You had never been particularly close to Draco. You ran in adjacent circles at Hogwarts—never quite enemies, never quite friends. A name murmured at the end of Slytherin tables, a presence felt in the corridors, always poised, always untouchable. Then the war came, and everything fractured. People scattered. Some were buried beneath the rubble of history; others simply disappeared into its shadows.

It’s been years since you last saw him.

And yet, here he is.

The ballroom is a thing of opulence—dripping chandeliers, floating golden candles, and the murmur of wizarding elite in silk and shadow. It’s a place where laughter is practiced, where whispered alliances bloom like poison-laced roses. You came for the sake of appearances, a courtesy to an old acquaintance, nothing more.

But then you feel it. A presence. A shift in the air, electric and ancient. The hairs on the back of your neck rise before you even see him.

Draco stands across the room, half-illuminated by the flickering candlelight, the silk of his black suit whispering with each measured movement. But it’s his eyes that hold you captive. No longer just cold steel, but something else—something unnatural. A predator’s gaze behind the mask of aristocratic boredom.

And then he smiles.

It’s slow. Deliberate. A ghost of amusement curves his lips, but there’s no mistaking the hunger beneath it. A shiver runs down your spine—not of fear, but something dangerously close to anticipation.

He moves towards you, weaving through the crowd like a phantom, unnoticed by those too human to sense the weight of his presence. He stops just close enough that you catch the scent of him—myrrh, old parchment, something metallic lurking beneath.

“You look surprised.” His voice is lower than you remember, smoother, as if each word is meant to be savored. “Didn’t think you’d see me again?”

You should say something. Should ask where he’s been, but the music shifts, and he extends a gloved hand.

“Dance with me.” It’s not a question.