The euphoria after the First Task ebbed away, giving place to a fresh sort of madness that had swept over Hogwarts. Where once everyone had whispered about dragons and chances of survival, the chief topic now was the Yule Ball.
The castle had transformed. Corridors were decked with everlasting frost that never melted; suits of armour had taken to singing Christmas carols (off-key and at top volume); and a thick, electric tension hung in the air. Only now it was of a different sort — romantic.
Girls clustered in little groups, giggling and casting meaningful glances at boys. Boys, meanwhile, went about with the air of men being led to the gallows, nervously adjusting their ties and blushing at the slightest provocation.
Hermione told herself it was none of her concern.
‘I’ve far more important things to do,’ she repeated firmly to herself, yanking her bed curtains closed each evening. ‘Studying, helping Harry with the Second Task, SPEW… Who needs silly dances and uncomfortable robes?’
Yet somewhere deep inside, in a corner she tried not to examine, there lurked a treacherous, sticky excitement. She was a girl. She was fifteen. And, Merlin help her, she wanted to be asked. Not as ‘Harry Potter’s friend’, not to help with homework, but as a girl — an interesting girl!
It hurt. Hurt enough to bring tears she hid behind stacks of books.
Harry was a hero now. He basked in the glow of fame; admirers surrounded him, and though he flushed and protested, he plainly enjoyed the attention. Ron, as the champion’s best friend, was not left out either.
And Kieran… Kieran was the most difficult of all. He spent time with her in lessons, sat beside her at meals in the Great Hall; they spent hours in companionable silence or arguing in the library. But come evening or early morning he vanished — off to his solitary training, to his closed-off world where she had no access. He was polite, kind, yet the subject of the Ball never once arose between them. It was as though, for Morgan, the event did not exist.
Others, however, were receiving invitations.
The previous evening in the girls’ dormitory, Ginny Weasley had flung herself onto Hermione’s bed, beaming like a new Galleon.
‘Guess what? Neville asked me!’ she burst out, twisting the edge of a pillow. ‘I know he’s not the most popular boy, but he’s so sweet! And he’s older, so I can go even though I’m only in third year!’
Ginny sighed dreamily at the canopy, then added more quietly:
‘Shame it isn’t Harry, really… But Harry will probably ask some gorgeous seventh-year. He’s the champion, after all!’
She turned to Hermione, curiosity flickering in her eyes:
‘And you? Who’re you going with? Has anyone asked you yet?’
Hermione felt a stupid, irrational pang of jealousy. Even Neville had found a partner.
‘Oh, do stop, Ginny,’ she said, waving the question away and burying herself in her book to hide her expression. ‘I’m not sure I’m going at all. It’s a ridiculous affair. Dancing, noise, waste of time. I’ve got OWLs to prepare for, even if they’re next year.’
Ginny stilled for a moment. She studied her friend’s hunched back, and her face changed. The delight faded, replaced by understanding.
‘You’re right,’ she said at once in a breezy tone. ‘Absolutely daft business. Who needs all those frocks and dancing till your feet drop off? Legs ache afterwards, robes get ruined. I’d skip it myself, honestly, if Mum hadn’t sent this ghastly dress. Have to wear it out now.’
Hermione was grateful for the lie. Ginny had understood and hadn’t pressed.
And so now she sat in the library.
Beyond the window snow fell slowly, blanketing the Hogwarts grounds in white. In the far corner, behind a stack of books on Numerology, it was quiet and dusty. Hermione dipped her quill in the inkpot, trying to concentrate on an essay about the properties of the number seven, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the Ball.
Ron and Harry hadn’t so much as mentioned invitations. Kieran hadn’t come today — off somewhere again.
‘Fine then,’ she thought viciously, pressing hard as she wrote the heading. ‘I’ll sit in the common room, read. Get some sleep. Let them wear blisters on their feet.’
Suddenly a shadow fell across her parchment. A thick, broad shadow that blocked the lamplight.
Hermione started and looked up, expecting Madam Pince come to scold her for breathing too loudly.
But it was not Madam Pince.
Viktor Krum loomed over her table.
Close to, he looked even more dour and awkward than on the arena. Thick brows drawn together, shoulders hunched, hands nervously crumpling the edge of his fur-lined cloak. He regarded her from beneath lowered lids with the air of a man bracing for another dragon fight — minus the broom.
Hermione was thrown. Her quill froze mid-air, dripping ink onto her nearly finished essay.
‘Er…’ she managed. ‘Hello?’
Krum blinked. He looked… frightened? No — embarrassed. The world-famous Quidditch star, idol of millions, stood before her plainly unsure what to do with his hands.
‘Forgive me…’ he said in a low, guttural voice thick with accent. ‘I am not disturbing?’
‘No,’ Hermione shook her head, still baffled. Perhaps he wanted a book? ‘How may I help?’
Krum drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders as though gathering courage, and looked her straight in the eye. His gaze proved unexpectedly gentle and very serious.
‘I notice you… you sit here often,’ he began, choosing his English words with care. ‘I also like quiet. Here… peaceful.’
‘Yes,’ Hermione nodded. ‘It’s a pleasant spot.’
Silence fell. Krum shifted from foot to foot.
‘I wish to ask…’ He faltered; his swarthy face darkened slightly. ‘In Durmstrang we have no such balls. For me… unusual. But I must go. As champion.’
Hermione stared, hardly daring to breathe. An incredible, absurd suspicion began to dawn through her scepticism.
‘You… do you already have a partner?’ he blurted at last.
Hermione blinked.
‘Partner?’
‘For the ball,’ Krum clarified, his voice wavering. ‘You go with someone?’
‘No,’ the word slipped out before she could think. ‘No, I… no one has asked me.’
Krum’s face cleared instantly. The grim mask fell away, and he suddenly resembled an ordinary boy who had just caught the Snitch in the trickiest match imaginable.
‘Then…’ He gave a small, old-fashioned bow. ‘Will you do me the honour of going with me? I would be very glad. You… you are very interesting girl. I watch. You always read. This… this is beautiful.’
Hermione sat with her mouth open. Viktor Krum. Durmstrang champion. The name Ron spoke with reverence. Asking her. Because she… reads?
‘I…’ Her voice failed, rising to a squeak. She cleared her throat. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. I’d be delighted.’
‘Spasibo,’ Krum breathed with obvious relief. A shy smile touched his lips. ‘I… I go now. Not disturb. See you… Hermione Granger.’
He pronounced her name with difficulty — ‘Her-mi-vo-na’ — yet it sounded oddly charming. Krum nodded once more, turned and strode quickly — almost ran — towards the library exit, as though afraid she might change her mind.
Hermione remained seated in silence.
She looked at the ink blot on her parchment. At the empty chair opposite, where Kieran usually sat. At the window, where snow swirled.
‘Viktor Krum,’ she whispered into the quiet, tasting the name. ‘Viktor Krum has asked me.’