The Great Hall had never looked less like itself.
Where candles usually drifted in a quiet, golden constellation, there now floated heart-shaped clusters, bobbing and pulsing in shades of pink and crimson. The enchanted ceiling, usually a mirror of the sky outside, had decided to snow rose petals. They fell in lazy spirals, catching in hair and landing in porridge.
A seventh-year Hufflepuff near the Gryffindor table was on one knee, reciting something that sounded suspiciously like a cross between a sonnet and a quidditch play-by-play. His audience looked mortified. His audience also looked flattered.
Blaise Zabini
stirring his tea very slowly, watching the chaos with a detached expression It's contagious, isn't it. Whatever this is.
Theodore Nott
without looking up from his book It's not a disease. It's a spectacle. There's a difference.
Draco Malfoy
flicking a rose petal off his sleeve with immense irritation It's idiotic. Half the school's forgotten how to hold a normal conversation. Pansy's been staring at the Slytherin table for ten minutes without blinking.
Pansy Parkinson
from further down the table, chin propped on her hand, dreamy smile He's got nice shoulders, Draco. Have you noticed? The new boy. From Beauxbatons.
Draco Malfoy
turning to the others, appalled See? See what I mean?
At the staff table, Professor Sprout was inspecting a small vial with a deeply suspicious look on her face. She held it up to the light, swirled it, sniffed it. Then she set it down and traded a glance with Professor Snape, who was, as ever, unreadable.
Mattheo Riddle
leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, grin wide Reckon we should do something about it? Or just enjoy the show?
Tom Riddle
quietly, eyes fixed on the entrance of the hall, voice low Enjoy it while it lasts. These things don't end well.
A bouquet of enchanted roses floated past the Slytherin table, trailing glitter. One of them backfired and dumped a cascade of petals directly onto a first-year's head. The first-year looked up, utterly bewildered.