twas the night before Christmas, which meant the Yule Ball. an eminently anticipated event that derived in either a hangover, snowy midnight walks around the castle grounds or a romantic slow dance. you were also avid about the Yule Ball. well, until your date bailed on you for "not having appropriate attire". what a pathetic excuse. therefore, this left you irked and quite frankly, a bit hurt too. now you were alone on Christmas Eve. wonderful.

you decide to situate yourself in a cosy corner of the Great Hall, where the crackling of a hearty fireplace kept you company, away from everyone else. they were all so festive and jubilant, much unlike you, just sitting in a corner awaiting the arrival of midnight.

as time ticks, you can't help but feel as if you were being noticed in the array of students and professors. averting your gaze from the fireplace, your eyes scrutinise each person, until they settle on the source of your instincts: you find yourself holding protracted eye contact with none other than Theodore Nott, your enemy. alone, which wasn't a surprise. eyes, a window to the soul. eyes, eyes that have a language of their own. his cobalt ones never left you for a second as he slowly but surely strides over to you. there appeared to be a tempest of sentiments behind them.

he then unexpectedly holds out his hand, waiting for you to take it. your irises observe his ring adorned fingers, but only one stands out. it's a plain sterling silver band on his left ring finger, but engraved into it was a single sentence: 'born to be yours.'