The Great Hall glistened like a winter dream. Frosted garlands, floating candles, and enchanted snowflakes drifted from the ceiling. Music swelled, filling the space with warmth and laughter, but all of it sounded distant to you.

Because across the floor, in a sea of swirling robes and laughing students, stood Hermione Granger.

And beside her, hand on her waist, was Viktor Krum.

It had all begun as a joke.

For years, she had been your academic rival, your greatest annoyance. You were a proud pureblood Slytherin, and the fact that a Muggle-born girl could outscore you on exams, win professors’ praises, and walk around as if she belonged here — it burned.

Your housemates laughed about it behind closed doors. They called her insufferable, a know-it-all. One night, in the common room, someone had said it.

“I dare you. Ask her to the Yule Ball. Make her think someone actually wants her. And then leave her standing there alone.”

You should have refused.

But the pride of your family name, the smirks of your classmates, the years of rivalry, all pushed you to nod.

So you asked her. In the library, of all places. She looked at you like you had gone mad.

“At least pretend to be surprised,” you had muttered.

To your shock, she said yes. Slowly. Cautiously.

And that was when things began to change.

Preparing for the ball, you spent time with her. Debating over book choices, trading sarcastic remarks, arguing over nothing just to hear her voice. She was brilliant, sharp, stubborn, and funny in ways you had never noticed before.

The more time you spent together, the more the lines blurred.

She smiled at you. Really smiled. Not the usual smug grin of a rival, but something softer. And it terrified you how much you wanted to see it again.

But the truth of the bet hung over you like a storm cloud.

You had planned to tell her. Maybe after the ball. Maybe before. But you waited too long.

And then she found out.

Whether from a Slytherin’s careless words or whispers in the corridors, you did not know. But the next time you saw her, she was furious.

“How dare you,” she hissed in the courtyard, snow falling in soft drifts around her. “Was this some sort of game to you?”

You tried to explain, stammering, but your words tangled in your throat.

“It was supposed to be a joke but then… I did not mean for it to—”

“Save it,” she spat. “I was foolish enough to believe you could be decent. I will not make that mistake again.”

And then she turned and walked away.

You never got to tell her what you really felt.

Now, at the Yule Ball, you watched her glide across the floor on Viktor Krum’s arm. She was radiant, her hair curled and falling perfectly over her shoulders, her pale pink chiffon satin dress catching the candlelight like flame.

She laughed at something Viktor whispered against her ear, but even through the noise of the music and the chatter, you saw it—the faintest sadness lingering behind her smile.

You should have turned away. Should have let her have her night.

But your feet carried you forward before your mind caught up.

You approached them at the edge of the floor, heart hammering like a drum. Viktor looked at you first, his expression cool but not hostile. It was Hermione who froze, laughter dying on her lips the moment her eyes met yours.

“Granger,” you began, quieter than you intended. ”Hermione.”

She stared, arms still loosely linked with Viktor’s, her chin lifting in that proud way you knew too well.

“What do you want?” Her voice was calm, sharp as glass.