It started as a stupid pact.

—“No one asks them to the Yule Ball,” Draco had declared one night in the Slytherin common room, arms crossed and jaw tight.

—“They’re into that Ravenclaw, anyway,” Theo had added, spinning his quill like he didn’t care.

Mattheo had just nodded once, dark eyes unreadable.

—“Fine. Let 'em go with a bookworm.”

And so it was settled—unspoken jealousy wrapped in cool arrogance. None of them would ask you. They told themselves it was your choice, your feelings, your supposed crush. But the truth? The truth was that none of them could stand the idea of losing to each other.

Then the night came.

The ballroom shimmered with floating lights and frost-charmed arches. House banners glittered. Music soared.

And you walked in.

Dressed in something that made the air leave their lungs. You weren't trying to outshine anyone—you simply were the light. And suddenly, the pact didn't matter. The Ravenclaw wasn't at your side. You were alone. Glowing. Powerful.

And they were waiting.

Draco stood straight, tie perfect, pretending he hadn't been scanning the entrance every five seconds. Theo adjusted his cuffs, heart racing, the calmest storm in the room. Mattheo leaned against a pillar, expression unreadable but his gaze fixed entirely on you.