"That's exactly what I figured," Dylan said with a chuckle. "A lot of folks get hung up on old ideas—or some hidden bias—and decide cold-water merpeople don't count as 'real' mermaids. They'd rather call them sea monsters or lake beasts. That mindset shift? It's slowly changed the cold-water merpeople over time. They've gotten rougher-looking, sure, and they still sing with that classic mermaid vibe, but their songs just don't hit the same level as the warm-water ones."
He paused, then added, "Kinda like house-elves. They've been told for so long that they're supposed to be servants that they've internalized it—deep down, they believe that's their lot in life. The difference in mermaid songs? Same deal: long-term collective belief shaping reality."
"Fascinating take!" Dumbledore beamed, clearly impressed. "Such a fresh, thoughtful angle—very intriguing!"
The first task of the Triwizard Tournament was already old news.
Talk about dragons and champions had faded from the halls.
A new buzz had taken over: Christmas break.
Less than two weeks away.
Kids were whispering that the prefects would hand out stay-or-go forms any day now.
The ones sticking around couldn't stop chatting: hitting the new magic toy shop in Diagon Alley, family trips to wizard resorts in the Scottish Highlands, or arguing over which country had the wildest Christmas wizard markets. The excitement was thick in the air.
That afternoon was a joint Ravenclaw-Gryffindor Transfiguration class.
As the bell rang, Professor McGonagall waved her wand with a satisfied flick, locking up the last guinea-pig cage.
Today's drill: turn guinea fowl into guinea pigs. Both houses crushed it—no half-feathered freaks, just plump, glossy rodents.
She turned to the packing-up students and cleared her throat. "Hold on, everyone. Two quick announcements before you go."
Across the room, Harry, Ron, Neville, and Dylan were huddled.
Neville was nose-deep in a battered copy of How to Make Your Sword as Reliable as Your Wand. Harry and Ron? Wands out, fencing stance—poking and parrying like pros, complete with little "swish-swish" sound effects.
McGonagall's proud smile vanished. Her lips thinned.
"Potter! Weasley!" she barked, voice low but sharp. "Have you considered acting your age for once?"
Harry and Ron froze mid-clash, wands locked in a standoff.
Neville slammed his book shut and sat ramrod straight, suddenly very interested in the ceiling.
Just as McGonagall opened her mouth again—pop—both wands morphed.
Harry's tip ballooned into a floppy rubber cod, glistening like it just flopped off a dock.
Ron's twisted into a tiny tin parrot statue, beak razor-sharp.
Clack.
The parrot's beak sliced clean through the cod's head. It hit the floor with a sad thump-thump.
Ron blinked, then grinned like he'd won the Quidditch Cup.
McGonagall's face went from pink to red. The class bit their lips hard—nobody dared laugh with her fuming.
Harry and Ron slunk back to their seats like scolded puppies, chairs barely whispering against the floor.
Only when they sat perfectly straight did McGonagall's glare soften.
She took a breath. "Right. Important announcement."
Pause.
"The Triwizard Tournament has a longstanding tradition: the Yule Ball. Despite this year's event, the headmasters voted to keep it. It's a celebration—and a chance to mingle with students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang."
The words Yule Ball hit like a spark in dry grass.
The room exploded.
Neville pumped a fist. "Yes! A dance!"
McGonagall tried: "The Yule Ball is open to—"
Nope. Chaos.
Kids were buzzing: who to ask, what to wear, full-on giggling pandemonium.
McGonagall let it ride for a minute—she knew the drill.
Ron overheard Lavender and Parvati gushing about dress robes. His face fell.
"Oh no… my dress robes… not now…"
McGonagall raised her wand.
A flash of silver—guinea pig cage morphed into a soaring eagle. It circled the room with a piercing cry, then landed and snapped back into a cage. Pigs still perfect.
Silence.
She continued: "You may choose any partner—any student."
Michael Corner shot his hand up. "Professor—does that include girls from the other schools?"
"Of course," McGonagall said, scanning the room. "Questions? Raise your hand like Mr. Corner. This ball is about friendship across schools."
She added: "Dress robes are required. Formal. For you and your partner. Christmas night, 8 p.m., Great Hall. Ends at midnight."
Whispers again—but quieter.
"Maybe this ball will let you…" McGonagall's tone turned sly, "let your hair down a bit."
A few girls glanced at her famously tight bun, wondering if she'd ever actually tried it.
"But!" Her voice sharpened. "Guests from other schools will be watching. Your behavior reflects Hogwarts. Disgrace the school? I will be deeply disappointed."
Harry and Ron swapped looks. Ron muttered, "She's not still mad about the fish, right?"
Harry shrugged—then McGonagall cut in: "Mr. Potter, Mr. Hockwood—stay behind. A word."
Harry exhaled. "At least she said Dylan's name too. Maybe it's not just me in trouble."
Ron and Hermione grabbed their bags. "We'll wait outside."
Soon the room was empty.
McGonagall stepped forward. "Tradition: each champion must have a partner—and open the ball with the first dance."
Harry's jaw dropped. "I—I don't even know how to dance!"
"It's not about skill," she said. "It's tradition. Non-negotiable."
"Oh merlin," Harry groaned. "Why isn't this in the rulebook?!"
Dylan glanced out the window. "We've got Defense next. Maybe table this?"
"Yes!" Harry leapt up like a man reprieved. "Plenty of time to panic later! Moody hates tardiness—let's go!"
Break time. Beauxbatons students spilled out of their massive carriage to stretch.
Fleur Delacour stood out like a spotlight—Veela blood made every move graceful, even just tucking hair behind her ear.
Hogwarts boys swerved like magnets, sprinting over to chat her up.
Ron spotted her first. "It's Fleur. Merlin, she's gorgeous."
Hermione side-eyed him.
Neville squinted. "Is she… looking at us?"
Ron's eyes bugged. "She's walking straight over!"
The boys already circling her were gesturing wildly, grinning like idiots.
Fleur? Cool as ice. Barely a smile. She was used to the attention—like a breeze she didn't bother noticing.
She stopped in front of Dylan. Tilted her head. Calm as you like:
"Dylan, would you be my date to the Yule Ball?"
Harry and Ron sucked in air like they'd been punched.
Fleur asked Dylan?!
Champions can partner with champions?
Fleur's face stayed neutral—but up close? Shoulders stiff, eyes locked, breathing a touch fast. She was nervous.
Dylan blinked. They'd talked magic theory, alchemy—never dancing.
He nodded. "Sure, if you're up for it."
Then: "Though—tradition usually has champions pick non-champions. Probably to get more regular students involved, mix things up."
Fleur inhaled, forcing casual. "Oh. Right. That does make sense."
Her eyes darted. Awkward silence.
Then—salvation. She spotted Hogwarts Voice in his hand, his floating notebook and quill.
"Speaking of—your alchemy paper? I thought the portrait board would reject it. But it's in this issue! Shocked me."
Dylan grinned. "Loved it. Using alchemy to streamline spellcasting? Brilliant. Got me thinking—if we applied it to Protego, maybe craft a pocket shield first, then layer the charm on top…"
To demo, he flicked his wand at a snow pile.
A snowball leapt up, hovering mid-air.