not at all like the girl spinning around the common room now. But he had said something, some dumb joke he could no longer recall, and she had laughed. It wasn’t nearly as loud as it was now, but it had been real. That was all he needed.

And ever since, he had made it his mission to hear it again. Every day.

The record began to skip, the crackling sound filling the now-empty common room. They had reached the end of the music, the end of the night. As always, they had been the first to start the party and the last to see it through.

George gave Cam one final spin, sending her stumbling toward Fred before turning to lift the record from the turntable.

Fred smirked as she wobbled, catching herself before collapsing onto the couch beside him. “Having fun?”

“I’m definitely a little too drunk,” she admitted, giggling as she sank into the cushions. She sat closer than she normally would have, but she didn’t care. Her sense of space was off, and being near him just felt right.

“My head feels so light,” she murmured, tilting her head back with a sleepy smile.

“Lay down,” Fred said. His voice was different now—softer, deeper, laced with something unfamiliar, something more intimate.

“If I lay down, I don’t think I’ll be able to get up.” Her eyes found his, dark brown and impossibly warm.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his arm, his fingers trailing up her shoulder, over her neck—slow and deliberate. He guided her head down until it rested against his shoulder.

The moment his skin brushed hers, a shiver ran up her spine. Goosebumps prickled along her arms. Her stomach fluttered, twisting and turning, but exhaustion was quickly catching up to her. Her eyes grew heavy, and she let herself relax into him, into the warmth of his body.

She breathed him in—ginger and fireworks, but somehow sweet. Had he always smelled like that? Had she just never been close enough to notice?

Fred sighed, shifting slightly to get comfortable, but he didn’t let her go. Cam felt his cheek rest lightly against the top of her head.

The record clicked softly as the needle lifted. The music was gone; the party was over, but neither of them moved.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Camryn didn’t remember falling asleep. She recalled the warmth of Fred’s shoulder, the burn of firewhiskey, the weightlessness of spinning between the twins, but after Saoirse left and Seamus challenged her to shots, everything blurred into a hazy, golden fuzz. Somehow, she had ended up in her bed. That was all she knew.

Her body ached from the night before, but thankfully, her head was clear—those Irish drinking genes coming in handy. Now, she stood in the back of the Great Hall with Fred and George, only half-listening as Professor McGonagall addressed the gathered students.

“The Yule Ball has been a tradition of the Triwizard Tournament since its inception. On Christmas Eve night, we and our guests gather in the Great Hall for a night of well-mannered frivolity. As representatives of the host school, I expect each and every one of you to put your best foot forward. And I mean this literally, because the Yule Ball is, first and foremost, a dance.”

The room buzzed to life—girls whispering excitedly, boys groaning in exaggerated agony.

“Silence!” McGonagall’s sharp tone cut through the chatter. “The house of Godric Gryffindor has commanded the respect of the wizarding world for nearly ten centuries. I will not have you, in the course of a single evening, besmirching that name by behaving like a babbling, bumbling band of baboons.”

Camryn smirked. “Try saying that five times fast,” she whispered to the twins.

Fred and George, never ones to back down from a challenge, immediately began muttering, babbling, bumbling band of baboons under their breath, each trying to outpace the other.

“Now, to dance is to let the body breathe. Inside every girl, a secret swan slumbers, longing to burst forth and take flight.”

McGonagall made sweeping, exaggerated arm movements, mimicking the graceful flutters of a swan.

Fred leaned toward Cam, voice low and teasing. “Can you feel the swan about to burst?”

She shot him a glare and elbowed him lightly in the ribs, earning a chuckle.

“Inside every boy, a lordly lion prepared to prance.” McGonagall’s gaze fell on Ron, who had been whispering furiously to Harry. “Mr. Weasley.”

Ron froze. “Yes?” His voice cracked, eyes wide with terror.

“Will you join me, please?”

The Gryffindors stifled their laughter as McGonagall positioned him as an example. “Now, place your right hand on my waist.”

Ron’s face turned as red as his hair. “Where?”

“My waist.”

She seized his hands, forcing them into position. The room erupted into barely contained giggles as Ron stiffly followed her lead, looking as though he’d rather face an acromantula.

Harry turned in his seat and shot Cam, Fred, and George a look. “You’re never going to let him live this down, are you?”

The three of them grinned in unison. “Never.”

McGonagall clapped her hands. “Now, everyone, grab a partner and follow our lead.”

George spun toward Cam with a dramatic flourish, bending at the waist in an exaggerated bow. “M’lady?” he intoned in a mock-posh accent, extending his hand.

Cam let out a gasp, placing a hand on her chest. “Oh, my stars! A gentleman has asked me to dance,” she drawled in an over-the-top Southern belle accent, placing her hand in his.

As George led her to the dance floor, Cam risked a glance over her shoulder—just in time to see Fred asking Angelina to dance.

She wasn’t sure why, but something in her stomach twisted. She turned back to George, plastering on a grin.

“Well, Georgie, let’s see if you can keep up.” 

He grinned and, without warning, spun her around. George Weasley was, surprisingly, a natural at ballroom dancing. His steps were smooth, effortless, and perfectly in sync with the music. Cam, ever clumsy, had no trouble keeping up—not as long as George was leading her.

“Got a date to the ball yet?” he asked casually, spinning her once more before pulling her back in.

Cam hesitated, her gaze flickering—just for a second—toward Fred. He was dancing with Angelina, far less gracefully than George was with her, but that wasn’t what caught her attention. It was the easy way he laughed with her, the way he pulled her just a little closer when she stumbled. Cam quickly turned back to George.

“No,” she said, turning her attention back to George. “I’m sort of… waiting for someone to ask.”

Was she? She had never been the type to care about that kind of thing, never one to sit around hoping someone would sweep her off her feet. But still, something in her held out hope.

“Well, what if I asked you?”

The words were lighthearted, but the way he looked at her—warm and sincere—made her pause. George had those same deep brown, puppy-dog eyes as Fred, but they had never made her melt the way Fred’s did. Maybe that’s why she had never confused them the way other people did. She always knew it was Fred if her heart skipped a beat.

Cam laughed, shaking her head. “That’s very funny,” she said, smiling. “Who are you really taking?”

For a brief moment, his expression faltered. She wouldn’t have noticed unless she was really looking, but something in his eyes flickered—just for a second. She would never know it, but his heart broke a little in that moment.

Still, George was nothing if not quick on his feet. He recovered in an instant, flashing his usual mischievous grin. “I’m thinking of flying solo,” he said. “How am I gonna spike the punch if I’m entertaining my date all night?”

Cam laughed, letting him spin her again, the moment passing as easily as the music changed.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Cam adjusted her scarf, tucking it tighter around her neck as she and the girls trudged through the fresh snow. The cold bit at her cheeks, but the warmth of her sweater—one of Molly’s hand-knit Christmas gifts, a deep red with a large ‘C’ stitched into the front—helped ward off the chill. Just behind them, the twins walked in sync, bundled in matching beanies and their own initialed sweaters, looking every bit like the mischievous duo they were.

“So, has he asked you yet?” Saoirse suddenly bumped her shoulder, sending Cam stumbling sideways into Maelys.

“Who?” Cam barely had time to react before Maelys nudged her back the other way, making her stagger like a pinball caught between bumpers. “What?”

“Your not-so-secret admirer, duh,” Maelys teased, grinning as she and Saoirse continued their game of Cam-pong.

“Oh, him,” Cam muttered, suddenly remembering Nikolai even existed. “God, I don’t even know if I’d say yes if he did.”

“What?! He’s totally hot,” Saoirse argued.

“And I totally don’t know anything about him,” Cam shot back.

Maelys smirked. “You know he’s totally into you.”

Cam rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a laugh. “I propose we be each other’s dates,” she declared, throwing her arms around both Maelys and Saoirse.

“I agree. Everyone’s putting way too much importance on having a date,” Saoirse said, nodding in approval.

Maelys hesitated for half a second before sighing. “Harry kind of asked me… and I kind of said yes.”

“Oh, way to go, Wraythe,” Fred’s voice rang out as he and George appeared on either side of them, flanking the trio effortlessly.

“Yeah, getting asked out by the Chosen One—nice,” George added with a smirk.

Maelys shot them both a look. “We’re just going as friends.”

The Three Broomsticks was buzzing with warmth and laughter, packed with students eager to enjoy their day off. The scent of butterbeer filled the air, mingling with the sound of clinking mugs and lively chatter. Students from all three schools crowded the wooden tables, their voices rising over the crackling fireplace.

“Grab a table, I’ll get the drinks,” Cam offered, slipping away toward the bar as the others settled in.

The counter was lined with students waiting for their orders, but Madam Rosmerta worked quickly, sliding foamy butterbeer down the bar with ease. Cam placed her order, drumming her fingers lightly against the wood as she waited. When she turned around, she nearly collided with Nikolai.

“Oh,” she stuttered, stepping back instinctively.

He didn’t move. He just watched her with that same unreadable expression, dark eyes steady. Then, just as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing the weather, he said, “I’m going to ask you to the ball.”

The words sent a jolt through her.

Her breath caught as her gaze flickered—almost involuntarily—toward the table where Fred sat, laughing at something George had said. He didn’t notice her looking. She had to make a decision.

“I’m sorry, I—” she started, but Nikolai cut her off with a knowing smile.

“I’m not asking yet,” he said. “But I will. Soon.” And then, just like that, he turned and walked off, disappearing into the crowd.

Cam let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding before grabbing the tray of drinks and making her way back to the table. She barely had time to set it down before Maelys leaned in.

“Did he ask you?” she demanded, eyes wide with intrigue.

“Who the hell was that?” Fred asked at the same time, his voice edged with something sharp.

Cam shrank into her seat, suddenly wishing she could melt into the floorboards.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cam said, lifting her butterbeer to her lips in a poor attempt to hide her face.

“Oh, shut up,” Saoirse groaned, rolling her eyes.

“Cam has a date to the dance,” Maelys sing-songed, practically vibrating with amusement.

Fred’s grip tightened around the handle of his mug as his gaze flicked toward Nikolai. The guy was still lingering near the bar, looking entirely too confident for Fred’s liking. His stomach twisted uncomfortably, a sinking feeling settling deep in his chest.

He couldn’t pin down exactly what bothered him—maybe it was the way he had just appeared out of nowhere, or how easily he seemed to get under Cam’s skin. But it was probably nothing.

Probably.

He was just being an overprotective friend. Right?