As October came to close, the previous announcement of the Hogwarts Halloween Ball started looking serious. Dumbledore's earlier casual mention of it at dinner had barely left his lips before the Great Hall had erupted into excited chatter, with students speculating on themes, dress robes, and—most terrifying of all—who they would ask as their date. It wasn't just any ball; it was the first proper Hogwarts celebration since Voldemort's downfall. The students, eager for any excuse to revel in something normal, seized onto it like a lifeline.
For The WIX, what had initially been an amusing spectacle of their classmates panicking over dates quickly became their own personal disaster zone.
It started with Henry.
"So," Henry said one afternoon in the library, arms crossed and wearing what he likely thought was an air of confident indifference but instead just made him look mildly constipated. "I think I'll ask Vivian to the ball."
Silence.
Then chaos.
"Are you insane?" Magnus hissed, nearly knocking over an inkpot.
"Oh, Henry, no," Rosaline said sympathetically, shaking her head.
Sol just let out a long, suffering groan, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"What?" Henry demanded. "I think we'd have fun! We already get along, and we—"
Artemis, who had been skimming through her notes, finally glanced up. "Henry. She doesn't fancy you."
Henry bristled. "You don't know that."
Vivian, who had walked in just in time to hear the entire exchange, gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look. "Oh, but she does."
Henry turned, freezing as he saw her. "Vivian! Hi! I was just—"
She sighed, plopping down into a chair beside them. "Henry, you're my friend. And you're adorable in an annoying little brother sort of way. But no, I will not be going to the ball with you."
The sting of rejection was sharp and immediate, but before Henry could do more than blink, Vivian leaned back with a smirk. "Because I already said yes to Ethan Selwyn."
A beat of silence.
"…The Slytherin?" Magnus said flatly.
Vivian shrugged. "He's fit, he asked nicely, and he knows how to dance. It was an easy decision."
Henry looked absolutely devastated. "But—but he's—"
Vivian rolled her eyes. "Not a blood purist, if that's what you're worried about. Ethan's alright."
Henry looked mutinous but didn't argue. Instead, he collapsed into a sulk, mumbling something under his breath about 'traitors' and 'bloody Slytherins.'
Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one dealing with rejection.
Iris Lawrence had spent days agonizing over whether or not she should ask Malia Falguni to the ball. The seventh-year Ravenclaw prefect was effortlessly graceful, devastatingly pretty, and had a voice that made Iris go a bit lightheaded every time she spoke.
She had planned it out perfectly—corner Malia after Prefect rounds, casually bring up the ball, flash a bit of charm, and see if she wanted to go together.
It did not go as planned.
"Oh, Iris, that's sweet, but I'm actually going with Fiona Harries from Hufflepuff," Malia had said, offering an apologetic smile that might as well have been a dagger to the heart. "I hope you find someone, though! You're lovely."
Lovely.
Iris had nodded, forced a smile, and then promptly locked herself in the dormitory for the next three days, refusing to talk to anyone.
It took a while, but eventually, Artemis dragged her out with the promise of chocolates and sympathy, and the others had tactfully avoided the topic of the ball for the time being.
But the universe had a strange sense of humor.
A few days after Iris had emerged from her heartbreak-induced exile, Gwenog Jones cornered her outside the Great Hall with all the grace and subtlety of a Bludger to the face.
"So, you're single for the ball, yeah?" Gwenog said bluntly.
Iris, caught off guard, blinked. "Um. Yes?"
"Great. Come with me, then."
"…What?"
"To the ball," Gwenog said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. "I need a date, and I like you."
Iris stared. "Are you—are you serious?"
Gwenog folded her arms. "If you don't want to, say no. I'm not going to beg."
Iris's mouth opened and closed a few times, her brain still short-circuiting. A week ago, she had been mourning the lost possibility of Malia, and now Gwenog—confident, reckless, stupidly attractive Gwenog—was standing in front of her asking her to the ball.
"…Yeah. Okay. Yeah, let's do it."
Gwenog smirked, clapping her on the shoulder before sauntering off like she hadn't just casually turned Iris's entire world upside down.
Iris, still standing in the middle of the corridor, let out a very undignified squeak.
While Iris was having an existential crisis over her newfound crush on Gwenog, Magnus Kane had spent the last week internally screaming.
He had decided, after much deliberation, that he was going to ask Artemis to the ball.
Except every time he tried, something would get in the way.
One time, she was too busy scribbling down research notes to even notice him.
Another time, Sol had decided to dramatically monologue about Quidditch strategy for twenty minutes.
Another time, she had vanished into the library for hours, only surfacing for meals.
Finally, when he was certain he was going to die of stress, he cornered her after dinner.
"So, uh, the ball," Magnus started, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Artemis hummed absently, still reading through a research paper.
"…Wanna go together?"
She barely looked up. "Oh. Yeah, sure."
Magnus blinked. "Really?"
She finally met his gaze, confused. "Why wouldn't I? It'll be fun."
Magnus, realizing she had absolutely no idea he was asking her in a romantic way, just nodded. "Right. Yeah. Fun."
He was doomed.
Meanwhile, Eliza Dawson, who had been swamped with Quidditch training and schoolwork, suddenly realized that everyone was pairing off.
And Henry still didn't have a date.
So, she made the obvious decision.
"Oi, Henry," she said, plopping into the seat beside him at breakfast.
Henry, still moping about Vivian, barely looked up. "What?"
Eliza smirked. "Wanna go to the ball together?"
Henry nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. "Wait, what?"
"You need a date. I need a date. And you're tolerable enough. Let's go together."
Henry, utterly baffled, nodded. "I mean… yeah? Sure?"
Eliza grinned. "Brilliant. I expect you to at least attempt to dance."
With that, she stole a piece of toast off his plate and wandered off, leaving Henry wondering how on earth this was his life.
The weekend before the ball, the WIX descended upon Hogsmeade with the singular goal of acquiring the perfect attire for the grand event. Officially, they were there to shop for dress robes at Gladrags Wizardwear, but the girls had an entirely different plan.
"Alright, boys," Vivian said breezily, stopping in the middle of High Street. "You lot go and try not to embarrass yourselves at Gladrags. We'll meet you back here in three hours."
Magnus frowned. "What? We're supposed to go together."
Rosaline waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, you know how it is. We need more time to pick out the right robes. You lot will be done in fifteen minutes."
"That is wildly unfair," Henry muttered.
"Perhaps," Artemis admitted. "But it's also true. Now go on, get lost."
"Don't worry, boys, I'm not ditching you lot. I'll take care of you!" Gwenog smirked, a little too sharply.
The effect was immediate—Sol looked like he'd rather face a Hungarian Horntail, Magnus tensed as if preparing for battle, and Henry seemed to be mentally composing his will.
Before any of them could protest further, the Ravenclaw girls vanished down a side alley, disappearing into the back entrance of The Wixen Chronicles' Hogsmeade office.
The boys turned to Gwenog, who was grinning like she'd just been given a new Bludger to play with.
Inside, Chronicles offices, the place was bustling as usual, with reporters dictating stories to enchanted quills and stacks of freshly printed newspapers floating into delivery bins. They wove through the chaos until they reached the backroom where the Floo was located.
Eliza pulled out a small pouch of Floo powder. "Alright, girls. Time for the real shopping."
Vivian smirked. "Diagon Alley, here we come."
One by one, they stepped into the emerald flames and disappeared.
In the meanwhile
"Alright, gentlemen," Gwenog said, clapping her hands together. "Time to get you lot sorted."
Magnus eyed her warily. "Why do I feel like this is going to end badly?"
"Because you lack vision," Gwenog replied, already steering them toward Gladrags with a firm grip on Henry's shoulder.
Inside, Gladrags Wizardwear was a chaotic mess of Hogwarts students all clamoring for the best robes, bolts of fabric flying as enchanted measuring tapes zipped through the air.
"Right," Gwenog said, surveying the scene. "This is going to be a bloodbath."
Henry sighed. "We just need something decent. Not too fancy. Not too plain."
Sol, ever the dramatic one, turned to Gwenog. "Please, I am begging you, don't make me look ridiculous."
"Define ridiculous." Gwenog smirked. "Because if I have my way, you'll all be the most memorable sights of the evening."
Sol groaned. Magnus muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like We should have gone with the girls.
Henry, trying to take control, marched toward a rack of simple but well-tailored robes. He reached for a sleek dark green set, only for Gwenog to snatch it away.
"Nope," she said, tossing it over her shoulder without even looking. "Too predictable. You're going in navy."
"Navy?" Henry looked offended.
"Yeah, it'll make you look respectable."
"I am respectable!"
"Not with that attitude."
Meanwhile, Magnus was staring at a deep burgundy robe with subtle silver threading when Gwenog appeared beside him.
"Ooooh, I like that one for you," she said, grinning. "It screams mysterious curse-breaker in training."
Magnus turned to her, skeptical. "I'm not a mysterious curse-breaker in training."
"You will be if you wear that."
"…Fine."
Gwenog beamed and shoved it at him. "Excellent choice."
Sol, however, was having a crisis.
"I have no idea what I'm supposed to wear," he admitted. "Dark? Light? Traditional? Do I lean into my intellectual aesthetic or my rebellious artist persona?"
Gwenog snorted. "Mate, you read too many wizarding fashion columns. Just pick something that makes you look hot."
Sol blinked. "That is terrible advice."
"And yet, it's the best advice you'll get today," Gwenog said cheerfully.
Eventually, after much trial and error (and Gwenog rejecting every single one of Henry's safe choices), they walked out with their selections. Henry, still grumbling about navy robes, Sol in an elegant charcoal ensemble with subtle embroidery, Magnus looking very smug about his mysterious curse-breaker look, and Gwenog—completely untouched by the chaos—whistling as she led them back to the meeting point.
"Alright, gentlemen," she said, slinging an arm around Sol and Henry. "You'll thank me later."
Sol sighed. "That is… debatable."
Henry was still sulking. "Navy."
Magnus smirked. "At least you're not in hot pink."
Henry paled. "Wait, was that an option?"
Gwenog just grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Diagon Alley was a different beast altogether compared to the cozy streets of Hogsmeade. It was bigger, grander, **better stocked.** Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions was **the** place to shop for dress robes, and the moment the girls stepped inside, they knew they had made the right decision.
The shop was packed with students, mostly older ones, all clamoring for the latest styles. Bolts of enchanted fabric shimmered in midair, mannequins twisted and turned to display flowing robes, and assistants were bustling about, trying to keep up with demand.
"This," Vivian declared, spinning in a slow circle, "**is** where we were meant to be."
"Let's not waste time," Rosaline said, already eyeing a rack of midnight-blue robes. "We need to look *good.*"
The next hour was a whirlwind of fabric, colors, and *heated* debates over styles.
Vivian, naturally, gravitated toward something bold—sleek, dark red robes that fit her like a dream, accented with gold embroidery. "This is **it**," she said, admiring herself in the mirror. "Ethan won't know what hit him."
Iris, still adjusting to the idea of going to the ball with Gwenog, was a little more hesitant. "I don't want anything too *much,*" she murmured, running her fingers over deep emerald fabric.
"You're going with Gwenog Jones," Artemis pointed out. "Go for power."
In the end, she chose dark green robes with silver accents, elegant but sharp—something that suited her quiet intensity.
Eliza, ever the practical one, picked out a simple but well-tailored set of navy robes that wouldn't get in the way if she decided to flee mid-conversation.
Rosaline, however, struggled.
"I don't know what to wear," she admitted, sighing as she stared at the rows of robes. "Everyone's got dates. I just—"
"You're going with Sol," Iris reminded her.
"As friends," Rosaline said, making a face.
"And? You still deserve to look **incredible,**" Vivian insisted, pulling a rich plum-colored set off the rack. "Try this."
When Rosaline emerged from the dressing room in the flowing violet robes, there was a collective pause.
"Oh," Artemis said. "That's *the one.*"
Rosaline flushed. "You think?"
"Absolutely," Eliza confirmed.
The last to pick was Artemis herself. She wandered through the shop, deep in thought, not really considering what she was wearing until Vivian thrust something at her.
"You're overthinking," Vivian said. "Try this."
Artemis glanced down at the fabric—deep sapphire blue, embroidered with tiny silver constellations. It was understated but striking, perfect for someone who preferred substance over flash.
She slipped it on, turning toward the mirror. It suited her.
"Magnus is going to combust," Iris muttered under her breath.
Artemis, oblivious, just shrugged. "It's nice."
By the time they were finished, they had successfully dodged most of the Hogwarts crowd and were **more than ready** to return to Hogsmeade with their treasures.
While the girls were making fashion history, **The Wixen Chronicles** had been busy ensuring that no one at Hogwarts could escape the impending ball madness.
For weeks leading up to the event, the paper had been running special columns dedicated entirely to the **drama** surrounding it.
The latest issue featured:
**A highly exaggerated (and entirely anonymous) account of the absolute disaster that was Jeremy Greengrass's attempt to serenade Maria Abbott outside the Hufflepuff common room.**
("It is **unclear** whether the screeching of the charmed violin or his off-key singing was the final blow, but sources confirm that Maria Abbott fled the scene before he could finish.")
**A feature on the best dress robe trends of the season, expertly curated by a 'fashion insider' (who was absolutely just Vivian under a pen name).**
("Deep colors and sharp silhouettes are in. If you show up in something frilly and pastel, you deserve your fate.")
**A gossip column with hints at *certain* pairings that had yet to be confirmed.**
("A certain Quidditch star and an unexpected academic might be seen together—stay tuned for updates.")
**A ranking of the best and worst ways people had been asked out.**
The **worst** spot went to a Slytherin fifth-year who had tried to impress his crush by transfiguring a pile of textbooks into a bouquet—only for the spell to go *horribly* wrong and turn her desk into a *very angry* carnivorous plant.
("We at *The Wixen Chronicles* do not condone transfiguration-related attacks in the name of romance.")
**A dramatic opinion piece about how the ball was a Ministry conspiracy to make students distracted from the rising cost of Chocolate Frogs.**
(Artemis had **no idea** who wrote this, but the absurdity of it was so entertaining she let it through.)
Despite all the chaos, **one** fact was indisputable:
**Everyone was talking about the ball.**
And in just a few days, the grand event would finally arrive.
There was no turning back now.