The Starlord - Chapter - 29

Harry Potter had faced dragons, duels, and even Voldemort himself. But as the Yule Ball crept closer, there was one challenge he dreaded above all others.

Dancing.

It wasn’t that he disliked music, or the idea of being with his date. No—what weighed on Harry was the cold, undeniable fact that he had no idea how to dance. None whatsoever.

He could already imagine it: he and Susan, stepping out into the Great Hall as the enchanted orchestra began to play. The eyes of hundreds of students—his classmates, rivals, professors—all fixed on him. And then, the disaster. He’d trip. He’d stumble. He’d flatten her toes. Maybe he’d even topple straight into the punch bowl.

The thought alone made him groan.


At first, Harry tried ignoring the problem. When Neville teased him about who he was taking to the Ball, Harry mumbled some vague answer and quickly changed the subject. When Seamus and Dean practiced waltz steps in their dormitory (badly), Harry slipped out before they could rope him in.

But avoidance only worked for so long. Soon, he was walking around with a knot in his stomach, so distracted he nearly walked into Peeves, who took great delight in mimicking Harry tripping over imaginary feet all the way down the corridor.

By the third day of his worrying, Harry found himself cornered in the common room by Hermione.

“You’ve been brooding for days,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “What is it now?”

Harry mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “ball—dance—terrible.”

Hermione tilted her head. “What was that?”

Harry sighed. “I can’t dance, Hermione. Not at all. I’ll make a complete fool of myself.”

For a moment, she simply stared at him. Then, to Harry’s dismay, she burst out laughing.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “That’s it? That’s what’s had you sulking like a Kneazle with a thorn in its paw?”

“This isn’t funny,” Harry muttered.

“It’s hilarious,” Hermione corrected, though her expression softened. “But it’s also something we can fix. Come on, I’ll teach you.”


Before Harry could agree, Neville, who had been listening nearby, piped up.

“You know, my gran once made me practice dancing for a Christmas party,” Neville said sheepishly. “She said it builds coordination. Didn’t help me much—I kept tripping over the rug—but if you want, I could…”

Harry’s face went pale. The image of himself and Neville stumbling around the common room was mortifying. “Thanks, Neville, but I think Hermione’s already volunteered.”

“Probably for the best,” Neville admitted with a grin. “I’d just break your toes.”


Later that evening, Harry found himself in an empty classroom near the library, feeling far more nervous than when he’d faced down a the dragon in the forbidden forest. The desks had been pushed to the sides, leaving a clear space in the center. Hermione stood there with her sleeves rolled up, looking far too determined for comfort.

“All right,” she said briskly. “Dancing isn’t nearly as frightening as you’re making it out to be. We’ll start simple.”

Harry shifted uneasily. “Define simple.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Step forward, step back, step to the side. You can manage that, can’t you?”

Harry gave a half-hearted nod.

“Good. Now, right hand on my waist.”

Harry nearly choked. “On your—what?”

Hermione grabbed his hand and placed it firmly where she wanted it. “Here. Don’t look so horrified. It’s just dancing.”

Harry muttered something about this being worse than dueling Voldemort, but obediently lifted his left hand to hold hers.

“Now, look at me,” Hermione ordered.

Harry tried. He really did. But the moment he focused on her steady brown eyes, his feet seemed to lose all sense of direction. He stumbled, nearly tripped, and muttered apologies so quickly they blurred together.

“Sorry—sorry—sorry—”

Hermione sighed. “Harry, stop apologizing and listen. Don’t stare at your feet. Trust me. Feel the rhythm, even if we don’t have music. Imagine it.”

Harry took a deep breath and tried again. Step. Slide. Turn. To his shock, when he stopped obsessing over his shoes, he actually moved a little more smoothly.

“That’s better!” Hermione said, smiling in approval. “See? You’re learning.”

Harry grinned despite himself. “I suppose this isn’t so bad.”


They had just begun a second round when a sudden clap echoed from the doorway.

Both turned to see Dobby and Winky standing there, their eyes wide with excitement.

“Harry Potter, sir! Miss Hermione!” Dobby squeaked. “Dobby and Winky is wanting to learn too! We is wanting to be at the Ball!”

Harry blinked. “You… what?”

Hermione clapped her hands delightedly. “That’s a wonderful idea! Of course you should come. And if you’re going, you’ll need to know how to dance.”

Harry gaped. “You’re letting them come to the Ball?”

“Why shouldn’t they?” Hermione replied firmly. “They are working as hard as anyone else for our organization. They deserve to celebrate too.”

Dobby practically burst with pride, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Wingy clapped eagerly.

So Hermione set about teaching them as well, showing where to place their tiny hands and how to spin without tripping.

Dobby’s ears flapped wildly every time he twirled. Wingy giggled so hard he almost toppled over when Harry tried to demonstrate and accidentally spun too fast.

Within minutes, the classroom was filled with laughter, shuffling feet, and the occasional squeal of triumph when one of the house-elves managed a full spin without falling.

Harry, to his surprise, began to relax. For the first time in days, he wasn’t dreading the Ball. Instead, he found himself laughing along, the tension in his chest easing.


They practiced for nearly an hour, stopping only when Harry nearly tripped over a chair leg and Hermione collapsed into laughter.

“All right,” she said at last, still giggling. “You’re ready. No one’s going to laugh at you on the dance floor.”

Harry wiped sweat from his brow, smiling. “Thanks, Hermione. Really. I’d be hopeless without you.”

“And without us, Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby piped up proudly. “Dobby and Winyy is best dancers too!”

Hermione clapped. “Exactly. Now—once more from the top!”

Harry groaned good-naturedly, but took his place again.


Later, as they walked back to the Gryffindor Tower, Harry admitted quietly, “You know, Hermione… I think what really scared me wasn’t just dancing. It was the thought of getting embarrassed infront of everyone.”

Hermione looked at him with a mix of fondness and exasperation. “Harry, people have been watching you your whole life. This time, at least, they’ll be watching you do something joyful. Don’t let fear spoil it.”

Harry thought about that long after they’d gone to bed.



It was no secret that—Hermione Granger was going to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum. The whole of Hogwarts buzzed with the news. Whispers trailed her in the corridors, and everywhere she went, eyes followed. Some admired her luck, others envied her, and a few, mostly boys, sulked openly.

But then came the blow that neither she nor Harry had seen coming.

Two days after Harry had finally gained some confidence in his dancing under Hermione’s tutelage, a copy of the Daily Prophet made its way across breakfast tables. The headline sprawled across the front page:

“Miss Granger’s Web of Deceit? Hogwarts’ Brightest Witch Playing with Two Famous Wizards?”

The article claimed that Hermione was “entangling both Viktor Krum, International Quidditch Star, and Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, in a scandalous game of affection.” A moving photograph showed Hermione and Harry dancing in the abandoned classroom, both smiling and laughing as if they had not a care in the world.

By mid-morning, students were already snickering in the hallways. Ravenclaws raised their brows in curiosity, Hufflepuffs looked uncertain, and Slytherins took every chance to hiss sly remarks as Hermione passed by. Draco Malfoy, of course, had the loudest voice of them all.

“Careful, Potter,” Draco drawled as he sauntered past in the courtyard. “Best keep an eye on your little friend. She seems to be collecting champions like Chocolate Frog cards.” Crabbe and Goyle guffawed loudly at the remark.

Harry’s fists clenched, his temper spiking, but Hermione grabbed his sleeve before he could lunge. Her cheeks burned crimson, but her voice was steady.

“Don’t. He’s not worth it.”

Still, the damage was done.


That evening, the atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room grew thick. The fire blazed, laughter rang from one corner, but in the center, tension was brewing.

Ron Weasley sat sprawled on an armchair with Seamus and Dean flanking him. His eyes flicked toward Hermione as she entered, carrying a pile of books. His lips twisted into a sneer.

“So, Granger,” Ron began loudly enough for the whole common room to hear, “going to the ball with Krum, eh? But also sneaking around dancing with Harry? Merlin, you don’t waste time, do you?”

The room hushed. A few Gryffindors exchanged awkward looks, while others leaned forward eagerly.

Hermione froze, the sting of Ron’s words sharper than she had expected. She glanced at Harry, who was already halfway out of his chair, his jaw tight. But before Harry could speak, Hermione stepped forward.

“Say that again,” she said, her voice trembling with fury.

Ron smirked, his ears turning pink but his bravado holding. “I just think it’s funny. One moment you’re hanging off Krum’s arm, and the next you’re twirling around with Harry like you can’t decide which famous bloke you want more—”

SMACK!

The sound of Hermione’s hand connecting with Ron’s cheek rang through the common room like a whip crack. Ron reeled back, clutching his face, his freckles standing out against the fiery handprint blooming across his skin. Gasps erupted all around them.

“How dare you!” Hermione’s eyes blazed, and her voice shook with rage. “You arrogant, jealous little boy. I was teaching Harry to dance, nothing more. But of course, you wouldn’t understand that, would you? You can’t see past your own petty jealousy.”

Ron’s mouth opened and closed, his face a storm of red. He wanted to yell back, to retort, but the humiliation of being slapped—publicly, no less—rendered him speechless.

Seamus gave a low whistle. “Blimey…”

Dean muttered, “She got you good, mate.”

The girls near the fire whispered furiously to each other, some nodding in approval of Hermione, others simply shocked.

Harry finally stepped in, his voice like steel.

“You ever say something like that again, Ron, and I’ll do worse than slap you. She’s my bestfriend. And if you can’t see that, then keep your opinions to yourself.”

The room fell silent again. Ron looked as though he might explode, but instead he stormed up the stairs to the boys’ dormitory, the door slamming shut behind him.

Hermione stood trembling, her hand still tingling from the force of the slap. Harry reached out gently, touching her arm.

“Don’t listen to him,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to justify yourself to anyone. Least of all Ron.”

Hermione nodded, her eyes glistening, and for the first time that day, she let out a shaky breath.


The slap was all anyone in Gryffindor Tower could talk about for days. Some admired Hermione’s boldness, others thought she’d gone too far, but no one dared to say it to her face. Even Fred and George were unusually quiet about it—though Harry did catch them grinning and muttering, “Well, he deserved it.”

Hermione buried herself in books, Harry stayed close by her side, and Ron… Ron kept his distance. His bruised pride was harder to heal than the red mark on his cheek, and while Harry didn’t regret standing up for Hermione, he couldn’t help but wonder how deep the rift between the three of them would grow.

But one thing was certain—Hermione Granger was not a girl to be trifled with.

And the whole school now knew it.



The next day, Harry ran into Viktor Krum near the library. The older boy, normally reserved, fixed Harry with a serious look.

“Vat is this in the paper?” Viktor asked in his thick accent, holding up the offending article. “About you and Hermione? Dancing together?”

Harry sighed. He had been expecting this.
“Look, Viktor, it’s not what Skeeter wrote. Hermione was just teaching me how to dance. That’s it.”

Viktor’s frown deepened, but Harry pressed on.
“And listen—don’t bring it up with her. If you act suspicious, she’ll think you don’t trust her, and she might end things with you. She hates when people doubt her.”

That seemed to strike the right chord. Viktor slowly nodded.
“She vas only teaching you?”

Harry nodded firmly.
“She’s my best friend. That’s never going to change. But she’s your date. I’d never do anything to mess that up.”

Viktor studied him for a long moment before relaxing.
“Then I belief you. Hermione… she is strong girl. She vill not care about silly gossip.”

Relief washed over Harry. One problem settled.


But the scandal reached further than he thought. Later that evening, Harry approached Susan Bones in the corridor, only to find her wiping her eyes while Hannah Abbott hovered protectively beside her.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked, alarmed.

Hannah’s eyes narrowed.
“As if you don’t know. Everyone in Hufflepuff has been making fun of her since that paper came out. Saying she’s a fool for going to the Ball with someone who’s too busy dancing with another girl.”

Susan shook her head quickly.
“Hannah—don’t—”

But Harry stepped forward.
“Susan, listen. Hermione’s my best friend. She’s part of my life. That means sometimes she’s going to do things for me—teach me, help me, fight for me. That’s not going to change. If that’s a problem, then maybe I should find another date.”

Susan’s eyes widened.
“No! I don’t want that. Harry, I—I don’t mind. I never asked for this attention. It’s just… people won’t stop talking.”

Harry’s expression softened.
“They’ll get bored soon enough. I want to go with you, Susan. Only you.”

Her blush deepened, but she smiled through the tears.
“Then… I’ll go with you. Of course I will.”

Harry turned to Hannah, his tone firm but not unkind.
“And Hannah, I know you’re trying to protect her. But I’ll never hurt Susan.”

Hannah studied him for a long moment before giving the smallest nod.