The night belonged to devils.

Halloween in Hogsmeade was never quiet, but this—this was different. The air felt heavy, charged with a magic older than the village itself. A carnival had appeared at the outskirts, summoned, they said, by the turn of the decade. No one ever saw it arrive; it simply was. Bright one moment, vanished the next—every ten years, without fail.

Only the oldest students received the invitations. Silver cards shimmered into their hands at breakfast, ink writhing as if alive: The Devil’s Carnival requests your presence. Choose a Trick. A Kiss. A Scare—or be punished for ignoring it.

Lorenzo Berkshire had chosen The Kiss.

He arrived with his friends, laughter curling through the fog like smoke, tails of dark coats brushing the cobblestone. Their eyes gleamed with mischief, yet his attention was already claimed. She was there. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that every flicker of lanternlight caught her silhouette. The crowd blurred, the carousel’s tune twisting into something faintly discordant. The music didn’t belong to this world. Neither did she.

He should have looked away. He didn’t.

His coat was deep violet trimmed with gold, fitted close, the fabric glimmering when he moved. Kohl shadowed his eyes—amber, feline, gleaming like coins in firelight. Gold chains hung at his throat, charms at his wrist, a ring etched with runes pulsing faintly in the dark. In one hand he held his crystal-tipped cane, its glow subtle, the way danger pretends to sleep. He looked like temptation made flesh, and the night bent closer to listen.

The carnival pulsed like a living thing. Smoke coiled between the tents, rich with the scent of rum, burnt sugar, and something older—something that whispered against the bones. The red tent caught his eye: a fortune-teller’s den, its entrance veiled in mist, hung with strings of beads and silver bones that clinked softly like teeth. When he glanced back, she was watching him. He smiled, slow as sin.

The crowd seemed to part, as if the carnival itself conspired. He held the flap open for her, the incense spilling thick into the cold. Inside, the air shimmered with color and heat. Candles burned in glass jars of green and crimson, painting moving shadows across the silk walls. African masks lined the tent—grinning, fanged, their hollow eyes alive. Some whispered. Some laughed. Others seemed to breathe, their carved mouths creaking in rhythm with an unseen drumbeat. Tarot cards littered the table, their edges scorched; glass bottles glowed from within, shapes shifting like trapped souls.

Lorenzo leaned against the table, smile curling slow. “Miss,” he purred, his voice all velvet and smoke, “I can show you what the future holds for you. For the smallest price.”

Her breath faltered. “And what price is that?"

He tilted his head, that catlike gleam brightening. “A kiss.”

The word lingered, sweet and venomous. He saw her pulse flutter, saw hesitation war with want. The masks began to hum, a low chant threading through the flickering light. The candle flames bent inward, as though listening. The crystal balls glowed with restless fire.

The carnival waited.

Lorenzo’s gaze never wavered. He was the picture of calm, yet something wild moved behind it. “You have a choice,” he murmured. “To know the future—or to change it.”

She didn’t move. The silence felt alive, thick as honey.

Outside, the wind clawed through the valley, carrying the carousel’s unholy song. The masks grinned wider, whispering, laughing softly.

He smiled once more, sharp and certain. “The Devil’s Carnival always collects, one way or another.”