The heavy doors to the Great Hall creaked open.
A swell of music greeted them from within. Warm candlelight spilled out into the stone corridor, flickering on polished shoes and shimmering gowns.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward briskly, speaking low so only the champions and their dates could hear. "You'll be first, Miss Delacour and Mister Blackwood. Then Mister Krum and Miss Granger. Mister Diggory and Miss Heckyl, and finally Mister Potter and Miss Chang."
Fleur inhaled lightly beside Severus, her posture perfect, her smile serene as always. Yet he could sense the buzzing excitement beneath it. She radiated confidence like a star radiated heat. Severus, on the other hand, found his chest oddly tight.
He had stood before Lord Voldemort. Had lied, deceived, and stared death in the face more times than he could count. Yet here he was, feeling an absurd prickling of anxiety over walking into a roomful of applauding strangers and dancing a few slow steps.
How ridiculous.
But then again… perhaps it wasn't about the people watching.
Perhaps it was about the girl on his arm.
He glanced at Fleur. Her grip was light but sure against his. She looked up at him and smiled faintly, as if to say, We are ready, non?
Severus steeled himself and nodded once.
The doors opened wider, and McGonagall gave a curt, satisfied nod. "Off you go."
And just like that, the world beyond those doors was no longer silent.
A round of applause swelled inside the Great Hall as they stepped over the threshold. The enchanted ceiling twinkled like the night sky, full of stars that shimmered just faintly different from real constellations. The walls had been covered in glistening frost, like a thousand crystal cobwebs, and garlands of mistletoe and ivy coiled along the railings and hung from floating lanterns. Everything shimmered silver and blue, casting soft glows onto the elegant faces below.
Where once stood four long House tables, now there were a hundred smaller ones, each lantern-lit, each with polished cutlery and bubbling golden goblets. The faculty table had transformed into a large, round table at the top of the hall, set upon a slightly raised dais, where the judges were seated.
All eyes were on them.
Severus walked with even, unhurried steps, his left hand tucked under Fleur's arm. Fleur, in contrast, glided. There was no other way to put it. Her pale blue gown shimmered faintly with every movement, trailing just slightly behind her. Every turn of her head caught the light on the delicate hairpins she wore. She looked like winter incarnate.
They moved up the carpeted path, applause accompanying their every step.
Severus didn't wave. He didn't bow. He simply nodded to the crowd once, subtly, and kept his composure.
He could already hear the murmurs.
"That's him—Blackwood—look at his robes…"
"Is that a Muggle suit?"
"Wait—wasn't he in the Prophet last week?"
"Hadn't Greyback issued a death threat to him?"
He ignored them.
As they reached the upper dais, Fleur shifted slightly beside him.
"Zis is perfect," she whispered, her voice breathy. "Exactly 'ow I imagined it…"
Her tone held awe, and despite himself, Severus felt something inside him ease.
He reached for her seat and with a smooth motion pulled it out.
Fleur blinked, then smiled brilliantly. "Merci," she said softly, sitting with an elegance honed by years of practice.
Severus pushed the chair in gently and took his own seat beside her.
There was a moment's delay—then, almost comically, the other champions scrambled to follow suit. Viktor Krum fumbled briefly with Hermione's chair, knocking it slightly before adjusting it with a grunt. Cedric's smile faltered a bit as he tried to look casual while helping Florence Heckyl, who whispered something teasing in his ear. Harry, at the end of the line, hesitated, looked at Cho with uncertainty, and then mimicked the motion like someone following stage directions.
Severus caught the exchanged glance between Dumbledore and Madame Maxime. The old wizard's blue eyes twinkled with amusement. The Beauxbatons headmistress raised a brow, clearly trying not to smirk.
Fleur leaned over slightly, her voice barely above a murmur. "Zey àre copying you."
He turned his head a fraction. "Then I hope they've learned well."
She giggled. It was light, airy, and surprisingly real. The champions and their dates settled into their chairs, the applause gradually fading into soft conversation and the gentle strains of music from the orchestra.
The table was beautifully set, though noticeably bare. The glittering gold plates shimmered in the candlelight, but they held no food—only elegant scrolls, rolled like tiny menus, sat neatly before each guest.
Severus glanced down at his without much curiosity. He remembered this part well.
"Mr Blackwood!" Dumbledore's voice rang out warmly from across the circular table. "Now this is a pleasant surprise. I must say, this was unexpected!"
Severus turned slightly toward him and offered a polite nod. "Headmaster."
"Please, none of that now," Dumbledore chuckled, waving a hand. "We're among friends tonight. It is truly an honour to meet the wizard behind this… remarkable accomplishment. Curing lycanthropy is no small feat. And to have the Wizard who achieved such a revolutionary feat on such a pleasant occasion in Hogwarts. Well, how do the muggles say it. Cherry over the top."
"Indeed," came the deep, smooth voice of Madame Maxime too. "I 'ave read all ze articles about you, Monsieur Blackwood. Zey say you saved a man mid-transformation. Is zat true?"
"The potion worked better than what I expected, Madame. There are still improvements to the potion. Ones I hope, would happen faster." Severus replied with a smile. Trust them to fawn over his achievements first. But then again, it could be the only way of start of a civil talk between them.
Karkaroff leaned forward with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I never thought I'd see the day. A cure for werewolves?"
Ludo Bagman lounging back in his chair, nodded eagerly. He clearly didn't get Karkaroff's underlying message. "Oh, absolutely marvellous! We've got a few fellows in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures just buzzing about you, Blackwood. Some are saying it's the biggest breakthrough in the last ten centuries."
Bartemius Crouch Sr. simply gave a tight nod. "Unorthodox methods, I understand… but effective. The Ministry takes notice of that."
Fleur turned toward Severus, her face glowing with pride as she listened to the talks. "Zey speak of you like you are already famous."
"I'm not," Severus said flatly, though his lips twitched with dry amusement. "Yet."
There was laughter around the table, polite from the judges, genuine from Fleur.
Still, the plates remained empty.
Severus saw the puzzled glances being exchanged. Cedric discreetly lifted his plate as if checking for a charm, Harry Potter frowned at the menu with obvious confusion, and even Hermione Granger seemed unsure.
Dumbledore picked up his own menu with a twinkle in his eye, clearly preparing for his usual theatrical little moment.
But Severus was faster.
He calmly lifted the slim scroll, scanned it for a second, and said in a clear voice, "Salad."
With a soft chime, his plate shimmered and a crisp, beautifully arranged salad appeared instantly.
Conversations halted immediately at his sudden order.
The Potter brat blinked. Granger gasped softly. Even Krum looked up in surprise.
"Oh!" Cho Chang said wide-eyed. "It's enchanted!"
Severus suppressed a smirk and began to eat.
"Well done, Mr Blackwood," Dumbledore said, clearly amused that his thunder had been stolen. "A man of action. As expected."
"Zat was brilliant," Fleur murmured beside him. "I 'ad no idea what to do."
Krum squinted at his own menu and mumbled, "Beef stew." A moment later, his plate filled with the dish, steaming and rich in aroma.
"Oh, this is rather clever," Hermione said, reading her menu now with renewed interest.
Soon, the entire table joined in. Dishes of all kinds appeared—some traditional, some extravagant. Cedric asked for roasted lamb. Cho opted for grilled salmon. Even Madame Maxime requested a light tartine.
Severus kept his choices modest. He wasn't here for food. But still, the flavours were excellent.
"I must say," Bagman went on between bites, "you've made quite the name for yourself, Severus. The Prophet's been full of your work. Even Skeeter's article couldn't poke holes in it—and that's saying something."
"I did notice her lurking from the start," Severus said, tone neutral. "She seems determined to find something."
Crouch Sr. gave a faint grunt. "Let her try. The research is sound. I've had Auror specialists examine your data. The reaction to wolfsbane extract combined with your—what was it—secondary stabilising agent?"
"Lichen from the Scottish Highlands," Severus replied. "Treated alchemically to bond with silver and negate mutagenic instability. The modified strain allows it to enter lycanthropic bloodstream without being rejected."
Bagman blinked. "Merlin's beard, I didn't understand a word of that, but it sounds brilliant."
"Sound like he could start 'is own research department," Karkaroff added, swirling wine in his goblet. "Perhaps he should."
"Zat would be wonderful," Fleur said brightly. "Eet could 'elp many."
"Are you publishing more?" Crouch asked, fixing Severus with a look. "Advancements? Further trials?"
"I've begun refinement for long-term reversal. So far, the cure holds, but requires reinforcement every full moon. I'm working to make it permanent—stable enough that even a werewolf's offspring would not inherit the condition."
That earned a murmur of genuine approval.
"Wait, isn't Lycanthropy acquired? I mean we are taught that it is not transferred genetically." Hermione putted in instantly out of habit. She seemed to have caught her slip of mind suddenly as she blushed instantly. Though her words did triggered something in the other people too.
"Werewolves rarely have children.This is likely due to fears, that any children would inherit their affliction, with the danger and prejudice that comes with it. We simply lack the data to draw a strong conclusion. It is unknown if a pregnant female werewolf's transformations would affect the ability to carry the pregnancy to term. However, If two werewolves were to mate at the full moon, in their animal forms, it is possible for them to conceive. This is an extremely rare occurrence only known to have happened twice in recorded history. Any offspring of the full wolves were indistinguishable from mundane wolves except for their near-human intelligence and their beauty. They do not inherit the sadistic behaviours associated with lycanthropy, being no more sadistic than regular wolves. So without enough data, it is hard to form conclusions. However, certain attributes like tendency to eat raw meat is surely found in some offsprings." Severus explained softly. His voice drew almost everyone's attention as he informed them about it.
Dumbledore nodded slowly. "You've done more in a year than most achieve in a lifetime. And you're still 17. Truly… remarkable for a young man, Mr Blackwood."
Severus met his gaze evenly. "Sometimes necessity produces results faster than ambition."
That silenced the table for a moment. Crouch looked approved at his reply. But then again, the man was thoroughly practical in nature.
Fleur touched his arm gently. "You 'ave saved lives. Zat matters."
"It does," Hermione agreed, quietly but firmly.
There was a pause, long enough for the orchestra to shift into a new melody.
"So," Bagman said, always eager to keep things upbeat, "any idea what you'll do after this, Mr Blackwood? Ministry recruitment's inevitable. The Department of Mysteries would pay a fortune for you."
"I haven't decided," Severus said truthfully. "I've always preferred… freedom."
Karkaroff chuckled at that. "Ah, dangerous word. But I understand."
The Dinner came to a gentle close, the soft chime of the orchestra shifting into a sweeter, slower rhythm. Plates vanished one by one, gliding away with a gentle swish of magic. Laughter and murmurs gave way to a growing sense of anticipation as Dumbledore stood and raised his glass finally.
"To the champions," he said warmly, "and to the night that awaits them."
Applause followed, brief and polite, before the tables began to empty. The center of the Great Hall, now cleared of furniture, shimmered with a silvery glow. A dance floor revealed itself beneath the floating candles, and all eyes turned toward the champions.
The music swelled—a graceful waltz, stately and old-fashioned. The first dance was theirs.
Fleur turned to him with a soft smile. "Come," she said, holding out her hand. "It is our turn."
Severus rose without hesitation. He offered his hand, and she took it, fingers light in his. Together, they walked toward the floor.
The eyes of the Hall followed them. Hundreds of students, teachers, and guests watching as Severus Blackwood, the mysterious prodigy and supposed curer of lycanthropy, took the hand of the part-Veela champion and stepped into the golden-lit center of the world.
She faced him and placed her other hand gently on his shoulder.
"You know how to waltz?" she asked, her accent soft and teasing.
"I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
"Good," Fleur said, and then, with a tilt of her head, she let go.
Severus felt it instantly—Veela magic, heady and intangible, slipping into the space around them like perfumed smoke. It wasn't an attack. It wasn't even directed at him, not fully. She had simply stopped suppressing her allure, and the result was… noticeable.
From the corner of his eye, he caught Harry Potter blink, unfocused, and then shake his head. Cedric Diggory stumbled on the first step of his waltz with his date. Viktor Krum stared not in open lust, but with a look of sheer distraction, as if the very air had shifted and pulled at something primal.
Teenagers. Weak-willed, easily swayed, hopelessly ill-prepared.
He almost sighed.
The music started. He stepped forward, and Fleur matched him, graceful as moonlight.
Their waltz began slow, precise, each movement echoing centuries-old tradition. At times like this, he actually thanked the other Slytherins when he was a student for teaching him how to waltz. Her dress shimmered like silver flame with every turn. Her eyes, half-lidded, held his, and though their steps were formal, there was something in the space between them. Something magnetic.
To the watching crowd, it was passion. It was seduction in motion. Severus knew the reason behind it too. Their ancestry was also the reason behind it. Her veela allure helped but his creature ancestry was playing its part too passively, just as equally like the veela allure.
To Severus and Fleur, it was simply a dance. A little romantic, perhaps. But more than anything, it was shared rhythm, trust, and presence.
He led with confidence, his movements firm but not forceful. She followed with perfect intuition, responding not to commands, but to the slightest inclination of his shoulder, the lift of his hand. She was trained, clearly, and beyond that. Gifted.
A true dancer.
And yet, as her magic drifted across the room like a warm breeze, Severus held his composure.
He felt it. The lure of her presence, the intoxicating pull beneath his skin but he was not seventeen. Not really. His mind, honed by war and silence and suffering, had no room for enchantment. Not when his own passive allure was counteracting against hers. She might not know it yet. But she will sense it too in time.
Still, he allowed himself to admire her. Not just the allure. Her. Fleur was radiant in motion, not merely beautiful, but alive in a way few people ever were. She danced with the ease of someone born for it.
He tightened his grip slightly, spinning her with precision. She laughed under her breath as he brought her back into hold.
"You áre good," she murmured.
"So are you," he said quietly.
Around them, the other champions danced. All attempting to mirror the smooth steps of the waltz. But none of them matched the synergy of him and Fleur.
More students filtered onto the floor, hesitant at first, then eager. But their presence hardly mattered.
They held the spotlight. The entire hall had tilted in their direction.
From the sidelines, Ron Weasley stared, his mouth slightly open. Lavender nudged him, annoyed. Several Beauxbatons girls were whispering furiously in French, eyes locked on Fleur and him.
"Zey cannot stop looking," Fleur whispered, amusement flickering in her tone.
"That's your fault," Severus replied with a smile.
"Is it?" she said, feigning innocence to him. "You àré not affected."
"I am," he admitted. "I just don't let it show."
Her smile softened more. "Hmm. I like zat."
He didn't respond, only turned her gracefully in time with the music. The candles overhead reflected in her eyes as she looked up at him, her cheeks faintly flushed from the movement. Her scent jasmine and something wilder was faint but distinct. It took so much to contain the desire. Much more so when he finally knew what it was inside him, that made him feel and think in such a way.
The tempo slowed, and so did their movements. Their steps became smaller, more fluid, a gentle drifting over the dance floor.
From a distance, it looked intimate. Perhaps it was.
But for them, it was simply… ease.
They moved together like two halves of something old. Something understood.
And still, the eyes remained on them.
He noticed the growing number of onlookers now—students who weren't dancing, professors watching curiously, guests murmuring behind napkins and fans. Even Dumbledore observed with a faint smile, his fingers steepled beneath his beard.
Karkaroff looked vaguely disturbed.
Bagman looked impressed.
Crouch looked like he was calculating something and couldn't care less about them.
Madame Maxime looked elated as she saw them dance so well.
"I think zey will talk about us," Fleur whispered.
"They're already talking," Severus replied.
She tilted her head, her silvery blonde hair brushing his cheek. "And do you mind?"
"No," he said honestly.
The song slowed to its final bars, and he let her glide to a stop with a practiced spin that left her just a step away, her eyes locked on his, her hand still lightly resting in his.
Applause rippled through the Hall, hesitant at first, then enthusiastic.
Fleur smiled faintly and took a breath. "I need a drink," she said softly, her voice touched with a whisper of exertion. "Would you walk with me?"
He nodded. They walked along the edge of the hall in companionable silence, the music swelling behind them, dimmed only slightly by the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. A long table had been arranged near the back, shimmering with punch bowls and crystal flutes, trays of charmed goblets floating gently in the air before resetting themselves.
Severus reached for a glass of water, took a sip, then turned to Fleur, who had chosen pumpkin fizz with a dash of something pale and sparkling added by one of the Beauxbatons chaperones.
He watched her take a small sip, her expression unreadable for a moment. Her fingers, long and delicate, toyed with the stem of the glass. She seemed calm, unbothered by the lingering glances she still drew even now, especially now, in fact, as the allure still clung faintly to her skin like starlight.
"You'd rather sit down?" he asked quietly.
She turned to look at him, her blue eyes still bright but tired at the edges. "Non," she said softly. "I mean… oui. I do not want to dance more."
Her voice had a kind of finality to it—not rude, but honest.
Severus nodded faintly.
He didn't press her further, but as she glanced away, eyes following some passing Durmstrang students, he reached discreetly into her mind.
Just a brush, he told himself. Nothing invasive. He found no resistance.
Her surface thoughts were calm. And truthful. She wasn't avoiding him. She simply didn't want to dance any longer.
Too much attention, her thoughts whispered. Too many stares… it makes ze others uncomfortable. I do not want to ruin zeir night.
She wasn't worried for herself. She was worried for the others—the boys who stumbled over their steps, the girls who saw their partners' eyes wander. The awkwardness, the resentment, the envy. Fleur felt all of it. She wasn't oblivious.
Severus withdrew silently, leaving no trace.
He regarded her anew. For all the assumptions people made about Veela—frivolous, vain, cold—Fleur Delacour had far more poise and grace than any girl her age had a right to. She didn't flaunt her beauty cruelly. In fact, she was careful with it.
She simply couldn't help what she was.
And neither could he now.
"Understood," he said at last, his voice low. "We'll sit, then."
She smiled slightly, relieved, and let him guide her to a quieter alcove where two chairs stood near the edge of the enchanted window-wall, a view of a moonlit garden stretching behind the glass. They sat, their drinks in hand, the music continuing on without them.
Fleur exhaled and crossed her legs neatly at the ankles. "Eet's always like zis," she murmured. "Eet does not matter how polite I am. Zey always look. Ze girls become cold. Ze boys become… stupid."
Severus looked at her. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I know." She took another sip. "But still."
He leaned back slightly, fingers drumming against the side of his glass. "Most of the people here are children."
She blinked, then let out a short laugh. "You sound like an old man."
"Sometimes I feel like one."
That earned a longer laugh, light and lilting. She tilted her head toward him, eyeing him curiously. "You speak like someone who has seen too much."
He didn't answer right away.
She didn't press either.
Instead, his gaze moved across the Great Hall once more, sweeping the faces of the crowd with quiet calculation.
Most of them weren't worth the time.
The majority of the attendees were students—sixteen, seventeen, or younger. Immature. Emotional. Focused on adolescent drama, house rivalries, and the thrill of petty competition. There was nothing to gain from engaging with them beyond shallow pleasantries.
The adults were little better.
Ludo Bagman was currently boasting to a group of enchanted listeners about his last match with the Wimbourne Wasps, gesturing animatedly as he half-shouted above the music. His mind was a sieve—fickle and empty. Severus had already dismissed him.
Bartemius Crouch Sr. stood near the far wall, stiff and unreadable, his expression far too blank. Imperiused, Severus thought again. That was a dead end. Even if he tried to speak with the man, he would only meet a wall of fake civility and controlled thoughts. Someone else is pulling the strings there. Or maybe, he wasn't imperioused. Either way, the man hardly was for conversations and information gathering.
Slughorn was looking at him animatedly. It was clear that he wanted to meet him but was trying to make the opportunity himself. Barging in won't do much favours afterall. .
Minerva McGonagall was respectable, sharp, and strong-willed, but ultimately loyal to the school, to structure. She was no strategist. Not in the way he needed.
Which left one option.
Dumbledore.
The man stood at the side of the hall now, speaking calmly with Madame Maxime. His eyes, though crinkled in a smile, shifted once toward Severus. Brief. Measured. And filled with quiet curiosity.
Severus met that gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
No, he thought. He won't trust me. Not yet.
To Dumbledore, he was still an unknown—an anomaly with no past, a sudden genius with a miracle cure and no roots. No family. No origin. Dumbledore would be polite, certainly. Even warm. But cautious. Always cautious.
It would take more than one dance and a dinner table to draw out trust from that man.
He sipped his water again.
Fleur leaned back in her chair. Her eyes were mirthful now. "You do not smile much."
"Smiling is overrated."
"I 'ave noticed zat people who smile too much are usually 'iding something."
Severus considered that. "And what about those who never smile?"
Fleur sipped her drink again. "Zey are usually hiding more."
That earned the faintest twitch of his lips—almost a smile. She noticed and arched a brow but said nothing.
They sat in silence again, letting the music and laughter drift over them like mist. The golden light from the floating candles dimmed slightly as if to mark the passage of time.
"I think," Fleur said at last, "you will not be easy to forget."
Severus looked at her, mildly surprised.
She met his gaze. "Tonight, I mean. People will remember. Ze way you arrived… ze way we danced."
He said nothing.
But he knew she was right.