The Weird Sisters tore through the enchanted hall with their wild, electric energy. Harry had heard them before — Ginny is their number one fan and she played their songs endlessly on the Wizarding Wireless Network during the summer he spent at the Burrow — but hearing them live was entirely different. The pounding of the drums, the enchanted guitars sending sparks into the air, and the strange mix of Muggle and magical instruments made the whole floor vibrate. Harry caught himself grinning, even laughing, as the crowd cheered and clapped to the beat.
"They're brilliant, aren't they?" Susan said, tugging at his sleeve as the band launched into their next song.
"Yeah," Harry admitted, eyes fixed on the stage. "Though I still don't get why they're called the Weird Sisters when they're all blokes."
Susan giggled, and the sound almost drowned out the wild cheering from the nearby table.
Harry danced with her again, moving more easily now that his confidence had settled. All the practice with Hermione had paid off. When Susan leaned closer during one of the turns, her laughter mixing with the pounding bass, Harry felt lighter than he had in weeks.
He didn't stop there. Fleur had asked him for a dance, and though her Veela charm pressed against his mental defenses like a tide, Harry's occlumency and force training held steady. He twirled her once and politely stepped away before the whispers grew too loud. He danced with Luna, with Ginny, and with Hermione too, much to the irritation of a few jealous onlookers. But most of all, he danced with Susan — their easy rhythm keeping them close.
Between songs, they slipped to the circular tables laden with dishes. The cuisine was unlike anything Harry had eaten in the Great Hall before: French pastries filled with cream, platters of seafood Harry couldn't even name, roasted meats with herbs, and Norwegian delicacies that smelled sharp and strong. Harry bit into something flaky and buttery, closing his eyes. "This is amazing."
Susan laughed. "Better than pumpkin pasties?"
"Don't make me choose," Harry replied with mock seriousness, making her laugh harder.
From where they sat, Harry noticed groups of older students sneaking away discreetly through the side doors. They weren't leaving because they were bored — the flushed cheeks and hurried hands told enough. Harry thought of Sirius's words over the summer and nearly choked on his drink.
It had been awkward — painfully awkward. Sitting in the Grimmauld place 's living room, Sirius had leaned back in his chair, feet on the table, his grin wicked.
"Harry," Sirius had begun, "you're almost at that age now. Balls, dates, hormones running wild. You need to know a few things."
Harry had groaned. "Sirius, I don't need—"
"Ah, but you do," Sirius cut him off, wagging a finger. "Better from me than stumbling around like your father did at first. James learned fast, mind you. Your grandfather — a real scoundrel — gave us the talk. Now it's my turn."
Harry had tried to sink into his chair and disappear, but Sirius had launched into shameless detail about courtship, romance, secret spots in Hogwarts where he had snuck off with various girls, and — mortifyingly — spells. Contraceptive charms, minor glamour charms, even a ridiculous "enhancement" charms Sirius swore James once tried and failed.
Harry had begged him to stop. "I don't want to know this!"
Remus, who had been listening with a book in hand, had only muttered, "Better him than me, Harry." His lips twitched like he was hiding a laugh.
In the end, Harry had half-learned the spells under duress, Sirius insisting, "You'll thank me one day."
Now, at the Yule Ball, watching couples slip away into the shadows, Harry thought he might never forgive Sirius for planting all those images in his head.
Harry shook himself back to the present as Susan handed him a glass of pumpkin juice.
"You all right?" she asked softly, tilting her head.
"Yeah," Harry said quickly, forcing a smile. "Just… remembering something ridiculous a friend once told me."
Susan smiled knowingly. "Your friend seems like he would have plenty of ridiculous stories."
"You have no idea," Harry muttered, half to himself.
The night wore on. The Weird Sisters grew louder, the crowd wilder. Harry danced until his feet ached, until Susan laughed so hard she had to sit down, until even Luna started humming dreamily against Neville's shoulder. The Great Hall sparkled with warmth, color, and laughter, a memory Harry knew would last forever.
Harry and Susan slipped out of the Great Hall just before the last song ended. The corridors were quieter now, only faint echoes of music trailing after them. Harry walked slowly, his hand brushing against Susan's as he escorted her toward the Hufflepuff common room.
His mind was in turmoil. Should I kiss her? The thought circled again and again. He wanted to — desperately — but what if Susan didn't want that? What if she pulled away, embarrassed, and everything between them turned awkward? His chest tightened with conflict, every step harder than dueling a dragon.
Just as he was lost in thought, raised voices reached his ears. Harry slowed, motioning Susan to wait. Around the corner, the shadows of two figures flickered against the stone walls.
It was Professor Moody, his scarred face twisted in fury, pressing Snape hard against the wall. Snape's expression was pale, his lips thin, eyes darting like a trapped animal. Harry couldn't make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable — rage, accusation, threat.
Before Harry could step closer, Moody's mismatched eyes snapped toward him. For a heartbeat, Harry thought Moody would lash out, but instead the professor abruptly released Snape's cloak, muttered something under his breath, and limped away in the opposite direction.
Snape, red-faced with humiliation, spotted Harry watching. His eyes burned with fury, but not at Moody — at Harry.
"Twenty points from Gryffindor," Snape hissed coldly. "For… loitering. Go back to your dorms, Potter."
He swept away before Harry could reply, his robes snapping behind him like angry wings.
Harry guided Susan along the familiar corridors with the ease of someone who had roamed them countless nights under his cloak. He barely needed to glance at the tapestries or the crooked suits of armor—they were like markers on a map he had memorized long ago.
Susan, still buzzing with curiosity after the sight of Snape and Moody, finally broke the silence.
"Harry… did you hear what they were saying?" she asked quietly, as though the stones themselves might tattle.
Harry shook his head. "No. But I know enough to guess. Snape used to be a Death Eater—before he wriggled out of Azkaban. And Moody… well, everyone knows he's the most paranoid Auror Britain's ever had. That alone is enough to make them clash."
Susan stopped mid-step, eyes wide. "Snape? A Death Eater? Then why is he teaching here? Why isn't he locked away like the others?"
Harry's mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Because Dumbledore vouched for him. Claimed Snape had been spying for the Light. That's the only reason he walks free now."
Susan didn't speak for a moment. The thought of Snape standing at the head of a classroom while once wearing Voldemort's mark clearly disturbed her.
Harry kept walking, pulling her gently along. She pointed at a side corridor. "We should turn here—"
"No," Harry interrupted firmly. "That one leads to a trick staircase. It'll take us to the fifth floor if we're not careful. This way."
Susan looked at him with a small smile. "You sound like you know the castle better than Filch."
Harry allowed himself a grin. "That's because I probably do."
They rounded another corner—and froze.
Hermione Granger emerged from a broom closet, her carefully styled hair now wild and disheveled, her face flushed crimson. Behind her came Viktor Krum, tall, awkward in his steps, a conspicuous lipstick mark smudged against his lips.
For a moment all four froze in shock, staring at each other. Hermione's eyes widened as though she had been caught stealing from the Restricted Section, and she immediately began to stammer.
"H-Harry! I—this isn't—well, I—"
Krum shifted uncomfortably, glancing down at Hermione with the faintest shrug, clearly not ashamed of himself in the slightest.
From Harry's side came an unexpected sound—Susan's soft laugh, muffled behind her hand. Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she whispered, "Well… that explains why she's been so busy tonight."
Harry blinked at Hermione, utterly speechless, then looked at Susan, who was now struggling not to burst into giggles.
Hermione's voice came in a rush, higher-pitched than usual. "It's—it's not what it looks like!"
Harry raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly. "Really? Because it looks exactly like what it looks like."
Hermione groaned and covered her face with her hands, while Krum, unbothered, simply placed a hand on her shoulder as though to steady her.
Susan let out a quiet snort of laughter, and Harry couldn't help but chuckle too, the tension of the evening melting away into something far more amusing.
Harry's skin prickled the moment he felt it—an unseen presence lurking just beyond the edge of vision. Not magic. Not one of the usual Hogwarts tricks. Something subtler, yet sharper. The Force whispered to him, cold and insistent.
She's here again… watching.
For weeks Harry had wondered how Rita Skeeter managed to get information no one should have access to. Articles printed in the Prophet that twisted truths, exposed secrets, and often contained things said behind locked doors. He suspected invisibility cloak even eavesdropping spells. But tonight, the Force stripped all illusions away.
He tilted his head ever so slightly, extending his senses outward. And there it was again—a faint flicker of life, quick and jittery, clinging to the stone wall.
A beetle.
At first he thought it was nothing. But then realization slammed into him. No invisibility cloak. No spell. An Animagus.
His lips curled. So that's your trick, Skeeter. Crawling around as vermin, listening, stealing… poisoning lives with ink and lies.
Harry played it cool. He turned to Hermione, voice casual, as though nothing was wrong.
"Are you heading back to Gryffindor tonight, or going straight to the Durmstrang ship?"
Hermione stammered, cheeks red.
"W-what? No! I'm not… I'm only fifteen, Harry, don't be ridiculous!"
Susan giggled beside them. Harry smirked faintly, masking the growing storm inside him.
Then, with sudden speed, he moved. His hand shot out, faster than either girl could follow, and plucked the beetle straight from the wall. Its tiny legs flailed helplessly between his fingers.
"Harry?" Hermione blinked. "What are you doing?"
Harry lifted the squirming insect for them to see. His voice was cold, deliberate.
"I hate beetles."
And with no hesitation, he hurled it to the ground. The insect landed with a faint crack, and as it tried to scuttle away, Harry brought his heel down hard.
The sound echoed through the corridor—an ugly crunch of shell and bone.
Both girls gasped. Susan clapped her hands to her mouth. Hermione shrieked,
"Harry! That was just—"
But it wasn't.
Where the beetle had been, now sprawled Rita Skeeter in her human form, broken and bloody on the cold stone floor. Her limbs were bent at grotesque angles, her face pale and smeared with crimson. A moan of pain escaped her lips as she twitched weakly.
Hermione staggered back.
"Oh my Godric—Skeeter—how—you killed her!"
Harry crouched, calm, eyes glittering as he studied Rita's pitiful state. Her breathing was shallow, uneven. Alive—but shattered.
"She's not dead," he said softly. "Not yet."
Susan's voice shook.
"She—she's an animagus. That's how she got her stories?"
Hermione dropped to Skeeter's side, fumbling with her wand.
"She needs help—now! We can't just leave her like this."
Harry's eyes were cold, calculating.
"She's written lies about me for years. She'd have ruined you, Hermione—ruined both of you," he added, flicking his gaze to Viktor. "You think she would hesitate?"
Viktor hesitated, then slowly shook his head. "No. She vould not."
Susan whispered, horrified, "Harry… she's bleeding out. If she dies—"
"If she dies," Harry cut in sharply, "no one else will dare cross me."
The silence was suffocating. Hermione looked up at him, her eyes wide with fear.
"That's not who you are, Harry. Please. Help me take her to Madam Pomfrey."
For a long moment Harry stood still, his expression unreadable. Then he exhaled, masking his decision as though it were reluctant mercy rather than strategy.
"Fine," he said. "But she lives because I choose it. She will remember that."
He crouched, lifting Skeeter's broken body with surprising gentleness, cradling her as though she were fragile glass. Her head lolled against his chest, blood soaking into his robes.
Hermione let out a shaky breath of relief.
"Thank you, Harry…"
Viktor gave Harry a long, searching look. There was no fear in it—only a strange, grim respect.