25th December, 1998

Harry woke with a start, the faint, warbling sounds of some tinny wizard rock song blasting sleep from his mind.

Can you dance like a Hippogriff?

He stared up at the scarlet canopy with its golden starbursts and wondered why there was a faint edge of terror and unease in his stomach.

Ma ma ma, ma ma ma, ma ma ma.

His brain helpfully supplied the answer.

Balls. Or, specifically, one Ball. One terrifying, glittery, panic-inducing Ball that should have been stuck firmly in his past instead of being painfully resurrected like a sodding zombie in the name of cheer and moving forward. How could anyone fucking move forward by dragging the past with them? Especially a past that was so... frilly.

At least Ron had nicer robes this time.

"Bit early for that, isn't it?" came the sleep-muffled grunt from the bed next to Harry's, and Harry couldn't agree with Ron more.

Seamus, it seemed, wasn't on their wave-length. He turned up the volume and began singing along.

"Ma ma ma, ma ma ma, ma ma ma!" he yelled, stomping around the room in an approximate rhythm to suggest he might, possibly, be headbanging.

Harry groaned, and then he groaned a bit louder for effect, since no one had heard him over the music, and then he rolled over to the edge of his bed and pulled the curtains back to make his opinion properly known.

Unfortunately, then he fell out of bed, on account of him still being half asleep, and that just made the singing and headbanging louder—accompanied now by obnoxious laughter.

"I didn't save the world for this," he insisted, ignoring the faint twinge of discomfort in his stomach that always signalled he probably shouldn't make jokes about it, but what else was he meant to do? Be serious about it?

The world he had so graciously saved liked to remind him of his deeds—often in the form of song—several times a day. More, if it could squeeze in a fresh article and a poem or two. And so, Harry had tried to take the sting out of it all by turning it into his own joke. It wasn't working.

"Sure, you did, Harry!" Dean protested, twirling Seamus around in his pyjamas. "You brought back music and laughter and—" He couldn't finish, breaking into sniggering laughter halfway.

By joyous coincidence, the wireless chose that moment to switch seamlessly into the song in question. This time, Harry didn't need to emphasise his displeasure; it was written all over his face. He covered his ears and ran from the room, his last vision of his dorm being of his best friend—the traitor—happily conducting the chorus.

"Are you protesting today, Harry?" Luna asked beatifically from the fireplace as he entered the common room.

"Er... no?" he hedged, glancing around for answers. "How did you... get in here?"

"Melinda let me in," Luna answered with a smile, doing absolutely nothing to explain who Melinda was and why she was letting Ravenclaws in and then leaving them to read by the fire. "And you're right, of course. I didn't notice the socks."

Harry blinked at her, wondering if perhaps this was a strange dream and none of the impromptu singing performances had even happened. But no, he could still hear them carrying on upstairs, and this was, after all, just Luna. With a sigh, he dropped into the armchair across from her and kept his face carefully neutral.

"What do my socks have to do with anything?"

"Well, I thought you might be protesting the Triwizard Tournament, but I think everyone taking part in the protest is wearing only their pyjama tops. Not the full outfit. And of course, their socks are green."

"Of course," Harry agreed, looking down at his maroon socks, his mind churning with the usual surreality that accompanied an unexpected conversation with Luna.

If he was honest, he rather liked the sensation. It was like trying to race the wind, or leaping off the edge of a mountain to discover you actually could fly, broom or no broom, simply because someone was there to catch you. Luna had that effect on him, and he was beyond grateful that whoever Melinda was had let her in here. Otherwise, he might still be stewing on his housemates' unfair choral performance. As it was, it was difficult to care about that when the colour of his socks was being called into important—and yet compassionate—debate.

"I nearly forgot," Luna said brightly, turning suddenly to retrieve a cloth bag from her side. "Happy Christmas, Harry!"

Oh, bollocks.

A strange feeling swept through him, beginning in the pit of his stomach and edging slowly up to his chest, where it bloomed outward in prickly heat. It was Christmas. He'd forgotten, but of course it was, because the Yule Ball took place tonight, and...

And that was why his housemates were so excited. And why the wireless had been playing at arse o'clock in the morning.

And why Luna had asked Melinda to let her in, so she could deliver a stunningly wrapped present to Harry, personally.

"Wow, Luna," he said, his voice coming out in tones of quiet awe. "Thank you. I didn't expect—"

"Well, of course you didn't, Harry," she said gently. "You've so many other things on your mind. I'm sure the tournament brings back a lot of unwanted memories for you, even if they have defanged the tasks."

Defanged. That was one way to put it. The tournament had been reinstated as a celebration for the reopening of Hogwarts. A year-long festival marked by three ostentatious challenges, open to all who wished to enter. Harry had gone along to the first task, because he couldn't graciously avoid it, and discovered the goal had been exquisite marksmanship: hit the moving target dead centre.

It reminded him of the carnival games Dudley used to go on about. The ones that were—allegedly—so rigged Uncle Vernon had to threaten the proprietors just to ensure Dudley won a prize. Harry wasn't convinced Dudley had the requisite aim and strength to win, rigged or not. But even still, even with carnivals and Dudley's incompetence flowing through his mind, even with the tasks being completely innocuous and safe and nothing at all like the last time, it reminded him of Cedric.

The entire sodding thing reminded him of Cedric, because how could it not? Every flash of baby blue that told him Beauxbatons were near; every excited conversation he overheard about students training for each task. It was nothing like the first tournament, and everything like it, because the atmosphere was the same. The entire fucking world had changed, and yet Hogwarts felt the same as it had in fourth year, brimming with joy and laughter while Harry fought for his life and the world remained poised on the brink of a madman's return.

But no one else seemed to care.

Gingerly, Harry peeled back the brightly coloured layers on his present, eyebrows shooting upward as the intricately carved box revealed itself.

"Traditionally they're egg-shaped," Luna explained, explaining nothing. "But I thought that might not be an appropriate choice, this year."

"Thank you, Luna. It's beautiful," Harry said, genuine warmth flooding his voice. "But... what is it?"

Luna smiled. "It's a Consilium. It sort of means 'answer', I suppose, at least in relation to the spell. They're different for each person. That's the beauty of them; they're created according to the question your heart asks right before they open, which dictates the answer they hold inside. You'll have to wait until it opens to discover what yours is."

"And when... will it open?"

"Usually at midnight, but they can take a little longer if you aren't ready."

Right. Well, at least he didn't have to solve a riddle for this one. Apparently, this box would solve a riddle for him. The riddle of what his heart asked, like that was an answer he actually wanted to hear.

"Oh." He startled, remembering suddenly that he was being rude. "Right, I have something for you upstairs, let me just—"

"It's alright, Harry," Luna said with another smile. "You can give it to me at breakfast. You look like you might need a moment to yourself before everyone else wakes up. I just wanted to give you this before the crowds appeared."

"That's really thoughtful of you," Harry said, surprised to find he was choking up a little. "Are you sure you don't want to wait? It'll just be—"

"Breakfast is a lovely time to receive gifts," Luna interrupted, shaking her head. "Don't forget to change your socks if you want to join the protest."

"I will," Harry promised.

By the time his housemates had joined him, he'd managed to find enough new clothing among his presents to get dressed. The strangely knobbly green socks had thrown him for a moment, and he wondered if it was a sign he should join the protest, but the faint possibility in the back of his mind that the socks were a prank kept him from putting them on. He just couldn't shake the likelihood that, for all the love potions and 'affectionately cursed' items—as the Ministry called them—he'd received over the last few months, socks were ones no one had tried. It was a loophole in a carefully designed system whereby Harry burned anything that didn't come with a sender tag he recognised.

Who knew what the socks could do? If he ended up falling to his knees and professing tender love for the Christmas tree, wearing knobbly green socks that looked like a child had knitted them, he'd only have himself to blame. So, he carefully put the package back under the tree until he could discover who had sent them.

Besides, it wasn't like he understood exactly what the protest was about. He knew why he didn't like the tournament, but it wasn't the kind of reason other people could participate in, if he was honest. It wasn't that he protested the tournament itself... He just... didn't like how people were treating it. He didn't like how everything felt the same as it had all those years ago, and yet completely ill-fitting. It made him think that he was the only one who had changed irrevocably, and everyone else had somehow managed to just shake off the war like a really bad afternoon.

Logically, he knew that wasn't right. The Weasleys would never fully recover from their grief, even as it eased. Teddy would grow up without the fundamental basics every child should take for granted. Neville sat with an air of command and ease that was frankly a bit terrifying, and Harry found himself relieved that the effect was occasionally ruined by the fact he was still mostly as clumsy as ever. Lavender wore the scars of her irrevocable change on her face.

But those were only pockets of change. Everything else was back to normal, and it made Harry feel wrung out and hollow. Like he'd somehow been left behind, and the world had moved on without him to a place he couldn't follow.

All in all, it was something of a relief when his housemates clattered down the stairs, dressed in Christmas jumpers and singing off-key carols. It didn't take his mind off things, exactly, since it was a perfect example of what he was stewing on. But it did capture his attention, roll it in glitter, and throw it into a pile of jingling bells.

It was hard to think with Seamus singing in your ear, was all.

They made their way down to breakfast, where hundreds of visiting families were enjoying the magically expanded space. The Great Hall was filled with cheer, and despite Harry's grinch-like thoughts about whether or not people should be feeling that in a time like this, it was nice. It was actually... very nice. Hermione caught his eye and waved him over, beaming across the table from her parents, who had finally been approved for release from supervision—their memories fully stable and returned.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," she said, happiness pouring off her in waves as Harry greeted her and her parents, and for a moment he could almost feel what everyone else was feeling.

He sat down at the end of the Gryffindor table beside her, piling his plate high with bread and eggs and breakfast sausages, and tried to just enjoy the atmosphere.

The fireplace roared and several red-headed people tumbled out, and suddenly the atmosphere became a whole lot easier to enjoy. Harry grinned, waving at George, who led the way to their corner of the table.

"Hiya, Harry," he said with an easy grin, sitting opposite while Molly Weasley hurried around to give him and Ron a gigantic hug, each.

"Hey." Harry found it easy to smile when it was George, for some reason.

While the rest of the Weasleys obviously understood the impact of the war on a level not everyone could claim, it was George that Harry felt truly understood it. The thought didn't make complete sense, but when it got him a wink and a shared moment of connection, he didn't much care.

"Would you like to hear the fine piece of gossip I caught this morning, Harry?" George asked, leaning forward on the table and grabbing a piece of bacon from Harry's plate.

"Go on, then," Harry said with a laugh, pushing his plate to the middle of the table for George to get easier access.

"Oi!" Ron interrupted, looking wounded. "What about me?"

For a moment, Harry wasn't entirely sure if he was talking about the gossip or the food.

"All in good time, little brother," George assured him, confirming it was likely the gossip. "This one is tailored for Harry."

Ron rolled his eyes and turned away in disinterest, although, much like a cat, his ears were pointed right in George's direction.

George leaned in further. "Little Malfoy's got himself an official warning."

"What?" Ron spun around, food falling out of his mouth as his attempt at looking nonchalant shattered. "What'd he do?"

George shrugged. "Use your imagination. All I know is the Ministry tried to get involved, but McGonagall's handling it for now. He's been in her office every morning this week."

As if on cue, the doors to the Great Hall swung open and a lone figure stood below the arch. His white blond hair fell forward, over his face, as it had all year, casting a strange softness to a figure who had once been slicked-back perfection. His robes billowed out as he walked, ignoring the heads that had swivelled in his direction at his appearance, revealing a tailored dark green jumper and soft grey trousers. It was a strange effect, to see the haughty, snooty expression on a face that was still all sharp angles and pointy judgement, while the rest of his appearance was almost... casual.

"Wonder what he did," Ron whispered in tones of horrified awe. "Do you think he hexed a first year? Probably still in the habit, the little turd."

"I don't think that's enough to get an official warning," George said pointedly, snagging a sausage from Harry's plate. "What do you reckon, Harry? Any ideas what our darling little Prince of Gits might have done?"

Harry blinked, wrenching his gaze away from where Malfoy had finally sat—his family, Harry noticed, was not in attendance, and Malfoy's Christmas morning seemed to be spent in a lonely huddle with Zabini and Parkinson. "Um, what?"

George smiled, and Harry noticed with a small jolt that it was the kind of smile he would expect on a Slytherin. For a moment, he had deep suspicions about the Sorting Hat's conversation with the twins. "What do you think Malfoy did?"

Harry had no idea. Whatever Malfoy had done, though, it had to be bad. Especially if McGonagall was involved.

"Oh, um..." Before Harry could answer, his brain helpfully supplied a new problem. "Wait, why did you say this gossip was tailored for me?"

George's smile grew, and Harry shivered. "No reason," he said airily, and this time he leaned to grab a hunk of bread off Ron's plate, and the resulting shouting moved the conversation on seamlessly.

Harry hadn't had very much to do with Malfoy this year, truth be told. He'd seen him once before school started, when he'd returned his wand, but it... sort of... ended up with Harry yelling at him. He couldn't even remember what he'd said, but he could remember the burning rage on Malfoy's face, and the cool disdain with which he'd told Harry to get out of his house.

That departure had mostly set the tone for the rest of the year. Through unspoken agreement, whenever they interacted, it was with a cool distance, lest they start screaming again and scare the children. Harry supposed he wouldn't have to deal with him for much longer anyway, as their paths wouldn't cross after Hogwarts.

The thought felt oddly heavy, like he'd swallowed a stone, but he didn't spend much time on it.

As they finished up breakfast, the Weasleys and Grangers decided on a walk around the lake together, before all the students had to get ready for the Ball. George linked arms with Ginny, leading the way out of the Hall towards the lake, and Harry took the opportunity to dart across the room and give Luna her present. She unwrapped the brightly coloured earrings with delight, instantly replacing the cherries currently dangling from her ears.

"They'll sing whatever song you like," Harry added, shoving his hands into his pockets as he tried to work out whether they were meant to hug or not. There'd been so much hugging since the war, but he'd just never... it just wasn't...

He shuffled his feet and took a step back.

Luna smiled at him, all sunshine and festivity, her father hovering awkwardly behind her as he—presumably—tried to pretend he'd never sold Harry out to Voldemort. At least, Harry was trying to pretend that much, and not doing a stunning job of it, if he was perfectly honest.

"They're wonderful, Harry. I'll wear them tonight."

The awkwardness broke as Harry had a sudden vision of Luna decked out in her ballroom finest, the Weird Sisters blaring from her ears as the professors struggled to give their speeches into respectful silence. He grinned. "You'll look brilliant."

He ran to catch up with the others.

"Hey," Harry said to George, suddenly remembering. "Did you send me some weird socks this morning?"

George's eyes sparkled with interest. "How weird?"

*

No closer to discovering the Sender of the Socks, Harry resigned himself to what turned out to be an admittedly enjoyable day, before what he knew would be an absolutely hellish fever dream of a night. Again, there was nothing especially wrong with any of it. It was nice to spend Christmas both at Hogwarts and with the Weasleys. It was equally comforting to have the entire school staying over the break, so he could spend these final months with his friends before leaping out into the great unknown of proper adult life. The Yule Ball was an unfortunate stain on the experience, but it couldn't be helped, and it would be over quickly.

Nonetheless, as the day went on, Harry's mood turned increasingly sour, and it barely even lifted when they caught sight of McGonagall and Malfoy having what looked like a heated conversation beneath the Quidditch stands.

"Quick!" Ginny hissed, pointing at the ledge overhanging their discussion.

But although they all scrambled to sneak up the stairs and drop down an Extendable Ear—Mr and Mrs Weasley elected to stay behind and roll their eyes along with Percy and Hermione, while Mr and Mrs Granger looked bemused—they didn't make it in time. As Malfoy turned away from the Headmistress, he caught sight of them all hovered above him, looking down, and he sneered straight at Harry. Like it was all Harry's fault. Harry promptly elbowed Ginny, to make it clear they were all in this together, but Malfoy's expression never wavered, as though Harry were the only person in the world.

Then he stalked off with an attitude to rival Snape's, while Ginny used the distraction to elbow Harry hard enough to wind him.

For some reason, that sneer lingered in Harry's mind for the rest of the day, turning a sour mood positively thunderous, and by the time he'd dressed in his formal robes and made his way down the stairs, everyone was giving him a wide berth.

"Harry," Hermione said carefully. "Is there something the matter?"

"Not at all, Hermione," Harry gritted out. "Why do you ask?"

"You look like you're chewing glass."

Ron nodded swiftly, eyes wide and face twisted into an odd sort of sympathy. Like he hadn't wanted to say it, but now it was said he couldn't just sit here silently.

Harry forced himself, very carefully, to unclench his jaw. Coming down the last of the stairs, they passed a small group of people dressed very strangely, and it took Harry a moment to recognise who they must be—pyjama tops and green socks. He opened his mouth to wish them... luck or something... but at the sight of him they all seemed to cringe back into themselves in fearful awe, and he gave up. Most of them were sixth and seventh years, by the look of it. He expected better from them, goddammit.

"Your placard's wonky," he said bitterly, striding past as they all swivelled to stare, askance, at the crooked lettering. He couldn't even read what it said—something about dancing.

"Harry!" Hermione admonished him.

"What?" Harry snapped, recognising that he was being an arsehole but also unable to find it in himself to care.

Honestly, it had got worse since the war, because now they all pretended it was awe that drove their fascination, but it was just the same vicious need for gossip as it had been in fourth year. And fifth year. And second year.

That was another element from the past that had repeated itself, he supposed, except he somehow doubted that one was going to relegate itself to just one year of torture. He had a feeling that delightful dynamic would linger for the rest of his life. Harry Potter, defeater of Dark Lords, purveyor of scandals and lies. Quick, everyone, what's he wearing?

To Harry's horror, it was a familiar smirk that broke through his maudlin thoughts—a smirk topped with blond hair and pointy cheekbones. When Harry caught his eye, Malfoy looked almost pleased, his gaze flicking from Harry to the protestors with faint amusement. Fuck. If Malfoy thought his comment was funny, Harry was definitely acting like an arsehole.

"You're right," he said, gentler now. "I'm just a bit tense." He meant to stop there, but the Spirit of Hogwarts Past seemed to suddenly possess him as he continued in a rush, "Don't you just think this is tacky?"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "Tacky? What, the Ball?"

There was something in her voice that made Harry look at her properly. Suddenly, he realised how much care she'd taken to dress tonight—more, perhaps, than the first time around. She looked lovely, alight with an inner fire and glow that he hadn't seen for months, possibly years.

Even Ron looked great, now that Harry was paying attention. His formal robes were tailored at the waist, emphasising the wide expanse of his chest (when had he got so broad? He looked like a man!) and cutting in at just the right angle to show off the line of his collar. He even carried himself differently, almost with a kingly air, his sharp blue gaze filled with something deeper and richer than should or could ever exist in the eyes of a student.

Harry sniffed the air; was he wearing cologne?

Feeling like a right shit, Harry tried to walk back the accusation that his best friends were twats. "I just meant—"

"We know what you meant, Harry," Ron said, and it was the hurt in his voice that really did Harry in. "I just think... people grieve differently, you know? There's nothing wrong with celebrating after so long in despair."

Merlin, what the hell was he meant to say to that? A few things went through his mind.

This isn't celebration; this is collective amnesia.

What about the people who aren't done grieving? Are we meant to just ignore them?

You want to talk about despair—you know I died for this, don't you?

For once, he wasn't trying to make a joke, either. He had carried the weight of his prophecy since he was fifteen, only to sacrifice himself at seventeen, only to come back and discover everyone just kind of... shaking it off. Crying a bit, hugging it out, and then moving on. Some students seemed to share his thoughts—Dennis Creevey had never looked the same—but they were few and far between, and even they seemed to manage alright.

Sometimes, he felt like he was the only one still left behind.

But he couldn't say any of that, so he only nodded mutely and mumbled something about meeting them inside when they wouldn't stop looking at him. Hermione stared at him a bit longer, but eventually they linked arms—making Harry feel even stupider about his choice to go stag—and went in.

The only possible thing that could make this worse would be to turn and discover that Malfoy had witnessed the entire exchange, so, of course...

"What do you want?" Harry groaned.

Malfoy smirked at him, and again Harry was hit by that strange sensation that this was genuine amusement, rather than shitty self-interest. It was somehow worse. Coupled with the fact that Malfoy seemed oddly... unsettled... this evening, it made Harry feel completely off kilter.

Something strange flickered in Malfoy's eyes—a little too aware. Then it twisted into a familiar expression.

"Trouble in paradise, Potter?" he sneered, and that was a little more manageable. It lit the fires of righteous anger, at least, and anger he could work with.

"Like you can talk," Harry spat. "Mummy couldn't get approval to visit?"

The sneer dissolved into rage, and Malfoy lunged at him. "Don't you talk about my fucking parents like that!" He snatched the front of Harry's shirt and pulled him close, and Harry found himself smiling like a nitwit.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He shoved Malfoy back, wrenching himself free. "Oh yeah, because you didn't spend the last seven years saying that shit to me."

To his absolute astonishment, Malfoy paused. His face twisted into the most complex expression, alight with something Harry couldn't dissect even as it seemed to darken with... what? Anger? Hatred?

Guilt?

Seconds passed, and then abruptly, Malfoy shoved him away. For a moment, they just glared at each other, chests heaving in furious exhilaration, and then Malfoy opened his mouth to speak—presumably to say something enormously snotty and shit—but they were interrupted before Harry could be blessed with the details.

"Mr Potter."

Harry turned to find Professor McGonagall swooping down on them, tartan robes billowing in a graceful arc behind her. She didn't, as he expected, pounce on them for fighting, though. Instead, she stepped aside to reveal someone else.

"I couldn't help but notice that you have elected to attend the Yule Ball alone, tonight, Mr Potter, and while I commend your fortitude, I have an elegant solution to propose." She straightened her posture, adjusting her sleeves as she glanced between him and...

"No."

Professor McGonagall's eyes widened, while Pansy Parkinson, standing behind her, sneered in mute outrage.

"Of course," Parkinson spat. "Not good enough for the Saviour, am I? I told you this would never work, Professor."

"Miss Parkinson," Professor McGonagall snapped as Parkinson pivoted to leave in a huff. She stopped but didn't turn.

Inwardly, Harry was boiling up with rage. The unfairness of it. Hadn't he done enough? Now he had to dance with the person who tried to sell him over to Voldemort for her own miserable hide?

"The question of it working is entirely up to the maturity and grace of the two of you, and I must say I am disappointed to find my faith there damaged." She stood up straighter. "The question of whether it is happening is moot. Mr Potter, please escort Miss Parkinson into the Ball, where she will join you for the first dance, and then you may head in whatever direction your hearts' desire."

Harry couldn't speak. He couldn't... There were no words in his head. Silently, he held his arm out towards Parkinson, who awarded the gesture with an expression like Harry had just presented her with an on-fire bag of dog shit.

But with the professor watching, there was no other option...

Why was there no other option? Why was this happening?

Gingerly, Parkinson rested her arm over Harry's. Harry was pleasantly surprised to find the castle did not tumble down around them. He also noted, strangely, that she was quite gentle. Her fingers resting on his forearm were graciously clasped, rather than lifted away like a bratty child refusing to touch or attempting to subtly hurt him.

Well, he supposed all that pure-blood training had to lead somewhere.

They turned, and Harry met Malfoy's gaze for the first time since the professor had appeared. He discovered, in a fun new twist, that the rage present in Malfoy's expression earlier could likely be reclassified as mild disappointment, in light of new evidence.

"What the hell's your problem?" Harry spat under his breath as the professor swept past them to enter the Hall.

"Don't you hurt her, Potter," Malfoy sneered, and the words were so unexpected that Harry actually reeled backwards.

They must have shocked Parkinson too, because the gentle pressure of her fingers suddenly squeezed sharply against him. "Knock it off, Draco," she said with a faint sneer. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. Shall we get this over with, then?"

Harry couldn't agree more. He marched them over to the doors, ignoring the way Parkinson stumbled to follow his erratic pace, and entered the Hall.

It was beautiful—probably. Harry couldn't really notice. He could tell it had been utterly transformed since breakfast, its decorations obviously hidden behind Privacy Charms for weeks, but he absorbed the scenery in small details: the glittering lights hovering in the air, the ice sculptures tucked into hidden corners, the plants trailing in gentle paths across the tables like living centre pieces. And then, of course, the people.

It seemed he was one of the last to arrive.

Several conversations stopped mid-sentence as heads turned their way, while others rose in frantic chatter at the sight of Pansy Parkinson on Harry Potter's arm. A glass shattered, and Harry's head whipped around on instinct to find Ron gaping at him like a dead fish, his Butterbeer soaking his feet. Harry turned away.

His eyes landed on, of all people, Kingsley Shacklebolt. He frowned, wondering why the Minister was here. Kingsley was always in the papers these days—scandal after scandal followed him, all entirely fabricated. It seemed that confidence in the Ministry was at a new low after the war, and they were struggling to keep things afloat. Harry would have thought he didn't have time for Hogwarts events.

Movement came from behind them, and he turned to discover Malfoy entering the hall with Blaise Zabini, which Harry supposed answered the question of why Malfoy couldn't take his place. As if on cue, the quartet in the corner began to play, and Professor McGonagall swept into the centre of the ballroom.

"Welcome, students," she declared, clapping her hands together once for attention and looking so delighted that Harry almost felt bad. "As there are no champions this year, our opening dance will be led by the students currently leading our task scoreboard."

Harry's heart sank as the meaning behind this surreal nightmare suddenly clicked into place. Professor McGonagall gestured grandly towards them, continuing in an echoing voice, "Miss Parkinson, Mr Zabini—" she pivoted, unerringly accurate despite the large crowd watching on in awed shock. "Miss Patil, Miss Patil, and Mr Boot. Please step onto the floor."

The crowd seemed to shake off some of their confusion now that more people were involved. Laughter and conversation drifted over the students' heads, and the friendly ribbing of Terry's friends caught his ear. The competition might be open to all ages and several exchange students, but the eighth years had a clear advantage in spellwork and just general motivation. Harry had seen a couple of seventh and six years close in the top ten, but he wasn't surprised the dance was going to be opened by eighth years.

He was only surprised that, somehow, he'd got bloody involved again, when he'd taken every effort not to. Just like last time.

"Come on, Potter," Parkinson hissed in his ear, and then in a strange moment of déjà vu, she swept him out onto the floor and into a strong lead.

Was this his destiny then? To be led around dance floors by women who would rather be with literally anyone else?

Sighing, he did his best to follow Parkinson's lead, ignoring the pained grimace on her face as he narrowly avoided her toes again and again. He thought she was being more than a little unfair, though. Okay, so he hadn't exactly practiced his dance moves, not expecting to have to dance, but he was following along alright. And she was a good leader.

She pinched him, her pointy face tightening up in an expression of distaste as he yelped, and he took it all back.

"What was that for?" he snapped under his breath, ignoring the death glare Malfoy shot him from the other side of the floor, where he was dancing with Zabini.

"An Erumpent could dance better than you," she sneered. "The least you could do is pay attention, since I'm putting all the work into making you look good."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, because I really care about how I look."

Rage twisted onto her features. "Then at least pretend you care about how I look, because I'm not in the mood to have a dozen pictures printed of me tripping over the Saviour's two left feet, simply because I dared to have better marksmanship than the lot of you."

Something a little vicious twisted inside Harry at that, although he couldn't have said why. Maybe it was because her commentary was just so vain and shallow, when there were so many other more important things happening. Maybe it was because she was also right. Whatever the reason, he deliberately dragged his foot, interrupting the transition between one move and the next.

Parkinson, not prepared for his sheer arsehat of a move, kicked his ankle and went tumbling. At the last second, Harry caught her elbow and righted her, feeling slightly guilty—he'd honestly expected her to twirl over it in some kind of pure-blood feat of etiquette—but the damage was done.

Parkinson whirled, her eyes ablaze with righteous fury. "You did that on purpose," she hissed, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"What does it matter anyway?" Harry snapped. "This whole thing is ridiculous. Who cares about dancing and carnival games and, and—" He gestured at the whole gawdy mess of the Ball, erected over the place where the dead had once been laid out. "This? Who cares about this? Seriously?"

His voice was louder and sharper than he intended, but he didn't care. Not until a flash of blond hair caught his eye and he whirled just in time to see Malfoy descending on him in a blur of fists and anger. The music screeched to a halt, the students cheering at the brawl as the two of them tumbled to the ground.

"I warned you not to hurt her, Potter," Malfoy swore, eyes blazing. "But you couldn't bear the thought of not being a prick for even one bloody night."

He pulled out his wand, launched back onto his heels, and cast a wordless hex at Harry's face. The air shattered into a hundred wasps, and as Harry cast a wandless, wordless Finite, he rather thought to himself that that was a bit fucking overkill.

The force of his Finite was so strong, Malfoy shot back off him as the space where the spell had been ricocheted into nothingness. He lay there, staring up at Harry with a strange expression on his face. Some of the fire in his eyes had died, but none of the hatred, so at least that was familiar territory.

The crowd shouted a bit at that, egging him and Malfoy on, and in the chaos, Parkinson leaned over beside him. Harry looked up at her, realising belatedly that she was terrifyingly condescending like this, but not wanting to scramble to his feet and draw attention to it.

"I told you I could fight my own battles," she snapped at Malfoy, affectionate frustration oozing through her voice. Then she rolled her eyes and turned back to Harry. Her voice lowered to a whisper, and apprehension flickered up Harry's spine.

"You don't like all this?" Parkinson said in a deceptively sweet voice. "Then I guess you'll have to find a way to dodge the Ministry for the next decade or so. Kingsley's stepping down, Potter, and rumour has it you're next in line for Minister for Magic. He doesn't want anyone else." Her eyes flashed, and her words dropped impossibly lower still. "You're never escaping this, Potter. It's time to put on your big boy boots and get with the fucking programme."

As she leaned back, Harry finally hurried to his feet, ignoring the dread that was slowly sinking in the pit of his stomach. "They can gossip all they like," he snapped over the sound of Professor McGonagall calling for order. "I'd never take that bloody job."

Parkinson laughed, but the most horrible thing about it was the expression on her face. It was pity. She pitied him, and that made the dread sink deeper. "They need you, Potter," she said, saccharine and lilting, like a playground taunt, and yet there was that pity—still there. "They won't take no for an answer."

"Enough!" Professor McGonagall finally reached them, and Harry realised the Great Hall had grown terrifyingly silent; even the shouting had stopped. It was like the duel in second year all over again. Harry swallowed and didn't turn around. He didn't need to meet anyone's eyes and discover just how much of a colossal prat he'd been, even if he was still angry enough to protest that he'd been at least partially right.

He had a sneaking suspicion that might be a lie.

Fuck this. Why was he even here?

"Enjoy the Ball," Harry managed to spit out bitterly, to no one in particular, and then he strode back through the doors in the direction of Gryffindor Tower.

"Mr Potter!" Professor McGonagall's shocked tones resounded through the Hall, but he didn't even stop for that.

There was no way he was ever becoming Minister for Magic. Parkinson was so full of shit. As if he'd ever not be given a choice for a decision like that; she'd only said it to piss him off, and it had bloody worked.

Hermione's voice called after him, followed by someone's footsteps, but he didn't turn around. Instead, to his mild embarrassment, he sped up, using the wall of protestors—still dressed in pyjama tops and green socks—as a barrier. He may have sped the barrier up a bit with a quick Stinging Hex to the feet on the left, prompting them all to shuffle inward in alarm, but that was no one's business, and he frankly thought that after the wasps he was allowed a bit of an outburst.

Then, he escaped to Gryffindor Tower, where he promptly grabbed a bottle of Firewhisky from his trunk, spelled the curtains on his bed closed, and shrouded the entire thing in a Silencing Charm.

At the foot of the bed, Luna's gift to him rattled ominously, but no matter how long he stared at it, it didn't open.

"Figures," he muttered to himself. "Even a magic spell doesn't know what I want."