The corridors of Hogwarts were alive with an electric, pre-holiday buzz. Students darted from class to class in thick scarves and woollen gloves, chattering excitedly about the upcoming Yule Ball. Someone enchanted a bunch of mistletoe to float through the Great Hall like slow-moving drones of doom. Every suit of armour now jingled when you walked past, thanks to Peeves' latest effort at festive vandalism.
But James barely noticed any of it.
He moved through the throng like a ghost, hands in his pockets, his gaze distant. A subtle crease sat between his brows. His walk was steady, but unfocused—his eyes not on the faces around him, but somewhere inward. It was rare for him to drift like this—so much of his life required sharpness, precision. But today?
Today he was swinging between choices, and the indecision was a weight across his shoulders.
Go alone to the Yule Ball… or ask someone?
It shouldn't have been this complicated. He wasn't exactly lacking in options—at least, not outwardly. A few Ravenclaw girls had made their interest known in subtle glances and not-so-subtle notes. He'd heard whispers in the library, caught lingering eyes in the corridors. But none of them… clicked. None of them stirred anything beyond fleeting curiosity.
Even the infamous beauties of Ravenclaw didn't hold his attention these days. His interest in this thing is running low.
Maybe going alone wouldn't be so bad.
He was about to turn into the central stairway when a gentle but deliberate tap on his shoulder made him halt.
He turned instinctively, the motion fluid, practiced—then stopped cold.
Standing behind him was Fleur Delacour.
Veela. Triwizard Champion. All flowing silver-blonde hair and impossible poise. She was elegance distilled into human form, and in the moment he turned, she had already become the centre of attention.
A hush swept the crowd near them. Students slowed, stared. A group of third-years nearly walked into a suit of armour. Even the paintings paused mid-conversation.
Fleur smiled.
James raised an eyebrow, recovering quickly. "Hello."
Her accent rolled over the word like silk. "Bonjour, James , yes?"
He nodded, a touch wary but polite. "That's right. And you must be Fleur Delacour." His voice was measured, calm, hands now out of his pockets. "To what do I owe the surprise?"
Fleur took a step closer, her hands lightly clasped in front of her. Her posture was relaxed but confident. She tilted her head, studying him with a curiosity that felt both disarming and oddly clinical.
"I wanted to introduce myself," she said, her eyes bright. "And to ask you for something."
James blinked, uncertain. "All right. Ask away."
She inhaled lightly. "Would you dance with me… at the Yule Ball?"
That caught him off-guard.
He leaned back slightly, more out of instinct than offense. "You're asking me to the Ball?"
A faint, amused smile touched her lips. "Oui. I hope it is not too strange. We have not spoken before, but I have heard of you."
James crossed his arms now, not coldly—just centering himself. "That's flattering, but… why me? You barely know me."
Fleur's eyes narrowed, not in annoyance but in focus.
"Because," she said, her voice soft but unwavering, "I have received many letters since arriving. Proposals, invitations, courtships. Most of them…" She waved a hand delicately, searching for the word. "They fall apart the moment they see me. They speak nonsense. They forget their own names. Some… drool."
James snorted, unable to help himself. "Lovely."
"The older boys," she continued, "they behave better, but only barely. Still… everything feels like performance. No honesty. Only attempts to win something."
She stepped a little closer, enough for her voice to be just for him.
"Then I heard… from the Ravenclaw girls. About a boy who does not chase. A boy who walks alone, who says little, but does much. A talented wizard. A bit of a mystery."
James tilted his head, mouth twitching. "So you thought, why not test the legend?"
Fleur smiled, but it wasn't coy. "I thought… why not see if the one who ignores the Veela might be the one worth knowing."
James considered that. She wasn't fawning. Wasn't trying to charm him. If anything, she seemed… relieved to speak like this.
"Well," he said at last, exhaling slowly. "You seem to have come through on your reputation as well."
She tilted her head. "And? Will you say yes?"
A pause. Then a nod.
"Yes. I'd be honoured."
From behind them, a chorus of squeals erupted. A group of girls from various houses had clearly been eavesdropping—and at the confirmation, they squeaked, clutched each other, and scattered like dandelion fluff in the wind.
James ran a hand down his face, sighing through a grin. "Merlin's knees…"
Fleur arched a brow. "Is it always like this for you?"
He smirked. "Usually only when I talk to French champions in the middle of the hallway."
"Then I am glad I picked a dramatic spot."
He stepped aside, offering her a more private path through the corridor. "I'll contact you later, Fleur. Time, details, all that."
She gave a graceful nod. "I will wait."
Then she walked off, graceful as ever, leaving behind a trail of stunned silence and a very confused James Dawson.
He stood still for a moment, watching her go, then muttered under his breath:
"…Well, that good."
====
The Great Hall had never looked more enchanting.
Its stone walls shimmered beneath a canopy of magical starlight, garlands of silver and white frost curling through the rafters. A polished obsidian floor stretched wide beneath floating candles that now hovered lower than usual, casting a soft golden glow over the students below.
And in a quiet alcove near the entrance, James, Harry, and Ron stood shoulder-to-shoulder, ron wearing dress robes—or in James' case, a finely cut black tuxedo that made him look like he'd walked out of a Savile Row tailor's showroom. The fabric hugged his frame effortlessly, his cufflinks gleaming subtly, hair combed back in a way that still somehow looked effortless.
Harry adjusted his robes nervously. Ron was already fiddling with the sleeve of his secondhand formalwear, which had started to itch the moment he put it on.
Harry leaned toward James and asked, "So… who exactly is your date?"
Ron added, "You've been annoyingly quiet about it all week."
James didn't look at them at first. He scanned the ballroom, eyes sharp, posture relaxed, one hand casually tucked into his pocket.
Then he said, "If you'd kept your ears open, you'd already know. All of Hogwarts does."
Ron blinked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Harry looked baffled. "We've been a bit… occupied, mate. Trying to find a date, actually. Not easy when every girl's already been swept off their feet."
Ron groaned. "Literally. We asked Lavender . Even that Hufflepuff girl who keeps hexing people for bumping into her—gone."
James arched a brow, turning slightly toward them. "Well, if you two had taken less time panicking and more time acting, you might not be in this mess."
Harry frowned. "That's easy for you to say. You've been walking around like you knew something the rest of us didn't."
A smirk curled at the corner of James' mouth. "Because I did."
Before either could retort, a sudden hush fell over their side of the hall. Heads turned. Whispers surged like ripples in a pond.
Hermione Granger was descending the staircase.
Harry's jaw dropped slightly. Ron blinked several times in disbelief.
She wore a flowing periwinkle gown that trailed behind her like liquid moonlight. Her hair was sleek, elegantly styled, with a few curls framing her face. Her expression was poised, but there was a flicker of nervousness in her eyes.
"Hermione…?" Harry murmured, almost as if he couldn't believe it.
"Bloody hell," Ron whispered.
James gave a slow nod of appreciation. "Stunning," he said.
Hermione caught their eyes and offered a small, graceful smile. James inclined his head toward her, hand briefly brushing the edge of his tuxedo coat in a gentleman's salute.
"Looking radiant, Miss Granger," he said smoothly.
Before Hermione could respond, another stir passed through the hall.
A few paces behind her came Fleur Delacour, descending the stairs like a queen stepping down from her marble throne. Her silver-blue gown hugged her perfectly, flowing like starlight over water. Her every step turned heads. Her eyes scanned the room—and then locked onto James.
"Well, well," she said, approaching with a smirk. "Looks like my partner's eyes are wandering?"
James turned to her, offering a hand. "I simply compliment beauty when I see it. Like a gentleman should."
Fleur raised a brow, half-amused. "Oh? And am I to be complimented too, or do I only get the scraps?"
James stepped closer, voice dropping just enough for only her to hear. "Fleur Delacour, you walk in like winter incarnate and expect the room not to stop? Please. "
Fleur gave a soft laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Guilty as charged."
Behind them, Harry and Ron stood with their mouths slightly open.
"Is this really happening?" Harry asked quietly.
Ron shook his head. "I don't even know anymore."
James clapped both of them on the shoulder in passing, flashing a wicked grin.
"Sorry, lads. Duty calls."
Then he turned, offered Fleur his arm, and she took it without hesitation.
As they walked together onto the dance floor, the crowd parted instinctively. The candles above them flared slightly, as if recognizing the moment. The music shifted into a slow, elegant waltz.
And just like that, James Dawson and Fleur Delacour began to dance—flawless, poised, a picture-perfect pairing of ice and fire beneath a ceiling of enchanted stars.
From the corner of the room, whispers began again.
But James didn't care.
For the first time in weeks, his thoughts were not on rituals or revenge or secrets locked behind ancient doors.
Just this moment.
This music.
This dance.
=====
i was on a trip so i wasnt able to upload . will make it up to you guys .