The grand ballroom shimmered in the low light, the chandeliers overhead casting flickering shadows across the masked faces of the attendees. Dark, luxurious silks and velvets adorned the guests, their faces hidden behind ornate masks that ranged from the eerie to the elegant. A low hum of conversation filled the room, though no one spoke too loudly; this was no ordinary ball, it was a gathering of Death Eaters.

You stood near the edge of the dance floor. The mask covering your face felt suffocating, but it was easier than showing the truth—the forced smile you wore at these events, the hollow emptiness inside. You were trapped, unhappily married to a Death Eater, bound to this world by the choices you had made, or rather, by the choices that had been made for you. Your husband was somewhere in the room, his gaze undoubtedly watching your every move.

A slow, haunting melody began to play, and couples moved gracefully onto the dance floor. You hesitated, your heart not in it, but the pull of expectation was too strong. To refuse to dance would be noticed, and you couldn't afford that. With a deep breath, you took a step forward, blending into the crowd.

It wasn’t long before a man approached, tall and commanding in his presence, his mask a smooth, dark silver with no discernible features. His eyes, however, were piercing—a shade of dark, almost black, that seemed to cut through the layers of your disguise.

"May I have this dance?" His voice was soft but sharp, each word laced with a subtle authority that sent a shiver down your spine.

You hesitated for a split second before nodding, your heart thudding in your chest. As he took your hand and pulled you into the dance, you were struck by the smoothness of his movements, the way he seemed to glide effortlessly across the floor, guiding you with an ease that belied the tension in the air.

"You seem out of place here," he observed, his tone neutra as his hand rested lightly at your waist. "Not quite like the others."