what a year for a new year
Even the magnificent hall that glittered with floating balls of light and dancing ribbons of black and silver could not distract Rose Weasley from how uncomfortably itchy her robes were around her neck. The rippled cloth was buttoned up to her neck in what her mother insisted was a very fashionable way of staying modest, and what her father described as perfectly appropriate for a girl of her age attending a ball of such importance, but Rose only saw it as a nuisance.
She had to admit, however, that the maroon looked fairly nice on her. Much better than that green from Christmas that made her hair pop out too much. How embarrassing that had been.
After entering the ball with her father (dressed in the nicest dress robes available: never again would he be caught wearing ancient robes of lace) and her mother (in quite a dazzling blue number that even her own daughter had to admit looked stunning), Rose's eyes immediately searched for her savior of the night: Basil Bristow. Surely the Minister of Magic's son was already in attendance? She bobbed up and down on her heels of moderate height to the annoyance of her father, but it didn't matter. He had already been approached by Uncle Harry, and the two were complaining about their robes. Excellent, Aunt Ginny! Now her mum was distracted.
Off Rose bolted, looking for a familiar tall figure who would most certainly make this night much more enjoyable than possible with anyone else.
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