The night belonged to devils. Halloween in Hogsmeade was never quiet, but this—this was different. The air felt thick, heavy, charged with something 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, reshaping itself: The Devil’s Carnival requests your presence. Choose a Trick. A Kiss. A Scare.

Theodore had chosen The Trick.

He had been watching her for weeks, long before the carnival had appeared, long before the possibility of this night. He knew her well enough to know she would come alone, curious, daring. His reserved nature thrived in such precision; every detail was calculated, measured.

The fair’s shadows stretched as he moved, black tailcoat brushing the ground, hat low over his eyes. His silk gloves whispered against the cards he carried, a deck he had learned from his mother, long passed—one she had taught him with quiet reverence, explaining the weight of symbols and fate. He had kept it, and tonight, it felt like a part of her destiny.

He passed her in the crowded, fog-laced carnival, a faint brush of silk against her fingers. Unseen, almost. And yet, she felt it—the slip of a card into her palm, heavier than expected. The Devil stared up at her, ink curling, edges worn from the magic of his fingers. Then he walked away, silent, deliberate, vanishing into a red-lit tent whose candles dimly illuminated dust motes like tiny spirits.

She followed. Footsteps hesitant against the wooden floor, shadows leaning toward her as if curious. The tent smelled of wax, smoke, and something darker, older. He leaned against the table, black deck spread before him like a throne of possibilities. Candles cast long fingers across his pale, calm face, the purple of his tie the only color against the black. No expression marred his features; nothing betrayed his intent.

She froze at the threshold. “Theo?”

His eyes, still, studied her as though she were a puzzle long examined. Then, with a slow flick of his fingers, the Devil card vanished from her hand, leaving only emptiness. She stared, heartbeat sudden and loud.

He drew her gaze, then guided her to look again. In her palm, impossibly, sat The Lovers. Two figures entwined in inked embrace, the edges shimmering faintly under candlelight.

“A kiss for a reading,” he said, voice low, even, controlled. Not playful, not warm—just statement. Fact. Law. Desire clothed in inevitability.

He moved closer, a shadow slipping into her space, fingers brushing hers. The deck disappeared entirely—folded into the air, leaving only the heat of him near. The candles flickered, the air thick, the silence loud.

Then he bent, and the kiss came—not violent, but claiming. Not asking, but taking, the kind that promised impossibility, that made the world shrink to only the taste of him. Her pulse, her breath, the scent of wax and smoke mingled with him. She trembled.

When he drew back, his eyes caught hers, gray and unreadable, still calm, still composed. Only now, a faint curl at the corner of his lips betrayed the thrill of the game.

The trick was done. The Lovers remained in her hand, delicate and infinite, as though the cards themselves bore witness.