The Yule Ball.
The Great Hall was a spectacle of winter elegance—glittering frost charmed onto the stone walls, enchanted snowflakes drifting lazily from the ceiling, and candlelight reflecting off the ice sculptures stationed at every corner. The air buzzed with laughter, music, and the occasional shriek of a student stepping onto the dance floor for the first time.
Harry Evans, however, was utterly, profoundly bored.
Perched near the back of the hall, he nursed a goblet of something warm and spiced, resisting the urge to vanish into the shadows. The only reason he was here was because Dumbledore had politely suggested that all staff members "engage with the student body" during the event. Because nothing says engagement like standing at the edge of the room and judging everyone's dance skills in silence.
His gaze drifted over the crowd.
Antonin Dolohov was attempting to dance with a rather unimpressed Ravenclaw girl, his movements stiff but determined. The poor girl looked like she was calculating the risk of stepping on his foot and being hexed for it.
Abraxas Malfoy, predictably, had claimed a prime position in the center of the room, looking like he owned the dance floor. A few Slytherins had gathered around, either admiring or secretly plotting his downfall.
And then there was Tom Riddle, standing at the edge of the crowd, his usual mask of polite detachment firmly in place. He wasn’t dancing, of course. Instead, he observed. Calculating. Analyzing. Much like Harry himself.
For a brief moment, their eyes met.
There was no recognition, no outright suspicion—just quiet scrutiny. Tom tilted his head slightly, as if trying to read something in Harry’s posture, something hidden beneath the surface.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Tom blinked first, turning his attention back to the crowd.
Interesting.
A burst of movement caught his attention—a group of third years had somehow convinced Professor Beery, the overly enthusiastic Herbology professor, to join the dancing. The man twirled dramatically, nearly knocking over a table of refreshments in the process. Professor Merrythought was stifling laughter behind a delicate handkerchief.
Harry sighed.
Another hour of this.
He took another slow sip of his drink, resigning himself to the night ahead.
At least no one had set anything on fire yet.