Severus sat at the small wooden desk in his rented room at the Leaky Cauldron, his fingers drumming lightly against the surface as his dark eyes lingered on the calendar pinned to the wall. December 12th. That meant thirteen days until the Yule Ball.
Thirteen days until he would be standing in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, dressed in formal robes, with Fleur Delacour on his arm.
The thought both thrilled and unsettled him.
He had agreed to it on a whim, thinking only of the strategic benefits at the time. The ball would be a golden opportunity to insert himself into the Hogwarts social scene, to gather valuable insights on the Tournament, on Dumbledore, on Potter. The very people who would play crucial roles in the war to come. He could observe, manipulate, and analyze.
But only later had he realized the one very crucial detail he had overlooked—
The champions were required to open the dance.
Which meant he would be dancing.
Severus groaned and let his head fall back against the chair, staring at the ceiling in resignation.
It wasn't that he couldn't dance. His mother had drilled the basics into him as a child, ensuring he at least had the competence to hold his own in social settings. But that had been a long time ago, and he had certainly never envisioned himself waltzing across the Hogwarts ballroom floor with a Veela.
A very determined Veela, no less.
Fleur Delacour was passionate about everything she did. She was not the type to accept mediocrity. That much had been clear from their training sessions. If she was competing, she would want to be the best. If she was dancing, she would want to shine.
And she would expect him to keep up.
There would be no escaping after one obligatory dance. No polite retreat to the sidelines. She would want him there, with her, for as long as the music played.
Severus sighed.
That was going to be a problem.
Because as much as he had agreed to be her date, his real purpose for attending was entirely different. He needed to assess the situation at Hogwarts. The Yule Ball would be the perfect chance to engage in casual yet meaningful conversations with key figures. Dumbledore, Minerva, the foreign delegates, perhaps even Potter himself. But that would be nearly impossible if he was stuck on the dance floor all night with Fleur.
She was bound to attract attention, which meant he would attract attention. Eyes would be on them. On him.
And attention was the last thing he wanted.
He rubbed his temple in frustration. There were too many variables against him. Too many factors that could disrupt his plans.
And yet…
Despite all the complications, there was a part of him—his younger, hormonal seventeen-year-old self—that was undeniably excited.
The mere thought of walking into that ballroom with Fleur on his arm sent a strange sort of satisfaction through him. He could already imagine the reactions. The jealous stares from her admirers, the envious glances from his supposed peers.
And Fleur herself…
She was undoubtedly beautiful. Striking in a way that was almost otherworldly. Her silvery-blonde hair, her graceful movements, the way her blue eyes gleamed when she was amused. And more than that—she had taken an interest in him.
He was no fool. He knew when a girl was genuinely excited about something. Fleur had been thrilled when he agreed to be her date. Not just satisfied, not just pleased—genuinely happy. She had hugged him twice that night, something he doubted she did for just anyone.
His fingers twitched slightly on the desk as his mind wandered into dangerous territory.
After the ball…
There were a dozen scenarios that played out in his head. Fleur smiling at him beneath the enchanted lights, leaning in close as they danced, whispering in that soft French accent of hers. And after the ball, perhaps a quiet walk through the castle grounds, away from prying eyes. The way she had blushed when he'd teased her about 'compensation' had been telling. There was attraction there.
And, Merlin, it was hard to have a teenage body with all these ridiculous impulses.
Severus scowled at himself and shook his head, forcing his thoughts away from that direction.
He had a mission. A plan. He could not afford distractions.
Fleur was a temporary ally, nothing more. The moment the Tournament was over, she would return to France, and he would continue his work. There was no point in indulging in idle fantasies about what could happen.
Still…
He glanced back at the calendar.
Thirteen days.
A lot could happen in thirteen days.
And he needed to prepare.
If he was going to do this, he needed to ensure that he wasn't just another awkward date that Fleur had to babysit. He needed to be able to dance well enough to keep up with her. He needed to blend into the crowd without raising suspicions. And most importantly—he needed to find a way to slip away from her long enough to get the information he needed.
Which meant planning.
Severus pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and began listing everything he needed to do before the ball.
Find proper dress robes.
Brush up on dancing.
Research the attendees and their affiliations.
Identify potential allies and threats.
Formulate an excuse to separate from Fleur for at least part of the night.
He tapped his quill against the parchment thoughtfully. The first two would be simple enough. The third and fourth would require more time. The last…
That would be tricky.
Fleur was sharp. If he simply walked off without a good reason, she would notice. He needed a distraction. Something that would temporarily hold her attention elsewhere.
Perhaps he could subtly nudge one of her admirers in her direction? Someone who would monopolize her time for a bit? Or—better yet—something that would require her presence elsewhere?
Severus smirked slightly. He would figure something out.
For now, he had thirteen days to prepare.
And if nothing else… at least he would be having an interesting evening.
________________________________________
Severus pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he stepped into the shadows of Knockturn Alley. The narrow, winding street was damp from an earlier drizzle, the cobblestones slick beneath his boots. The only illumination came from the occasional flickering lanterns and the glow of enchanted signs that advertised dubious wares. The air carried the scent of damp wood, old parchment, and something faintly metallic—blood, perhaps.
He ignored the shifty figures loitering in the shadows, their eyes following him as he passed. He wasn't interested in whatever illicit dealings they were conducting in the alley's dim corners. His destination was straight ahead.
Borgin and Burkes.
The shop was as unwelcoming as ever, its dusty window display showcasing an assortment of sinister trinkets: a withered monkey's paw, a cursed necklace, and what looked suspiciously like a severed hand preserved in a jar.
Severus pushed open the heavy wooden door, and a bell tinkled faintly. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged parchment and something slightly rotten.
Behind the counter, Borgin straightened from where he had been examining a small, rusted dagger. The man's pale, oily face stretched into a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Ah, a pleasure to see you again, my young friend. What brings you to my humble establishment tonight?"
Severus didn't waste time with pleasantries. "I need books on rituals."
Borgin's smile widened, but his eyes grew cautious. "Rituals, you say? A fascinating subject, but I'm afraid I don't carry such materials. The Ministry frowns upon certain—shall we say—esoteric knowledge."
Severus exhaled slowly. The man was lying, of course. The trick with these types was to avoid being baited into long-winded negotiations.
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, heavy pouch. With a soft thud, he placed it on the counter and loosened the drawstrings. The warm glow of gold reflected in Borgin's eager eyes.
"Two hundred galleons," Severus said flatly. "And that's just for the privilege of browsing."
Borgin's fingers twitched. For a moment, the man hesitated—out of habit rather than any real reluctance—before finally giving a slow nod.
"Well, since you insist," he murmured, pocketing the pouch with practiced ease. "Wait here."
Severus folded his arms and watched as the shopkeeper disappeared into the back room. He let his gaze drift over the shelves, noting the usual assortment of Dark artifacts, cursed objects, and questionable potions. This place never changed.
Two minutes later, Borgin returned, carrying a stack of five old tomes. He set them down on the counter with a soft thud, dust puffing into the air as he did so.
"There you are," Borgin said, his voice smooth. "A rather eclectic selection, I must say. Books on blood magic, body enhancement, magical augmentation… and, well, a rather unique volume on… shall we say, intimacy-based rituals?"
Severus ignored the insinuation and pulled the first book toward him.
The leather cover was cracked with age, its title embossed in faded silver. He flipped through the pages quickly, scanning descriptions of rituals that promised enhanced magical potency through blood sacrifices. Some were plausible, others ludicrous. Rituals that required the blood of a creature that hadn't existed in centuries, or ingredients that couldn't be obtained without raising a dozen red flags.
Severus set the book aside and picked up the next.
This one focused on rituals involving the body—enhancing endurance, agility, reflexes. Some involved pain-inflicted trials, others required long, complex fasting periods. The theory behind some was sound, but most were exaggerated nonsense.
He continued through the stack, quickly separating useful material from impractical nonsense. That was the trouble with ritual magic—less than twenty percent of what was published actually worked. The rest were either wishful thinking or outright hoaxes meant to prey on the desperate and gullible.
It was only when he reached the final tome that he paused.
It was a ritual compendium focused on couples—specifically, sex-based magic.
Severus arched an eyebrow and opened it.
The pages detailed various methods of enhancing magical reserves through intimate acts. Some involved simple energy exchanges, while others required more… personal sacrifices—virginity, blood, fluids. Many rituals promised increased magical potency, heightened sensitivity to magical energies, and deeper bonds between partners.
The benefits weren't purely magical, either. Some rituals were clearly designed to strengthen relationships—emotional and physical closeness, amplified pleasure, and an undeniable sense of connection between those involved.
Severus skimmed over the more elaborate ones, noting that they ranged from standard penetrative sex rituals to oral-based magic transfers. The theoretical basis for some of them made sense—magic, after all, was deeply tied to emotion, intent, and physical connection. Still, he wasn't naïve enough to take everything at face value.
"Price?" he asked, without looking up.
Borgin's lips curled in satisfaction. "Four hundred galleons per tome."
Severus didn't hesitate. He reached into his cloak again, this time pulling out a significantly larger pouch. With a dull clink, he placed it on the counter.
"Two thousand," he said simply. "I'll take all of them."
Borgin let out a delighted chuckle, clearly pleased by the transaction. He scooped up the pouch greedily, weighing it in his hands before pocketing it.
"A wise investment," he said smoothly. "A man of your intellect knows the value of knowledge, after all."
Severus ignored the flattery. He picked up the books and tucked them into the enchanted satchel hanging at his side.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and left.
As he stepped back into the cold night air of Knockturn Alley, he adjusted the weight of the satchel against his side. He had much reading to do.