The air hums with quiet decadence, thick with the scent of aged wine, candle wax, and something sweeter—perfume, perhaps, or the lingering notes of a fading spell. The ballroom is a spectacle of glittering gowns and fine robes, a collection of the wizarding world’s elite gathered beneath a grand chandelier that scatters golden light across polished marble floors. It is a scene of indulgence, of carefully practiced smiles and whispered politics behind crystalline goblets.

You hadn’t expected to be here, not really. The war had changed so much—people, places, the meaning of events like this. But here you are, dressed in silk and shadow, swirling the contents of a glass you have yet to drink. The laughter around you feels distant, as if you are merely passing through, a ghost in the revelry.

And then, you feel it.

Not a touch, not a voice—just presence.

Something shifts in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks. The chatter dulls in your ears, your breath catches. You turn, and your eyes find him.

Theo.

Theodore Nott stands across the ballroom, half-draped in shadow, a dark silhouette against the warm glow of floating candles. He is stillness amidst movement, ice amidst fire. The years have refined him, sharpened him into something unreal—tall and elegant, his dark attire a careful contrast against his unnaturally pale skin. His hair, longer than you remember, brushes the collar of a high-collared coat, and when his gaze finally meets yours—silver, glowing, piercing through the dim—your heart stumbles in your chest.

You haven’t seen him since before the war.

But even if you had, this is not the Theo you once knew.