A Turn of Blue (excerpt, btw I tried to find as many book accurate pictures of Hermione's dress as possible): Ron tugged irritably at the sleeve of his dress robes, which still smelled faintly of attic dust despite Mrs. Weasley’s best attempts. The Great Hall shimmered with winter enchantments—floating frost, silver garlands, tiny snowflakes that vanished before touching anything—but Ron hardly noticed any of it. He was too busy glowering at the crowd, trying not to think about Viktor Krum and how irritatingly perfect everything seemed to look on him. Harry nudged him. “It’ll be fine, Ron.” “Yeah,” Ron muttered, “for everyone who doesn’t have moldy curtains for sleeves.” Before Harry could say anything else, the music paused. A soft hush drifted across the hall as a cluster of students turned toward the entrance. Ron followed their gaze—carelessly, at first—only to feel his breath catch halfway up his throat. Hermione stood there, framed by the glow of enchanted candles. Not the bushy-haired, ink-smudged Hermione he knew from everyday life, but a version of her he’d never quite imagined. Her periwinkle-blue dress caught the light with every movement, rippling like moonlit water. Her hair, usually a wild halo, was smoothed into soft curls that brushed her shoulders each time she turned her head. For a heartbeat, Ron simply stared, his mind blanking out like someone had cast a charm on it. “That’s— that’s Hermione,” Harry whispered, sounding just as stunned. Ron didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His ears warmed, his stomach swooped unpleasantly, and some stubborn, tangled emotion twisted inside him—something he wasn’t prepared to name. Then Krum appeared at her side. Ron’s jaw clenched. The Durmstrang champion offered Hermione his arm, and she took it with a shy, uncertain smile—nothing like the confident lectures she delivered in class, but something softer, almost nervous. Ron’s fingers curled into his robes. The music resumed, the students began to move again, but he stayed rooted to the spot, feeling as though the floor had tilted. “She—she looks… different,” he muttered, the understatement of the century. Harry shot him a look. “Yeah. She really does.” Ron didn’t reply. His chest felt too tight, his thoughts too loud. For the first time that evening, the hall’s glittering lights seemed almost too bright, and the realization hit him with the force of a Bludger: He hadn’t been ready for this at all.
