"Potter, your grades are better than they've been in your entire school career, and that 'off-topic' section, as you put it, wouldn't have been out of place in one of my sixth year essays," McGonagall told him, the barest twitch at the corner of her lips letting him know she was pleased. Harry preened. "No, this is about the Yule Ball. The champions and their partners are expected to open the dance. I thought you'd appreciate the warning."
Harry's stomach sank as her words became clear. "I have to learn to dance?" he squeaked. "I have to find someone willing to dance? With me? In front of everyone?"
McGonagall's lips twitched further, her amusement barely showing. "Yes, Mr Potter, I'm afraid you do. I'm sure one of your friends will be able to help you; most purebloods take dancing lessons prior to Hogwarts."
For a second, Harry thought she was talking about the other heirs, and his heart stopped when he tried to figure out how she'd found out about it all. Then he realised she was probably just talking about Neville or Parvati or someone. There was no way she was talking about the Weasleys.
"Can't I just face another dragon instead?" he asked meekly. McGonagall's fingers clenched for a second around her wand, like she was resisting the urge to put her face in her hands. It was an expression Harry was pretty familiar with from his housemistress after three and a half years.
"Sadly not, Mr Potter. I'm sure you'll pick it up as quickly as you've been picking up spells lately. I must say, I'm impressed. You get more and more like your mother every year." That made Harry beam, chest fluttering with warmth. "Thanks, Professor." He flashed her a quick grin, turning away once it was clear he'd been dismissed. He paused in the doorway, glancing back. "Professor?" She looked up. "Does my dance partner have to be from Gryffindor?"
"Of course not! The whole point of the ball is to socialise with our international guests and extend the hand of friendship; that includes the four houses as well. Your partner may be whomever you choose, as long as they are a student at one of the three attending schools."
"And here I was hoping Professor Snape would go with me," Harry mock-sighed, smirking when the Transfiguration professor almost lost her composure for a second. "See you, Professor!" He left the classroom, heading towards Gryffindor Tower and the siren call of his bed.
He had a little under three weeks to find a partner, and learn how to dance well enough to avoid embarrassing them both in front of everyone at the ball.
He would definitely prefer to face the dragon again.
.-.-.
Apparently, finding a partner wasn't going to be a problem for Harry. Not if he cared whether he actually knew the girl or not. Within the first twelve hours of news about the ball filtering through the school, he was asked out by no less than five girls he had never spoken to in his life. He was even asked by a second year Hufflepuff, who stuttered so much she could barely get the words out.
Neville found the whole thing hilarious, because he was the worst friend ever. "Just pick someone and ask them," he said, as if it was that simple.
"Alright, who are you asking, then?" Neville went beet red.
"I haven't decided yet."
Harry stuck his tongue out, and Neville rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter whether I go with anyone or not. I'm not a school champion." That deflated Harry's smug balloon, and he scowled again, sitting down at the Gryffindor table for breakfast.
An owl dropped a rolled-up copy of the Daily Prophet in front of Neville, and the glimpse Harry got of the headline made him groan.
'Explosive Classes at Hogwarts
With all eyes on Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament, I, Rita Skeeter, decided to investigate a little of the school's day-to-day life, and you can imagine my surprise when I discovered the creatures our dear champion, Harry Potter, was forced to interact with as part of his Care of Magical Creatures lesson. No wonder the dragon was such a doddle, if this is what he's facing in class! I ask you, reader, which creature is more dangerous; the fire-breathing, biting, bang-ended scoot, or the teacher himself, Mr Rubeus Hagrid?'
The whole article went on to talk about how Hagrid was constantly endangering his students with his reckless classes, including a quote from Pansy Parkinson about how Draco had been mauled by a hippogriff the year before, and another from Crabbe about being bitten by a flobberworm. Like with the last article, it was incredibly Harry-centric, though it didn't have a single quote from him. Skeeter was clearly looking for loopholes.
"Flobberworms don't even have teeth!" Harry exclaimed, tossing the paper angrily down on the table, almost knocking over a milk jug. "This is such bullshit, how can she possibly be allowed to publish this and call it journalism?"
"There aren't many laws about what can and can't go to print," Neville told him. "The Wizengamot were meaning to get around to it back at the turn of the century, but then Grindelwald happened, and…" The wizarding world had essentially been on pause for the last century, with Albus Dumbledore sticking his fingers in everything and refusing to allow real progress. "It didn't used to be that bad, but in the last couple of decades the standards have really slipped, once people realised they could get away with publishing fiction if there was a tiny scrap of fact behind it."
"All the same, this can't be legal." Harry looked up at the head table; Hagrid hadn't come to breakfast. Guilt squirmed in Harry's stomach as he remembered his last argument with Hermione. Several seats down, she was glaring at him pointedly, Prophet in hand. This wasn't really his fault, but he still felt responsible. There had to be something he could do about it.
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