The Tenth Weasley - CH - 137

It began, as most things at Durmstrang did, with a rumor that spread faster than fire in dry wood.

Though the Yule Ball had not yet been formally announced, the mere mention of a winter celebration had set every student’s imagination ablaze. From the upper decks of the Durmstrang ship to the courtyard outside the Great Hall, talk of dates, dress robes, and dance steps filled the air.

By now, everyone was sure of it — there would be a ball. And every boy who valued his dignity was already trying to find a partner before someone else did.

Harry Weasley, however, was many things — a champion, a duelist, a dragon-slayer, and possibly the most talked-about student in Europe — but one thing he was definitely not was a dancer.

He learned that fact the hard way.

Hermione had insisted that if he was going to embarrass himself at the Yule Ball, he could at least do it gracefully. So, one evening, they found themselves in the dueling arena aboard the Durmstrang ship, the wide wooden floor cleared of training dummies and spell burns.

The room that had echoed with the crack of spells and the hiss of curses now resonated with something far more dangerous — music.

“Alright,” Hermione said, tying her hair back and giving him that patient-but-determined look. “Right foot forward, left foot back. It’s not hard, Harry. It’s rhythm.”

Harry stared at her feet as though they were a pair of moving runes. “They keep switching places.”

“They’re supposed to,” she said through a sigh. “It’s called dancing.”

“I’d rather duel a dragon again,” he muttered.

Hermione glared. “You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.”

But she didn’t give up. She took his hand, placed his other hand carefully at her waist, and started counting under her breath. “One, two, three… one, two—ouch!”

Harry froze. “Sorry!”

“You stepped on my foot!”

“It’s your fault for moving too slow!”

“My fault?”

A few Durmstrang students, drawn by curiosity, had begun gathering at the door. Among them were Viktor and Anya. Krum leaned against the doorframe, smirking as Harry tripped over Hermione’s foot again and crashed spectacularly to the floor.

The entire group burst into laughter.

Anya clapped sarcastically. “Very graceful, Weasley!”

Hermione helped him up, trying not to laugh. “We’ll need to practice every day.”

Harry groaned. “At this rate, I’ll be in St. Mungo’s before I learn a single step.”

By the next week, the entire school — Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons alike — was in chaos. Even without an official announcement, boys were racing to find dates before the girls were taken.

Letters were passed like contraband. Charms were used to deliver flowers that exploded in confetti. Even the library, once Hermione’s haven, had become a battlefield of romantic desperation.

Viktor Krum, ever the celebrity, made the biggest scene of all when he approached Anya, Durmstrang’s tomboy and the school’s most reckless girl.

He didn’t do it in private — no, Viktor Krum did it in the middle of the mess hall, in front of everyone.

“Anya,” he said in his deep accent, loud enough for the entire room to hear, “would you do me honor of dancing at Yule Ball?”

The entire hall went silent. Then Anya smirked and replied, “Only if you promise not to step on my foot like Harry did on Granger’s.”

The hall erupted in laughter. Even Harry, sitting with his head in his hands, couldn’t help grinning.

Hermione nudged him. “See? You’re famous now.”

“I was already famous,” Harry said grimly. “Now I’m infamous.”

Three days later, Professor Karkaroff finally confirmed what everyone already knew.

During breakfast, he stood at the front of the hall, his smile sharp and knowing. “It seems I can no longer keep a secret from my students,” he said with a flourish. “As part of the Triwizard Tournament, the Yule Ball will indeed be held this winter. Formal attire is required. Champions will open the dance with their partners.”

The hall erupted into cheers, laughter, and a flurry of whispering.

Harry groaned softly. “There it is — my death sentence.”

Hermione smiled sweetly. “You’ll survive.”

“I doubt it. I’m more likely to destroy the dance floor.”

“You can’t destroy the dance floor.”

“Watch me.”

Fred, who had overheard, leaned across the table and said with mock seriousness, “Don’t worry, mate. If you trip, we’ll pretend it was part of the choreography.”

George added, “Yeah — we’ll even sell tickets for the encore.”

Harry threw a piece of toast at them.

That evening, as he walked the deck of the Durmstrang ship, the cold air stinging his cheeks, Harry thought about how strange his life had become. He had fought monsters, faced suspicion, stood against prejudice — and now, somehow, his next great challenge was not stepping on Hermione’s toes in front of the entire magical world.

He let out a quiet laugh to himself. “I can face dragons and survive basilisk venom, but a ballroom? That might just kill me.”

Behind him, Hermione’s voice echoed gently across the deck. “Then we’ll make sure it doesn’t.”

He turned and saw her standing there with that same patient smile. “Tomorrow, we practice again.”

Harry sighed, smiling despite himself. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

“Never.”

“Alright,” he said, offering his hand. “Then we dance.”

The snow outside had thickened into a curtain of white by the time Harry finally gathered the self-proclaimed Mini Marauders.

They met in the old classroom near the Great Hall, where the torches flickered dimly and the sound of the wind carried faintly through the stone walls. Ron, Neville, Charlie Potter, and Ginny were already there, bickering over a deck of Exploding Snap cards when Harry entered.

The moment he walked in, the arguing stopped.

“So,” Harry began, arms crossed, “I hear you lot haven’t got dates for the Yule Ball.”

Four sets of eyes immediately avoided his gaze.

Ron pretended to be fascinated by a cobweb on the ceiling. Neville suddenly decided his shoelace needed attention. Charlie Potter shifted awkwardly and Ginny rolled her eyes.

Harry sighed. “That’s what I thought.”

Charlie was the first to speak. “It’s not like we haven’t tried,” he muttered. “I wanted to ask Cho Chang, but she’s already going with Cedric Diggory.”

Harry nodded sympathetically. “She’s a nice girl. But it’s her loss — she’ll regret it when you’re the next professional Seeker.”

That earned a grin from Charlie, though he still looked disappointed.

Ron groaned, slumping against the desk. “I don’t even like dancing. I’ll just go alone.”

Neville perked up at that. “Same here. I’m fine just watching the lights. I’ve never really liked ball anyway.”

Harry looked between them, a mischievous glint forming in his eyes. “You two aren’t going alone.”

Ron frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not letting my sisters and their friends wander into a ballroom full of older students without protection.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “We don’t need protection.”

Harry ignored her. “Ron, Neville — you’re going with them.”

“What?!” Ron and Neville said together.

Harry grinned. “You heard me. You’ll be their partners. Ron, you’ll take Astoria. Neville, you’ll take Rose.”

Rose Potter, who had just entered the room with Astoria trailing behind her, blinked. “Wait—what?”

“You’re going to the Ball,” Harry said matter-of-factly. “With Neville. And Astoria, you’re going with Ron.”

Astoria blinked up at Ron, who turned red to the ears. “Um… hi.”

“Hi,” Astoria replied politely, though her lips twitched like she was hiding a laugh.

Neville looked flustered but smiled at Rose. “If you don’t mind, I’d be honored.”

Rose’s face softened. “Of course I don’t mind.”

Ginny folded her arms. “And who am I supposed to go with, then?”

Harry looked at Charlie Potter. “You’re going with her.”

Charlie looked startled. “Ginny?”

“Yes,” Harry said, dead serious. “You said you wanted to go to the Ball, and I can’t think of anyone better suited to keep an eye on her. It’s either that or you go alone.”

Ginny groaned. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Protective,” Harry corrected with a smirk.

It wasn’t until they were finalizing the plan that Harry realized one person was missing.

“Wait,” he said suddenly. “Where’s Luna?”

Neville grinned. “You’re too late to worry about her. She’s already got a date.”

Harry blinked. “She what?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah. Some bloke from Hufflepuff — fifth year, I think. Name’s Darwin Finch or something. Total creature nut. He and Luna have been talking about Nargles and Crumple-Horned Snorkacks for days.”

Harry chuckled softly. “Of course. She found her kindred spirit.”

Neville grinned. “He’s harmless. Polite, too. You’d like him.”

Harry nodded, relieved. “Good. As long as she’s safe.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “You act like she’s going to be dueling Death Eaters, not dancing at a ball.”

“With Hogwarts students,” Harry said pointedly. “Same thing.”

The others laughed, but they all knew he wasn’t entirely joking.

By the end of the meeting, everyone had a partner — even if not by choice.

Ginny was still muttering under her breath about “controlling older brothers,” but Harry noticed the small smile she tried to hide when Charlie offered to walk her to dinner.

Rose and Neville were chatting easily, already planning what color robes to wear. Astoria had taken it upon herself to teach Ron the proper way to bow — which resulted in Ron nearly falling over twice.

And Luna, as always, was somewhere far away, probably discussing magical creatures with her date under a floating candle.

As Harry watched them all, a quiet satisfaction filled him. He might not be the world’s best dancer, but at least his little circle would be safe — and happy.

Hermione appeared in the doorway just as the group started leaving. “You’re arranging dates for everyone now?”

Harry grinned. “Just the ones who need it.”

She crossed her arms. “That’s very sweet of you. Overbearing, but sweet.”

Harry smirked. “It’s called leadership.”

“Mm,” she said, smiling. “You mean bossiness.”

He chuckled and offered his arm. “Well, Miss Granger, since everyone else has a date… shall we continue our dance lessons?”

Hermione sighed, pretending to be exasperated. “You’re going to step on my foot again, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

As they walked off toward the Durmstrang ship’s arena again, the snow outside fell thicker, the castle lights glowing like warm embers against the cold.

The announcement of the Yule Ball had transformed Hogwarts into a carnival of nerves. Boys who couldn’t cast a Shield Charm to save their lives were suddenly charming roses into dancing, and girls who spent their evenings buried in textbooks were now whispering about gowns and hairstyles.

But beneath all the excitement, one incident rippled through the castle like a shockwave — an incident that left Hermione Granger angrier, quieter, and more uncertain than she had been in a long while.

It began with Fleur Delacour.

The Durmstrang ship’s deck gleamed under the weak winter sunlight. Fleur stood at the edge, her silvery hair glimmering like a river of light, her Beauxbatons uniform crisp and perfect as always. She was surrounded by admirers — students from all three schools — all of them laughing at every word she said.

And then she saw Harry.

The crowd turned as Fleur’s voice, melodic and confident, carried over the deck.

“’Arry Weasley!” she called out, her accent rich and smooth. “May I speak with you, s’il vous plaît?”

Every head turned. Even Viktor Krum paused mid-conversation, eyebrows raised.

Harry blinked, then walked toward her, uncertain. “Uh — sure?”

Fleur smiled, her expression soft but deliberate. “I ‘ave been thinking,” she began, “zat since we are both champions, it would be fitting to attend ze Yule Ball together, non? We could open ze first dance. It would be magnifique!”

The crowd collectively gasped. Fleur Delacour — the half-Veela champion of Beauxbatons — had just asked Harry Weasley to the ball.

For a moment, Harry was too stunned to respond. Then he smiled politely and shook his head.

“I’m flattered,” he said carefully, “but I already have a date.”

Fleur blinked, clearly surprised. “You ‘ave?”

Harry nodded. “Hermione Granger. She’s my girlfriend.”

The crowd murmured — some disappointed, others impressed. Fleur tilted her head, her smile not quite fading but her eyes narrowing with curiosity.

“Ah… very well,” she said smoothly, though her tone carried something else — amusement, perhaps disbelief. “Zat is very loyal of you, ‘Arry. Few boys would turn down a Veela.”

Harry’s answer was simple. “Then maybe they should learn to.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving the crowd whispering and Fleur watching him with an unreadable smile.

When Hermione heard what happened, she didn’t believe it at first. But by dinner, everyone in Hogwarts was talking about it.

“Did you hear? Fleur asked Harry to the Ball!”

“He said no! He’s going with Hermione!”

“Imagine turning her down — he must be mad!”

Everywhere Hermione went, she could feel the stares, the whispers, the comparisons.

She sat at the Gryffindor table, poking at her dinner while Ginny and Rose whispered nearby. Even though Harry had done nothing wrong, a cold knot had settled in Hermione’s chest.

Fleur Delacour was breathtaking — not just beautiful, but luminous. People tripped over themselves around her. Professors treated her like royalty. And almost every boy in school — even some ministry staffs — had asked her to the Ball.

Hermione knew she shouldn’t care. She knew Harry had turned her down. But that didn’t stop the quiet voice in her head from whispering:

Why would he choose you?

How long until someone prettier asks again?

She pushed her plate away, appetite gone.

Ginny noticed first. “Hermione? You okay?”

Hermione forced a smile. “Of course. Just tired.”

But Ginny frowned, unconvinced. “You’re thinking about Fleur, aren’t you?”

Hermione froze.

Ginny sighed. “Everyone is. Don’t let it bother you. She’s got charm magic — she could make a troll feel handsome.”

Hermione laughed weakly, but her heart wasn’t in it. “Still… it’s hard not to feel like a shadow next to her.”

Ginny leaned closer, voice firm. “Hermione, Harry doesn’t want a Veela. He wants you. Do you honestly think he’d care how many people asked Fleur?”

Hermione looked down, twisting her fingers together. “It’s not that I don’t trust him. I just…” she sighed softly. “I’ve never felt like someone people look at. And when everyone keeps talking about how beautiful she is… I can’t help feeling ordinary.”

Later that night, Harry found Hermione sitting alone in the Durmstrang ship’s reading chamber, a book open in her lap but untouched. The lamps cast golden light on her face, and her usual focus was missing — replaced by quiet thought.

He approached carefully. “Hey,” he said softly. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Hermione glanced up, startled. “No, I haven’t.”

Harry sat beside her. “You have. You think I don’t notice?”

She sighed, closing the book. “I just needed time to think.”

“About Fleur?” he asked gently.

Her silence was answer enough.

Harry smiled faintly. “You know I turned her down, right?”

“I know,” Hermione said quietly. “Everyone knows.”

“Then why do you look like you’re the one who lost something?”

Hermione hesitated. “Because she’s Fleur Delacour. And I’m… me. Just Hermione. I don’t have Veela blood or perfect hair or—”

Harry stopped her by taking her hand. “You have you,” he said simply. “And that’s more than enough.”

Hermione blinked, startled.

Harry’s tone softened. “You think I’d ever trade your stubbornness, your brilliance, your chaos for someone who glows when she walks into a room? Hermione, I don’t want a fairytale. I want someone real.”

Her throat tightened. “You really mean that?”

He smiled. “Of course I do. Besides, Fleur doesn’t snore when she studies in the library, and I’d miss that sound too much.”

Hermione laughed — the first real laugh she’d had in days — and swatted him on the shoulder. “I do not snore.”

“Maybe a little.”

“Harry!”

They both laughed then, the tension melting like snow under sunlight.