Roslyn Fisk had not tripped over the hem of her gown (lower, now that she was to be a debutante, than she was accustomed to), nor had she blundered her first dance of the evening, both of which the Hufflepuff had not only expected, but been mentally preparing for all day. She was not the first debutante Hogwarts had ever seen, not even the first from among her siblings, but still, this evening had her pulse far more atwitter than even her recently-concluded NEWTs had done.

She had three goals for the evening, and indeed, had written them down on the inside of the fan that now dangled from her wrist in case she should forget them:

— Number One: Remain until at least midnight, even though she had never much loved crowds—save for the crowd that was her family, of course.
— Number Two: Dance with at least three gentlemen, at least one of which was a viable option as a husband, for it would be mortifying to be ignored at her own debut, even one she shared with two dozen other girls.
— Number Three: Not spill punch upon her gown; white was truly an appalling colour to force upon young ladies suffering from any degree of nerves.

All perfectly reasonable. She hoped.

Ros had wondered more than half a dozen times that day if this was what she wanted and not just what her mother wanted for her. For herself, she did not need society, just a good man who would love her and build her a greenhouse and let her grow plants as they worked together to build a good family, if one that was markedly smaller than the Fisk brood. When she had voiced an edited version of this to her mother, of course, Delia had pointed out that society was the easiest place to meet a husband.

Uncharacteristically, Roslyn had not had an answer for that.

And so she stood, clad in white, not so near the dancefloor that anyone would be honour-bound to ask her to dance but not so far that she could be thought of as unsociable, thirsty but not daring to drink the punch for fear she might fail in her third objective for the evening, and keenly aware of the fact that it was only a quarter past nine. Last year, when she had attended, it had seemed so fun and exciting, but this year, the ball had a harsh gravity to it.

Indeed, Roslyn was so focused upon being perfect that she did not hear the gentleman speak to her until the poor fellow raised his voice.

A chill tore through her as she realized, with no shortage of embarrassment, that he had been talking to her and she had utterly ignored him. There was faint panic in Roslyn's wide eyes as she turned to look at the gentleman who was...

...quite handsome, really, if she was to be honest.

"It would," she answered quickly, not wanting him to think her simple and then clearly demonstrating that she was. Ros forced herself to take three slow breaths, feeling the colour rising in her cheeks, before correcting herself, wishing the floors of the castle might open to devour her instead. "That is to say, it is Miss Fisk, and I would be happy to share in the next dance with you. You are very kind to offer."

God help her; plainly, she should have added more resolutions to her list.

At the compliment, her cheeks coloured even more.

The name was one she recognized, not from studying bachelor miniatures as some of her yearmates did, but from his accomplishments: he was the head of something in the Ministry of Magic, she knew, but had not previously had a face to put to the name. Now, Ros was keenly aware that she lacked a full job title to put to the name, but given that she was unlikely to see him again (no matter how "lovely" she was) after their dance, it seemed not to be a pressing concern.

Belatedly, she raised her wrist to Mr. Ross, offering the dance card that he had had to mention because she surely would not have thought to present it for herself.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ross."

Well that was not a particularly exciting reply.

"You are in the Ministry, are you not? My brother, Mr. Konstantin Fisk, is a ministry lawyer; I do not expect you to know him," Ros hastened to add with a sheepish smile, "but I know the work of a Ministry man can be quite demanding."

"Exhausting," the answer came easily and honestly. A laugh blossomed within her, and then left her as a rather undignified, though ladylike (if such a thing existed) snort, prompting Ros to clamp her free hand over her mouth in horror. It was not that she thought it ludicrous that he would ask, for it seemed the ideal question to pose of any member of her famously vast immediate family, just that the notion of describing such an existence to someone who had not lived it seemed...impossible.

Talking about her family was a great deal easier for Roslyn than idle comments upon the weather or the floral arrangements in the room.

"I think that any elder sibling grows progressively more tired with each younger added to the family," she confessed with a smile. "I am the fifth of ten, and so have quite a large brood of younger siblings to contend with. I would wager that ours is one of the few families in which children are not shocked to arrive at Hogwarts and spend all day with so many people!"

It was strange, Ros thought, to reconcile the notion of the Quintessential Ministry Man with the good-natured, even seemingly easy-going man who escorted her now upon the dance floor. It was not at all like she had anticipated this Season nonsense to be, leading the witch to think she was already making a blunder of it.

He danced well and, for Roslyn's part, so did she, the quick and weaving movements of the quadrille affording them little room to converse as the melody guided their steps. Still, there was room for a glance here, a smile there—the early signs of I don't actually know you but you seem as though you could very well be delightful as Roslyn Fisk endeavored to achieve all three goals upon her short list.

He wished to know if she'd be attending—oh! Roslyn hoped her face didn't register her surprise too aggressively, and the fresh debutante hastened to cover the reaction instead with a smile.

"I should have to check with my mama," she answered almost apologetically. "I confess, I haven't quite gotten the hang of...all this."

That she even need to say as much, though, she thought to be a good sign: plainly, she had not come across as a total imbecile, for she thought—as she met them with her own—that Mr. Ross had very nice eyes.

"I—I think I should like it if you did," Roslyn agreed, nerves fluttering in her stomach like so many butterflies.