For the past three weeks, Mateusz Zieliński had been experiencing mood swings worse than the English weather — and that was saying something.

He'd been over the moon when his family sent him a beautiful set of midnight-blue dress robes to match Aleksandra's gown. He'd immediately paraded around the cabin like royalty. That joy, however, had plummeted to the depths of the Black Lake when Aleksandra told him — gently, but firmly — that he was too young to attend the Yule Ball.

There had been pouting. Dramatic sighs. Possibly some door slamming.

But by the end of the week, Mateusz was beaming again.

The reason? A new friend named Colin Creevey — a third-year Gryffindor who was somehow even smaller than Mateusz, a fact he brought up at least once a day with pride.

Colin had rat-brown hair, ears that stuck out just enough to look perpetually surprised, and a boundless enthusiasm for absolutely everything. He'd started calling Mateusz "Big Mat," which delighted the Polish boy to no end.

They were an odd pair — a wide-eyed Muggle-born from England and a fiercely stubborn wizard from Polen — but somehow it worked.

Colin adored photography. Within days of meeting, he had convinced Mateusz to pose for "wizarding action shots" behind the greenhouses. With a little help from Colin's younger brother, Dennis, they even managed to get a photo of all three of them mid-snowball fight (Mateusz was winning, of course).

Colin had told him — more than once — that his parents were Muggles, and that they'd be thrilled to know he'd made a friend from "abroad."

Mateusz didn't say it aloud, but he felt the same.

He liked the way Colin laughed at his bad jokes. He liked that someone at Hogwarts didn't find his accent strange or his robes odd. And most of all, he liked that, for the first time since arriving, he didn't feel like just "Aleksandra Zielińska's little brother."

He was Big Mat, thank you very much.

"You know what I think is unfair?" Mateusz grumbled, his wand jammed into the side of a half-built snowman like a construction pole.

Colin peeked up from behind his own snowman, which had uneven arms and a carrot nose sticking out at a slight, unfortunate angle. "Everything?"

Mateusz huffed. "That not everyone gets to attend that stupid ball."

Colin's entire face lit up with outrage. "YES! Exactly! Just because we're not old enough doesn't mean we don't deserve a party too!"

"Thank you!" Mateusz exclaimed, throwing his arms in the air and accidentally knocking his snowman's head clean off. He muttered a quick Reparo, then continued pacing in small, dramatic circles. "It's discrimination. Against short people. And slightly-younger-than-average people. And international people, probably."

"Unconstitutional!" Colin declared proudly, although he wasn't entirely sure what constitution meant in wizarding law. It sounded right.

They stood in silence for a moment, the snowy courtyard quiet except for the faint rustling of wind and the occasional thump of enchanted snowballs launching themselves at each other from the two snowmen now animated by misfired charmwork.

Then, Colin's eyes sparkled.

"Mateusz," he whispered.

"Colin," Mateusz answered, equally serious.

"...We should crash it."

Mateusz blinked. "Crash the Yule Ball?"

"Yeah! We sneak in. Find a way past the professors. Pretend we're someone else. Use glamours or... or disguises! Or polyjuice!"

"Do you have polyjuice potion?" Mateusz asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, no."

They both looked toward the castle, thoughtful. Snowflakes landed in Colin's hair like glitter. Mateusz crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes like a general surveying enemy territory.

"We'll need a plan," Mateusz said.

"And outfits," Colin added. "You've already got those fancy dress robes. You'll look like a mysterious visiting prince. I could... maybe wear my dad's old tuxedo and charm it navy blue?"

"We'll need a distraction," Mateusz said. "Something big. Something that keeps Filch away from the door."

Colin's smile widened. "Dennis."

Mateusz smirked. "Yes. Perfect. A Creevey diversion."

"Operation Sneak-and-Sway," Colin said proudly. "That's what we'll call it."

"That's a terrible name."

"Fine. Operation Midnight Waltz."

"Better."

They solemnly shook hands, snow sticking to their sleeves.

And at that exact moment, one of the enchanted snowmen — unsupervised for far too long — launched a snowball that hit Colin square in the ear.

He yelped. Mateusz burst out laughing.

The plotting could wait another ten minutes — just long enough for one more round of enchanted snowball warfare.

— ✧ —

The Hogwarts library was colder at night — not just in temperature, but in temperament.
The torches burned quieter. The shadows stretched longer. Even the ghosts knew to float silently between the stacks.

Aleksandra sat hunched over a thick, leatherbound tome that smelled like charcoal and damp earth. Her inkwell trembled on the desk with every gust of wind against the castle walls, but she didn't notice. She hadn't blinked in a minute.

Across the parchment before her, she had scrawled in looping, impatient Polish:

"Shell-binding. Breath transference. Elemental merging. Mer-song immunity."

A line connected them all. And beside it: a question mark, circled four times.

Another book lay open beside the first — this one in archaic Cyrillic, a translated compendium of pre-Gregorian magical rites from the Carpathian basin. She could make out most of it, her mother having made her read the old texts aloud as bedtime stories when she was young.

She flipped a page and read aloud under her breath:

"In the ritual of Żywiołowa Więź, the wielder binds breath and soul to the chosen element — most often water — and borrows its nature. But beware: the magic is old, and older magics hunger."

She ran a hand through her hair and exhaled.

This was it. This could be it. The screaming egg, the song underwater, the riddle. The task had to take place in the lake — and she'd need something stronger than gillyweed or bubble-head charms. The other champions would go for the obvious. Aleksandra needed something else. Something deeper. Wilder.

And this... Shell Binding.

If she could bind her magic to the lake itself, she might not need to hold her breath. She could move like water. See like water. Breathe like it.

She opened a third book — a botanical guide with detailed illustrations — and began making notes on the necessary components. She circled three ingredients: słodkowodna trawa (freshwater grass), jaskółcze ziele (celandine), and dragon pearl moss.

The last one would be tricky.

She tapped the end of her quill against her lips, eyes narrowed. "Forest edge," she muttered. "Near stagnant pools. Needs moonlight to bloom."

Of course it does.

A fourth book hovered midair beside her, enchanted to stay open on an illustration of Slavic water spirits — their long hair tangled in reeds, their hands stretched toward the surface. Beneath the image: rusałki.

They didn't look kind.

"Old magic always asks for a price," she whispered.

A drop of ink spilled onto her notes. She cursed softly and dabbed it away.

Then, a sound — soft footsteps approaching between the stacks. Aleksandra stiffened, closed the Cyrillic tome with a snap, and slid her notes under her arm.

But it was only Madam Pince, frowning at her from behind a candle.

"You'll ruin your eyes, child."

Aleksandra nodded once. "Noted."

"You have ten minutes."

"I only need five."

Pince sniffed and moved on.

Aleksandra stayed still until she was gone. Then she returned the tome to its shelf — carefully — and tucked her notes into the inside cover of her notebook, behind the old family recipe for nettle tea that she used as a bookmark.

When she stood, her knees cracked. She didn't care.

The riddle from the egg still echoed in her ears:

Come seek us where our voices sound...

She would.

But she'd do it on her own terms.

And if the water wanted something in return —
well, it would have to ask nicely.

— ✧ —

Aleksandra stepped into the cabin, her mind still a flurry of half-formed spells, translated runes, and slippery threads of strategy. Apparently, it was written all over her face — either that, or Kalina just knew her far too well.

"Oh, stop brooding," Kalina called, barely glancing over her shoulder as she spun in place. "Think of something fun for once."

Her dress — deep red and satin-smooth — caught the light as it twirled with her. The plunging neckline, the sharp cut of the back, the way it clung and moved with intention... It was pure confidence in fabric form. The shade brought out the copper in Kalina's wild curls and made her red lipstick look like war paint.

It suited her perfectly. Aleksandra smiled, briefly — then paused, a thought forming.

"So..." she said, cautiously. "Who are you going with?"

Kalina froze mid-step, the hem of her dress brushing the floor. "Cassian Avery," she said after a beat, her voice carefully neutral. "Seventh Year. Slytherin."

Aleksandra blinked. "Avery?"
She hadn't meant to sound that surprised.

Kalina gave a one-shoulder shrug. Her reflection in the porthole window looked stiff. "He asked."

Aleksandra cursed Viktor Krum internally in every language she knew — and a few she didn't. Of all the people Kalina could have gone with. Cassian Avery? Decent English, perfectly passable Russian, and — unfortunately — not Viktor.

"I thought..." Aleksandra hesitated, starting to unbraid her hair. "I thought Krum might ask you."

"No," Kalina said flatly.

A pause. And then, with more venom than Aleksandra had ever heard from her:

"He's going with Harry Potter's friend."

Aleksandra blinked. "Ron Weasley?"

"The girl!" Kalina nearly shouted, spinning toward her. "Hermione Granger."

Ah.

There it was — the heartbreak, raw and unexpected. Kalina rarely let her guard down. But now, tears welled at the corners of her eyes, slipping down her cheeks like something she'd been holding back for too long.

"Oh, Kalina..." Aleksandra stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her without hesitation, pulling her close.

Kalina didn't sob. Didn't collapse. She just pressed her face into Aleksandra's shoulder and let the silence hold the weight of what she couldn't say aloud.

Aleksandra ran a hand through her friend's curls, whispering nothing — just quiet reassurances in the form of touch. The kind of comfort no spell could offer.

When Kalina finally pulled back, Aleksandra gave her a small, steady look. "You'll be the best-dressed person there. Let him eat his heart out."

Kalina let out a soft, watery laugh. "And you'll hex him if I ask?"

"Twice. Once for you. Once for me."

— ✧ —

A fire crackling low. Most students are either off at dinner or tucked into their studies. But in one dim corner, chaos is unfolding.

"Absolutely not," George said flatly, backing away from the cleared patch of rug like it was cursed.

Fred lunged forward, wand in hand and a dangerous grin on his face. "Absolutely yes. It's basic survival. You're not tripping over her gown in front of the entire school because your limbs don't know what to do."

"I know what to do with my limbs," George muttered.

"Do you?" Lee Jordan chimed in from the armchair, watching with far too much amusement. "Because I've seen you walk into a wall twice today."

"That wall moved."

Fred ignored the excuse entirely. With a flick of his wand, he transfigured an old mop into a vaguely humanoid shape. It wobbled, then jerked upright — now wearing Angelina's spare scarf as a sash and levitating slightly off the floor like a nervous ghost.

George stared at it. "That's not a person."

Fred beamed. "It's practice. She's even got better posture than you."

George groaned, scrubbing his face with both hands. "This is humiliating."

"This is preparation," Fred corrected. "Do you think Viktor Krum is winging it? No. That boy's been gliding through corridors like he's auditioning for a ballet."

"He's gliding because he's terrifying."

"Exactly. And you're going to charm her, not knock her out with your elbows."

George looked at the mop. Then at Fred. Then at Lee, who was now snacking on a Chocolate Frog and watching like it was live theatre.

"...Fine."

Fred cheered. "Look at you! Growth!"

George took the mop's stringy, reluctant hand and stood stiffly. "What if she says no?"

Fred snorted. "Then you'll have the best dance with a mop Hogwarts has ever seen."

Lee leaned forward. "But if she says yes?"

George didn't answer right away.

Then, quietly: "If she says yes, I want it to matter."

That shut them both up for a beat.

Fred softened. "Then you practice. So it does."

George swallowed, squared his shoulders, and took one awkward step forward — only to step directly on the mop's makeshift foot. It spun in a full circle, thwacking him in the face with a rogue string.

Lee howled with laughter. "Ten out of ten! Romantic and elegant."

Fred wiped tears from his eyes. "Okay okay — try again. But maybe pretend she doesn't smell like lavender and danger this time."

"I hate both of you."

But George tried again.

And again.

And somewhere between the stumbling and the twirling and the dramatic mop dips, he stopped thinking about the pressure and started thinking about her laugh. Her eyes. The way she said his name when she was annoyed.

He wanted to get this right.

Because if Aleksandra Zielińska said yes...

He wanted to be ready.

— ✧ —

The castle was deep in its nighttime hush, the kind that made even the portraits whisper instead of gossip. The torches were dimmed, the windows black and heavy with frost, and the only sound in the corridor outside the Hufflepuff common room was the faint clink of something metallic hitting stone.

"Shhh!" Colin hissed.

"I am shhh-ing," Mateusz whispered back, holding up the offending culprit — the keyring he'd swiped from Filch's peg earlier. "You're the one making owl noises."

"I was breathing."

"Loudly."

Colin rolled his eyes but kept moving, his smaller frame darting ahead like a shadow. Mateusz, taller by just enough to lord it over him, followed with the self-importance of a boy on a mission.

Their destination was an ancient broom cupboard on the fourth floor — the one with a door that stuck unless you knew the trick with the hinge. Colin had found it by accident two days ago while avoiding Peeves, and tonight, after an hour of "strategic debate" (which was mostly Mateusz eating stolen biscuits and nodding), they'd decided it would make the perfect staging area.

The cupboard smelled faintly of polish and dust when Mateusz forced it open. Inside, a single broken broom leaned against the wall beside a pile of moth-eaten blankets. It was perfect.

"This is where we change," Mateusz said, dropping a lumpy bundle of midnight-blue fabric onto the floor. His Durmstrang dress robes. "Yours?"

Colin held up his prize with both hands: a brown pinstriped suit jacket that looked like it had once belonged to a retired Muggle detective. "My dad's old smoking jacket. Bit big."

"Bit big?" Mateusz scoffed. "Colin, that could fit both of us and the trolley witch."

Colin shrugged, grinning. "It makes me look distinguished."

"You look like you borrowed it from Dumbledore."

They set their outfits carefully on a blanket in the corner, like ceremonial armour. Then Colin dug into his bag and pulled out a crude map of the castle drawn in purple crayon. "So. The plan."

Step one: Hide in the dessert trolley.
Step two: Wait until the trolley is wheeled into the Great Hall for the Ball's after-dinner sweets.
Step three: Emerge in full regalia and blend seamlessly with the guests.

Mateusz nodded like a general approving a battle strategy. "Genius. No one suspects dessert."

"We'll have to get in while it's still in the kitchens," Colin said, tracing the route with his finger. "And stay quiet. The house-elves are very fast."

"I'm always quiet," Mateusz said.

Colin gave him a look. "You tripped over your own robes yesterday."

"Those were my day robes."

They went over the timing again — when they'd meet, which staircase to take, how long they could stay without being thrown out. Every now and then, Mateusz's excitement bubbled over into rapid-fire Polish, which Colin didn't understand but laughed at anyway.

By the time they left the cupboard, it was well past curfew. The castle seemed even bigger and stranger in the dark, the shadows stretching long between torch pools. They crept toward the nearest stairwell, already halfway to imagining themselves sweeping into the Ball under the glittering snowfall, the whole school staring in awe at the two boys who had dared.

At the top of the stairs, Mateusz stopped and grinned at Colin. "Tomorrow," he said.

Colin grinned back. "Tomorrow."

Then they both bolted at the sound of Mrs. Norris's paws tapping the flagstones.