Christmas.
It was a holiday that really shouldn't have much to do with wizards, and yet—somehow—it had become one of the most anticipated times of the year at Hogwarts.
As the final week before Christmas began, the atmosphere in the castle grew more lively with each passing day.
Everyone seemed to be in an unusually high-spirited mood, especially because this year's Christmas Feast promised to be unlike any other.
There were rumors—some more outrageous than others—that Dumbledore had ordered five hundred barrels of Butterbeer from the Three Broomsticks. And even more shocking, there were whispers that the Weird Sisters would perform live at the feast… with Ino joining them on stage.
Yet, all of that paled in comparison to the real reason behind the students' growing excitement:
The Christmas Ball.
It made perfect sense. Teenagers—hovering on the edge of adulthood—were always eager to taste the privileges of grown-up life, and nothing said "grown-up" more than a formal dance.
After all, in the minds of many, attending a ball was something only mature, independent adults could do.
…
After breakfast.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron was looking especially smug as he leaned toward Harry and said, "Got my date sorted—and I've even ordered a proper set of dress robes."
"Mate, take my advice—pick up the pace. The good ones are getting snatched up fast."
He clapped Harry on the shoulder with the air of someone who'd been through it all before.
Harry merely shrugged, his eyes drifting toward the Ravenclaw table.
"Ginny?" Ron followed Harry's gaze, and his expression twisted into something between amusement, discomfort, and a touch of brotherly protectiveness.
It was a strange mixture—like being happy for a friend, annoyed as a brother, and robbed all at once.
Ginny, sensitive as always, seemed to notice the attention. She glanced back toward Harry and offered him a soft smile—completely ignoring Ron, who was sitting just beside her.
Harry froze.
"Right. Well… she's always liked you," Ron muttered, resignation thick in his voice.
…
Across the Great Hall.
It wasn't just Gryffindor buzzing about the ball. Even in Slytherin, the topic dominated conversations—though the snakes were far more subtle about it.
"What do you think about the dance? Planning to give that Granger girl a shot?" Daphne asked with thinly veiled frustration.
Pansy looked up calmly, her tone cool and even. "If you like him that much, you should go for it. Don't let me stop you."
The words were simple, but they struck Daphne like a slap. Her ears turned pink as she scoffed, "Hmph! I'm only looking out for you, you know! This is your last chance. If you don't…"
She stopped mid-sentence, biting back the rest, as if suddenly reminded of her friend's feelings.
Pansy gave a light chuckle. "Well, thanks for the concern. But like I said before, too many couples break up right after graduation."
"There you go again!" Daphne interrupted, rolling her eyes. "Sure, plenty break up—but plenty end up having kids too! You know what? Forget it!"
Clearly annoyed, she stood up and stormed out of the Great Hall.
Pansy remained seated, perfectly composed. Her eyes followed Daphne's retreating figure—but whatever she was thinking, she kept to herself.
…
In the Slytherin dormitory.
Ino sat at a cluttered desk, surrounded by tools: tiny chisels, files, gemstone fragments, and ink bottles filled with shimmering, unknown liquids.
The project at hand: a straw ring.
It would be his second attempt at crafting an alchemical item.
He couldn't help but smile as he recalled his first try—that ridiculous wand that looked more like a hiking stick. At the time, he had fancied himself a bit of a Gandalf, though he'd never truly needed it in the end.
Still, regrets? Not really. Just memories.
Now, though, he was determined to approach this ring properly, fusing all his accumulated alchemical knowledge into one neat creation.
He picked up a file and began shaping a moonstone the size of a small egg, humming a gentle tune as he worked.
…
Time flowed like water.
Two days passed in the blink of an eye.
As one of the hosts of the Triwizard Tournament, Hogwarts was eager to leave a lasting impression on its guests—and more than ready to showcase the best it had to offer to Beauxbatons and Durmstrang.
Even though Christmas was still days away, decorations had already begun appearing throughout the castle.
Icicles—enchanted to glimmer with frosty magic—dangled from the railings of the moving staircases. The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall had been transformed from clear skies into a breathtaking deep purple night, complete with falling stardust that shimmered like real constellations.
Everywhere you looked, Hogwarts felt like something out of a dream.
Even the already-polished suits of armor lining the corridors were enchanted by Professor Flitwick himself. Whenever someone walked past, they would hum snatches of cheerful Christmas carols.
Well… most of them did.
There were occasional exceptions.
Someone swore they'd heard one suit cursing under its breath—not exactly in tune with holiday cheer.
But the moment students heard the voice, they knew exactly what was going on: Peeves.
Of course, the guests from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang weren't in on the joke, and when word of the mischief reached Professor McGonagall, she was not amused.
For the first time in ages, she completely lost her temper.
From that point on, it became common to see the caretaker, Argus Filch, pacing the hallways with a sharpened mop handle. Every time he passed a suit of armor, he'd give it a few taps and mutter angrily under his breath.
…
Eighth floor corridor.
"Peeves! Come out now or I'll jab you with this stick!"
Filch was gripping the shoulders of a helmeted suit of armor, his voice filled with frustration.
"Oh? Filchy wants to hurt Peevesy?" a mischievous voice echoed, as Peeves emerged from the armor with a cackle. "How utterly delusional!"
Even as he mocked, the poltergeist casually phased through the wall.
Filch sighed in temporary triumph—only for Peeves to reappear moments later, hovering in mid-air and wielding two bottles of opened ink.
Clutching his mop handle like a sword, Filch squeezed his eyes shut in despair.
Then, unexpectedly, a calm voice spoke from behind him.
"Leave, Peeves. Now."
"Boring! Boring! Boring!" Peeves chanted three times, but, rather uncharacteristically, floated through the wall without further protest.
…
For a moment, Filch stayed frozen, expecting a prank. When nothing happened, he cracked one eye open—then turned around, stunned by who he saw.
It was him.
That same student who, four years ago, had earned his wrath by making it snow indoors.
He had never imagined that boy would ever help him.
After a moment of hesitation, Filch muttered a quiet, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," Ino replied coolly.
He hadn't come here for Filch, of course. He was on his way to deliver the straw ring to Hermione.
This had just been a brief stop along the way.
Without another word, he stepped past the caretaker and continued toward the portrait of the Fat Lady.