Chapter 14: Hogwarts Champion

The Hogwarts Express rumbled along the tracks, a familiar lullaby that did little to soothe the relentless churn of my thoughts. Summer break hadn't been a break at all. More like a marathon of preparation, a meticulous orchestration of events designed to lead me to this precise moment.

This year, it was all about the Triwizard Tournament. And my plan, well, it was ambitious, to say the least.

Step one: Enter the Tournament as Hogwarts champion.

Step two: Excel in the trials. Not just win, dominate. Make a spectacle of it. Draw attention.

Step three: Reach the final. Grab the Triwizard Cup, the portkey, at the same time as Potter. Let him lead me to Voldemort.

Step four: Chaos at the graveyard. Voldemort uses Harry's blood for his resurrection ritual. I eliminate his Death Eater entourage. No witnesses.

Step five: Apparate with a newly resurrected Voldemort back to Hogwarts, to the arena where the students are gathered.

Step six: Kill Voldemort. In front of everyone. Make a statement.

Simple, right?

Of course not. But intricate plans rarely are.

The Horcruxes outside of Hogwarts and Gringotts were already dealt with. Fiendfyre, a beautiful and terrible beast of a spell, had devoured them with an efficiency that was almost poetic. The Basilisk fang, a memento from my little adventure in the Chamber of Secrets, proved equally effective. I had also managed to get the diadem. The Room of Requirement was the perfect hiding spot, nobody would suspect anything.

Apparition practice had consumed hours, my body learning the art of controlled disintegration and reassembly. I'd even managed to apparate near Hogwarts, a feat considered impossible due to the protective wards. But like any good system, there were loopholes, subtle cracks that I was more than capable of exploiting.

And then there was the gun. Smith & Wesson Model 5906. A cold, reassuring weight against my hip, a whisper of my former life. I'd practiced quick-draw until it was muscle memory, tested it against magical defenses. The results were...good.

My compartment door slid open, interrupting my thoughts. It was Daphne. She looked radiant. Dressed in a simple but elegant traveling robe, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders like spun gold, she was the picture of pureblood grace.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, her voice a welcome melody in the clatter of the train.

"Of course," I replied, gesturing to the empty seat across from me.

There was a flicker of tension between us, a subtle shift in our usual dynamic that both excited and unnerved me. We'd grown closer over the past year, our conversations ranging from magical theory to Muggle music, our shared ambition a silent current connecting us. She had a crush on me, it was obvious. But that was for another time.

"Blaise is…occupied," Daphne said, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Apparently, there's a rather charming witch he met on the platform."

I chuckled. "That sounds about right."

She launched into a detailed account of the Quidditch World Cup, her voice hushed as she described the chaos, the fear, the appearance of the Dark Mark. I listened intently. Voldemort's return was inevitable. I just needed to ensure I was in the right place at the right time.

The arrival back at Hogwarts was a welcome change of scenery.

The announcement of the Triwizard Tournament during the Welcoming Feast sent a ripple of excitement through the Great Hall. The cancellation of the Quidditch season, however, was met with groans of disappointment. I, for one, couldn't care less about Quidditch.

The introduction of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, was… unsettling. I knew the man was actually Barty Crouch Jr.

His demonstration of the Unforgivable Curses during his first class was chillingly effective on the others, his scarred face contorting with a mixture of disgust and fascination as he showed us the power of the Imperius Curse, the agony of the Cruciatus Curse, and the cold finality of the Killing Curse.

But it was "Moody's" gaze that unnerved me. The way his one good eye kept flicking towards Harry.

A few days later during one of my meetings with Hermione in the library.

"Are you going to enter?" she asked, her voice hushed so as not to disturb Madam Pince, who was glaring at a group of giggling first years with the ferocity of a hungry hippogriff.

I glanced up from my rune book, raising an eyebrow. "Enter what, Granger?"

"The Tournament, of course," she replied, her voice tinged with a hint of impatience. "Don't pretend you haven't been thinking about it. Everyone's talking about it."

I chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "Sure, I will try to enter the tournament."

She didn't say anything surprisingly, she just stared at me for a couple of seconds.

"But it's dangerous, people can die," she said.

I rose from my seat, leaving her with a cryptic smile and a stack of unanswered questions.

The arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations on October 30th brought a fresh wave of excitement to Hogwarts. The castle buzzed with the energy of hundreds of students, the air thick with anticipation.

After Dumbledore rambled on and explained what the Goblet was and what it did and talked about the age line, to the annoyance of some students.

That night, under the cover of darkness, I made my way to the entrance hall. The Goblet of Fire, perched on its pedestal, pulsed with a raw, ancient energy that sent a shiver down my spine. Dumbledore's protective charms, a shimmering barrier designed to prevent underage students from entering the Tournament, were formidable. But even the greatest wizards had their blind spots, their moments of complacency. I'd studied the age line, analyzed its structure, identified its weakness. It was not a dome; it was more like an invisible cone with a hole at the top, so if an underage student wanted to put their name on it all they needed to do is fly or hover above it, so that was what I did. casted a levitation charm on my clothes and hovered right above the hole.

I scribbled my name on a slip of parchment, a feeling of exhilaration surging through me as I approached the Goblet. "Kobe," I whispered, a half-forgotten ritual from another life, as I tossed the parchment into the blue-white flames. The Goblet roared, its flames turning a sickly green as it consumed my offering, a pact sealed in magic and ambition.

The following day, I found Hermione waiting for me in the library, a determined glint in her eye. She brandished a pamphlet with "S.P.E.W." emblazoned across it in bold, obnoxious lettering. We already had discussed this, but apparently, my little lecture on elf rights hadn't deterred her misguided crusade.

"Vincent," she said, her voice earnest, "I've been thinking about what you said. About actually talking to the elves."

I raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Have you now?"

"Yes," she replied, puffing out her chest slightly. "And I still believe they need our help. That's why I'm starting this organization – S.P.E.W. – Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. I want to make a real difference, and I think you could too. You have influence, Vincent. People listen to you. You could help me change things."

Her idealism was both admirable and frustrating. She saw the world in black and white, a simplistic view that ignored the complexities of magical society, the nuances of tradition and power.

"Granger, you have a good heart," I said, my voice softer than usual, "But sometimes good intentions aren't enough. Change… real change… requires more than pamphlets and passionate speeches. It requires strategy, cunning, an understanding of the forces at play. You need to learn how to play the game, Granger, before you try to change the rules."

I left her there, surrounded by her pamphlets and her righteous indignation, my words hanging in the air like a challenge. I admired her spirit, her willingness to fight for what she believed in. But she was naive, a pawn in a game she didn't fully understand.

Halloween night arrived, a tapestry of shadows and anticipation. The Great Hall buzzed with excitement as students from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang mingled, their eyes fixed on the Goblet of Fire, waiting for the announcement of the champions.

The air crackled with anticipation, punctuated by nervous whispers and excited chatter. I sat at the Slytherin table, flanked by Blaise, Daphne, and Theodore, a sense of calm detachment settling over me as I observed the unfolding spectacle. The Goblet, perched on its pedestal, seemed to hum with a raw, ancient energy, its flames licking at the air like hungry tongues.

Dumbledore, his beard shimmering silver in the candlelight, delivered his usual pronouncements about the Tournament's history, its rules, and the importance of sportsmanship and fair play. His words, however, were lost on the eager crowd, their eyes fixed on the Goblet, waiting for the verdict.

The first name erupted from the Goblet's blue-white flames, swirling through the air like a fiery serpent – Viktor Krum, Durmstrang champion. The Durmstrang students roared their approval, their voices booming through the hall.

The second champion, Fleur Delacour, emerged from the flames with a grace and beauty that silenced even the most boisterous of the Beauxbatons contingent. Her silvery-blonde hair shimmered in the candlelight, her blue eyes sparkled with an allure that captivated even the most jaded of the Hogwarts boys.

Then, Dumbledore called for silence, his gaze fixed on the Goblet, which was now glowing with an unnervingly bright light.

"The Hogwarts champion," he announced, his voice amplified by magic so it reached every corner of the hall, "is… Vincent Van Doren!"

A collective gasp rippled through the hall. I could feel hundreds of eyes upon me, a mixture of shock, admiration, and, yes, fear. I allowed myself a small, almost imperceptible smirk as I rose from my seat and made my way towards the chamber behind the staff table, where the other champions were waiting.

No sooner had I stepped into the chamber than the Goblet erupted again, spitting out a fourth piece of parchment. Dumbledore, his face now etched with a mixture of surprise and concern, read the name aloud.

"Harry Potter!"

The hall erupted. Cheers, gasps, shouts of disbelief. It was a cacophony of sound, a wave of chaos that threatened to engulf the carefully orchestrated order of the evening. I glanced back through the doorway, catching a glimpse of Harry, his face pale, his green eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and fear, as he was practically dragged towards the chamber by a throng of cheering Gryffindors.

The chamber door slammed shut, cutting off the noise from the hall. I stood there, facing the other champions, the air thick with a tension that had nothing to do with the anticipation of the Tournament.

Krum, his thick eyebrows furrowed, his gaze intense, studied me with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Fleur, her silvery-blonde hair shimmering in the candlelight, seemed more amused than surprised. And Harry, his green eyes wide with a mixture of anxiety and defiance, stood there, looking like a rabbit caught in a dragon's den.

Dumbledore, his face now grave, addressed us in a low, urgent tone.

"This is most unexpected," he said, his blue eyes twinkling with an unsettling intensity. "But the Goblet has spoken. There will be four champions in this year's Triwizard Tournament."

He paused, his gaze settling on Harry. "Mr. Potter, I must insist that you participate. The Goblet's decision is binding."

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Dumbledore cut him off with a wave of his hand. "There will be time for explanations later," he said. "For now, let us focus on the task ahead. Prepare yourselves, champions. The challenges will be… formidable."

Dumbledore's words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the dangers that lay ahead. I, however, felt a thrill of anticipation. The game was afoot. And I was more than ready to play.

Back in the Slytherin common room, I was surrounded by a throng of curious and slightly intimidated housemates.

"How did you do it, Vincent?"

"Did you cheat?"

"Is it true you can break any spell?"

The questions came at me from all sides, a chorus of whispers and excited chatter. I fielded their inquiries with a mix of calculated vagueness and thinly veiled threats, my amusement growing with every wide-eyed stare, every nervous giggle.

Blaise was already taking bets.

"Ten Galleons says Van Doren wins the whole bloody thing," he announced, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Don't be ridiculous, Blaise," Daphne chided, though I could see a flicker of admiration in her eyes. "It's far too dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Blaise scoffed. "Please, Daphne. Have you met our resident prodigy? He eats danger for breakfast."

I ignored their banter, my gaze fixed on the crackling flames in the fireplace, my mind already strategizing, calculating angles. The Tournament was just the beginning. The first move in a much larger game.

"Are you ready for this, Vincent?" Daphne asked, her voice quiet but intense, her blue eyes searching mine.

I met her gaze, my expression unreadable. "I am ready, Daphne."

The Weighing of the Wands ceremony was a formality, a chance for Ollivander to indulge his eccentricities and for the champions to be paraded before the press. I stood with the other champions, a wave of expectant whispers following me as I approached Ollivander.

He took my wand, ebony, dragon heartstring, eleven inches, and held it up to the light, his pale eyes twinkling with an almost manic glee.

"Ah, Mr. Van Doren," he said, his voice a hushed whisper, his eyes gleaming with an unnerving intensity. "A wand of power, this one. Capable of great things. But beware, young wizard, such power demands responsibility. Use it wisely."

His words, a cryptic warning wrapped in a compliment, lingered in my mind long after the ceremony was over.

The day of the First Task arrived. The champions were escorted to a tent near the edge of the Forbidden Forest, where the task awaited us. The atmosphere inside the tent was thick with tension.

Krum paced restlessly, his thick eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Fleur, her silvery-blonde hair braided into an elaborate crown, sat perfectly still, her gaze fixed on some distant point as if she were communing with unseen spirits. And Harry, looking pale and decidedly out of his depth, fidgeted nervously, his green eyes darting around the tent as if searching for an escape route.

Bagman, his usual boisterous cheer subdued by the gravity of the occasion, explained the task. Each champion would face a dragon, its breed chosen randomly. Our objective: retrieve a golden egg hidden within the dragon's nest.

My name was called last. I stepped out of the tent, the roar of the crowd a distant thunder against the steady beat of my heart.

The arena was a vast, rocky expanse, ringed by towering stands packed with spectators. In the center, chained to a massive rock, a Swedish Short-Snout, its scales gleaming like polished obsidian, its eyes burning with a primal fury, snorted plumes of smoke and fire.

I approached the dragon, my footsteps echoing in the sudden hush that had fallen over the arena. The beast, its massive head turning to follow my every move, let out a deafening roar, its breath a wave of heat that washed over me. I met its gaze, my expression unreadable. This wasn't about subtlety, not this time. This was about sending a message. A message of power.

The Swedish Short-Snout, let out a guttural rumble that shook the very ground beneath my feet. Its fiery breath scorched the air, a wave of heat that would have incinerated a lesser wizard. But I stood my ground, my gaze unwavering, my hand tightening around my wand.

The crowd roared, their voices a chaotic symphony of excitement and fear. I could sense their anticipation, their morbid fascination with the impending spectacle. They wanted to see a battle, a clash of titans, a display of raw power.

And they wouldn't be disappointed.

I raised my wand, channeling my magic, feeling the familiar surge of power coursing through my veins. The Swedish Short-Snout, sensing the shift in the air, reared back, its massive wings beating the air with a thunderous force. It was a magnificent creature, a testament to the raw, primal energy of magic. But today, it was merely an obstacle, a pawn in my game.

Forget subtlety. Forget finesse. This was about making a statement.

"Tempestas Fulgur!" I roared, the incantation echoing through the arena, a challenge to both beast and audience.

A blinding bolt of lightning erupted from the tip of my wand, a searing white spear of pure energy that ripped through the air with a deafening crack. I aimed for the dragon's eyes, for the vulnerable spot behind those burning orbs, for the heart of its primal fury.

The spell struck true, piercing the dragon's thick skull with a sickening crunch. The Swedish Short-Snout, its roar cut short, its body convulsing with the shock of a thousand volts, crashed to the ground, its massive form still, its fire extinguished.

Silence descended upon the arena. A heavy, stunned silence broken only by the faint crackle of residual magic and the distant gasps of the crowd.

I stood there for a moment, letting the echoes of my spell fade, the scent of ozone and burnt flesh lingering in the air. The judges, their faces pale with shock, stared at me as if I were some kind of monster.

I walked towards the fallen dragon, its massive form a testament to the raw power of my magic. I retrieved the golden egg from its nest, the smooth, metallic surface cool against my skin, a stark contrast to the heat that still radiated from the dragon's lifeless body.

Turning to face the crowd, I raised the egg in a gesture of victory. The silence held for another heartbeat, then erupted into a cacophony of cheers, gasps, and bewildered murmurs.

I gave them a slight bow, a predatory smile playing on my lips as I exited the arena, leaving behind a trail of shock and awe.

Hermione's POV

Hermione watched, speechless, as Vincent Van Doren strode out of the arena, the golden egg clutched in his hand, a smug smirk playing on his lips. She'd never seen anything like it. The sheer power of his spell, the cold precision with which he'd dispatched the dragon, the chilling aura of control that seemed to emanate from him… it was both exhilarating and terrifying.

"Did you see that?" Ron exclaimed beside her, his jaw slack with awe. "He just… fried the bloody thing!"

Hermione couldn't tear her gaze away from Vincent as he made his way towards the judges' tent. He looked… different. Harder, colder, his eyes burning with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

"He's good," Ron muttered, his voice barely audible above the roar of the crowd. "Too good, almost."

Hermione nodded slowly, a knot of unease forming in her stomach. She'd always known Vincent was powerful, but this… this was something else entirely.

And as she watched him disappear into the tent, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning.

Daphne's POV

Daphne watched, her heart pounding in her chest, as Vincent exited the arena, his black robes billowing behind him like a storm cloud, the golden egg clutched triumphantly in his hand. The crowd roared their approval, but all Daphne could hear was the deafening silence that had followed his spell, the collective gasp that had echoed through the stands as the Swedish Short-Snout crashed to the ground, its fire extinguished, its life snuffed out with a single, brutal act of magic.

He was magnificent. Terrifying.

A surge of pride, mingled with a touch of fear, coursed through her veins. She'd always known Vincent was different, exceptional. But seeing him command such power, wield it with such cold precision, it shifted something within her, awakened something that both excited and terrified her.

He wasn't just powerful. He was dangerous.

And she was drawn to him, irresistibly, inevitably, like a moth to a flame.

Blaise's POV

"Told you!" Blaise exclaimed, a triumphant grin splitting his face as he clapped Theodore on the back, nearly knocking the smaller boy off his feet. "Ten Galleons, mate. Pay up!"

Theodore, his usual stoicism momentarily shattered, fumbled in his pockets for his money, his gaze still fixed on the spot where Vincent had vanquished the dragon with a single, devastating spell.

"He's a bloody monster," Theodore muttered, his voice hushed with awe.

Blaise laughed, his eyes sparkling with a mixture of admiration and something that might have been envy. "Monster? No, mate. He's our monster."

Professor McGonagall's POV

Professor McGonagall watched, her lips pressed into a thin line, as Vincent Van Doren made his way towards the judges' tent. His display had been… impressive. Undeniably powerful. But there was a ruthlessness to it, a chilling lack of hesitation that disturbed her.

She'd seen him grow over the past three years – from a quiet, enigmatic first year to the undisputed leader of Slytherin House. He was brilliant, cunning, and possessed a natural aptitude for magic that surpassed even the most gifted of her students. But there was a darkness within him, a shadow that she couldn't quite decipher.

"Albus," she said, her voice low, turning to Dumbledore, who sat beside her, his blue eyes twinkling with an unsettling intensity, "That was… concerning."

Dumbledore nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed on Vincent. "Indeed, Minerva. Mr. Van Doren is… a force to be reckoned with. We must watch him carefully."

Professor Moody's POV

Barty Crouch Jr., disguised as Alastor Moody, watched with a growing sense of unease as Vincent Van Doren exited the arena, the cheers of the crowd washing over him like a tidal wave. The boy's display had been nothing short of spectacular. Brutal, efficient, and calculated to instill both fear and awe.

He'd been watching Van Doren closely since his arrival at Hogwarts. The boy was an anomaly, a puzzle that he couldn't quite solve. Powerful, intelligent, ambitious. A Muggle-born leading Slytherin house. But there was something else there, something hidden beneath the surface, something that whispered of darkness.

And as Crouch Jr. met Van Doren's gaze across the crowded arena, he felt a shiver of recognition, a cold certainty that this boy, this seemingly ordinary fourth-year student, was far more dangerous than anyone realized.

The judges' tent was a flurry of activity, a whirlwind of excited chatter and bewildered pronouncements. Bagman, his usual cheerfulness dampened by the shock of my display, fumbled with his notes, his round face flushed. Madame Maxime, her imposing form towering over the rest of us, muttered something in French that sounded vaguely disapproving. Karkaroff, his sharp features twisted into a mask of thinly veiled envy, glared at me with an intensity that would have melted a lesser wizard.

Dumbledore, however, remained calm, his blue eyes twinkling with an unsettling mixture of amusement and scrutiny. He studied me, his gaze piercing through my carefully constructed facade, as if searching for the secrets that lurked beneath the surface.

"Mr. Van Doren," he said, his voice a low rumble that commanded attention, "that was… a most impressive display of power. However, I must caution you against such…excessive force in future tasks. The Triwizard Tournament is a test of skill and ingenuity, not brute strength."

"I understand, Headmaster," I replied, my tone carefully neutral. "I merely adapted to the situation at hand. The dragon posed a significant threat, and I took the most efficient course of action to neutralize it."

"Efficiency, Mr. Van Doren," Dumbledore said, his voice laced with a subtle warning, "can be a dangerous mistress. Remember, true power lies not in the ability to destroy, but in the wisdom to control."

His words, a veiled rebuke wrapped in a philosophical platitude, hung in the air, a reminder that I was treading a dangerous path. I met his gaze, my expression unreadable, my mind already calculating my next move.

The scores were announced. Krum, despite a valiant effort, had received a respectable but unremarkable score. Fleur, her grace and charm failing to fully compensate for her dragon's fiery temper, had received a slightly lower score. Harry had gotten the same amount of points as Krum.

And then came my score.

"Vincent Van Doren," Bagman announced, his voice now regaining some of its usual enthusiasm, "for his…unique… approach to the task, and for his exceptional display of magical prowess, receives… a perfect score!"

The tent erupted. Bagman beamed, Madame Maxime applauded politely, and even Karkaroff managed a grudging nod of approval. Dumbledore, however, remained silent, his gaze fixed on me.

I exited the tent, the roar of the crowd washing over me as I made my way back to the Hogwarts grounds. Whispers followed me like shadows, a mix of awe, fear, and thinly veiled envy. I'd made my statement. The first pawn had been moved.

Back in the Slytherin common room, I was greeted with a hero's welcome. Cheers erupted as I entered, my housemates crowding around me, their faces flushed with excitement. Blaise, his pockets now considerably heavier thanks to Theodore's unfortunate wager, clapped me on the back, his grin wide and smug. Daphne, her cheeks flushed, her blue eyes sparkling with a mixture of pride and something that might have been relief, met my gaze with a silent intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. Even Theodore, his usual stoicism momentarily forgotten, offered a rare smile of approval.

"You were incredible, Vincent!"

"One spell! One bloody spell, and it was over!"

"They never stood a chance!"

The praise washed over me, a wave of adulation that I both enjoyed and distrusted. Fear was a more reliable weapon than admiration. Fear bred obedience, loyalty, and a healthy dose of caution. Admiration, on the other hand, was fickle, easily swayed by circumstance.

"It was nothing," I said, my voice cool and detached. "Just a demonstration of efficiency."

They didn't believe me, of course. And as the whispers continued, the rumors spreading through the castle like wildfire, I knew that the game was truly afoot.

They eventually calmed down and left me to my devices.

The weeks following the First Task were a blur of hushed whispers, envious glances, and a general sense of apprehension whenever I walked into a room. Fear, as I'd learned long ago, was a far more effective tool than admiration. Fear bred obedience, loyalty, a healthy dose of caution.

But amidst the whispers and the stares, there was another current, a subtle shift in the atmosphere that I couldn't ignore – the Yule Ball.

The upcoming ball, a tradition as old as the Triwizard Tournament itself, was the talk of the castle. Nervous giggles, frantic whispers about dresses and dates, and a palpable air of anticipation hung heavy in the corridors. Even the Slytherins, usually immune to such frivolous displays of sentimentality, seemed caught up in the excitement.

Blaise, predictably, was already plotting his conquest.

"So, Van Doren," he said, leaning back in his chair in the common room, a mischievous glint in his eye, "Who's the lucky lady gracing your arm at the ball?"

"The ball is hardly a priority, Blaise," I replied, my gaze fixed on the intricate runes etched into the surface of a silver amulet I was examining.

"Come now, Vincent," Daphne chimed in, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "Surely even you can appreciate a good party. Besides," she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "It's tradition for champions to attend with a date."

I glanced at her, my lips curving into a slight smile. She looked radiant, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders like spun gold, her usual poise tinged with a hint of girlish excitement. I had to admit, the thought of attending the ball with Daphne… it held a certain appeal.

"Perhaps," I conceded, my tone carefully neutral, my mind already calculating the social implications, the strategic advantages of such a move.

Flashback

The library was my sanctuary, a haven from the noise and chaos of Hogwarts life. I found a strange sort of solace amidst the towering shelves and the musty scent of ancient parchment. It was during one of my late-night research sessions that Hermione, her arms laden with books, took the seat across from me.

"Have you decided who you're taking to the Yule Ball?" she asked, her voice a hushed whisper as she carefully placed her books on the table.

I looked up from the rune diagrams I was studying, surprised by her question. "The ball, Granger? I hadn't given it much thought."

"Oh," she said, her voice dropping slightly, a hint of disappointment in her tone. She quickly recovered, though, her usual Gryffindor spirit reasserting itself. "Well, I suppose it's a bit frivolous, isn't it? Compared to, you know, Killing Dragons and all that."

I couldn't help but smile, a genuine smile this time, at her earnestness. "Something like that," I agreed.

"I was just curious," she continued, fiddling with a quill. "Since, you know, champions usually attend with a date. I just thought…" she trailed off, her cheeks flushing a delicate pink.

"You thought I might ask you?" I finished for her, raising an eyebrow.

She avoided my gaze, her fingers tightening around the quill. "Well, I… It's just that…"

"Granger," I said, my voice softening, "Slytherin's reputation may have improved slightly since I… took over, but the rivalry between our Houses is still… palpable. Attending the ball together would cause quite a stir, wouldn't it?"

She nodded, her gaze still fixed on the quill.

"Besides," I added, my voice barely a whisper, "I'm fairly certain Potter will ask you."

I saw a flicker of… something… in her eyes, a complex mix of disappointment and resignation. She quickly masked it, though, her Gryffindor pride reasserting itself.

"Yes," she said, her voice bright and cheerful, "I suppose he might."

End Flashback

A few days before the Yule Ball, I found Daphne in a secluded alcove of the library, surrounded by stacks of books on ancient rituals and forgotten lore. She looked up as I approached, her blue eyes widening slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. Sunlight streamed through the arched window, illuminating her blond hair, making it shimmer like spun gold. She was radiant, even amidst the dusty tomes and the hushed whispers of the library.

"Vincent," she said, her voice soft. "I didn't expect to see you here. Shouldn't you be... I don't know... practicing dragon-slaying techniques or something?"

I chuckled, a genuine smile touching my lips. "Even champions need a break from dragon slaying, Daphne."

She returned the smile, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

I reached into my robes and retrieved a single white rose. Its petals were pristine, unblemished, their delicate fragrance filling the air. But what made this rose truly special was the subtle shimmer that emanated from its core, a faint glow of magic that I'd woven into its very essence.

"Daphne," I said, my voice a little rough, "I was wondering… would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Yule Ball?"

I extended the rose towards her.

Her eyes widened, her gaze shifting from the rose to my face, a delicate blush creeping up her cheeks. She reached out, her fingers brushing against mine as she took the rose.

"Vincent," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustling of parchment, "It's beautiful. It's… glowing."

"It's a charm," I explained, my voice softer than usual. "It will never wilt, never fade. Just like… my admiration and respect for you."

Her eyes met mine, a warmth blooming in their depths.

"Yes, Vincent," she said, her voice a soft melody. "I would love to go to the ball with you."

She gave me a tight hug, and for a moment, I allowed myself to get lost in her embrace, the scent of jasmine and something uniquely hers filling my senses.

It was December 25th. The Yule Ball was a dazzling spectacle, a whirlwind of swirling robes, glittering decorations, and an intoxicating air of excitement. The Great Hall had been transformed into a winter wonderland, its ceiling enchanted to resemble a star-studded night sky, its walls adorned with shimmering ice sculptures and garlands of evergreen boughs.

I watched as Daphne entered the hall, her silver dress shimmering in the candlelight, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders like spun gold. She was breathtaking, a vision of elegance and grace.

"You look… exquisite, Daphne," I said, my usual composure momentarily forgotten.

She smiled, her blue eyes sparkling. "Thank you, Vincent. You look… rather dashing yourself."

I offered her my arm, and we entered the hall, a wave of whispers following in our wake.

Later, I asked Daphne if she wanted to dance. She said yes, and we joined the other dancers, our movements a reflection of the unspoken connection that flowed between us.

I held her close, her hand warm in mine. As we danced, I noticed Hermione at the edge of the dance floor, her gaze lingering on me for a fleeting second before she quickly looked away. There was a flicker of… something… in her eyes, a mix of curiosity and perhaps a hint of longing.

Later that evening, Fleur Delacour, her silvery-blonde hair shimmering under the enchanted ceiling, approached me with a captivating smile.

"Vincent," she said, her voice a soft melody with a hint of a French accent, "May I have this dance?"

I accepted, and we moved together effortlessly. "You are a very good dancer, Vincent," she murmured as we waltzed. "But I sense… a darkness in you. A fire that burns beneath the surface."

I met her gaze, my expression unreadable. "Don't we all have our secrets, Fleur?"

She smiled, a knowing smile that sent a shiver down my spine. "Perhaps," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the music. "But yours… they are interesting."

The night flew by in a whirlwind of music, laughter, and stolen glances. As the final notes of the last waltz faded, I found myself standing with Daphne at the Astronomy Tower, the cool night air against our faces, the stars blazing above us.

The silence between us was comfortable, charged with an unspoken energy that crackled in the air. She looked up at me, her blue eyes shining.

"Vincent," she whispered, "Thank you… I had a lovely night."

She leaned in, my hand cupping her cheek, my thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw. Our lips met, a soft, hesitant touch that quickly deepened into something more urgent, more passionate. I was surprised at myself maybe the hormones were getting to me, Damn puberty.

When we finally broke apart, breathless and flushed.

"It was," I agreed, my voice rough with emotion, "a lovely night."