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029. Yule Ball

TWENTY NINE

    THE YULE BALL HAD APPROACHED had approached faster than Lyra had expected, the weeks slipping away in a whirlwind of preparations, gossip, and clandestine glances exchanged across the corridors of Hogwarts. And now, as she stood before the full-length mirror in the Slytherin dormitory, the reality of the night finally settled upon her.

Her honey-blonde hair, usually left in its natural waves, had been straightened into a sleek waterfall of silk, cascading down her back with a soft shine. The makeup Daphne and Tracey had expertly applied accentuated her already striking features—her deep grey eyes, lined with just the right amount of smoky eyeliner, gleamed like storm clouds caught in the moonlight. A subtle touch of highlighter dusted over her high cheekbones and the bridge of her nose gave her warm brown skin a radiant glow, making her look almost otherworldly under the dim lighting of the dormitory.

But the dress—the dress—was the true masterpiece.

The fabric, a rich champagne gold, clung to her body like liquid light, shimmering with every small movement. Made of sleek, silky polyester, it molded to her form with effortless grace, the draped neckline drawing attention to her collarbones and the elegant curve of her shoulders. The thin spaghetti straps barely seemed to hold the gown up, leaving most of her back exposed in a daring yet sophisticated design. Self-tie strings crisscrossed at the base of her spine, giving the dress a delicate yet sultry touch. The material pooled slightly at her feet in a floaty hem, brushing over the tops of her silver slippers, which were a perfect match to the white polish on her toes.

"Merlin, Lyra," Daphne breathed, stepping back to admire her. "You're going to ruin men tonight."

Tracey smirked, adjusting her own emerald-green gown in the mirror beside them. "Forget men—you're going to ruin everyone's entire existence."

Lyra rolled her eyes but couldn't help the smirk tugging at her lips. She was no stranger to turning heads, but tonight? Tonight was different.

As they made their way downstairs, the sound of excited chatter and the occasional burst of laughter filled the air. The Slytherin common room had been a flurry of movement all evening—students adjusting their robes and dresses, fixing their hair, and exchanging last-minute words of advice or warning. Theo and Blaise were already at the bottom of the staircase, both looking effortlessly charming in their dress robes, flanked by two stunning Beauxbatons girls whose accents curled like silk around their words. Draco, as expected, had Pansy practically draped over his arm, her expression one of smug satisfaction as she clung to him in her overly elaborate, ruffled dress.

Pansy barely spared Lyra a glance before rolling her eyes. "You look... alright, I suppose," she drawled, her tone making it clear she was being generous.

Lyra smirked, already knowing exactly where this was going. "Coming from you, Pansy, that almost sounds like a compliment. You must be really struggling tonight."

scoffed, arms crossing tightly over her chest. "Struggling? Hardly. I don't need to dress like a desperate slag to get attention."

It's called having a figure, Pansy. Not all of us need a thousand yards of fabric to distract from the lack of one."

Blaise choked on his own spit. Draco, to his credit, had the sense to look away, pretending not to hear.

Pansy's face turned an impressive shade of pink. "You're such a bitch."

"And yet, here you are, still talking to me." She leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a taunting whisper. "Try not to get too upset, Pans. It'd be a shame if you cried and ruined all that pig-skin makeup."