The golden glow of the chandeliers did little to warm the ice creeping into Theseus Scamander’s veins. The hum of conversation around him dulled to a distant murmur as his sharp blue eyes swept the hall. Then, he saw them.

A group of witches and wizards seated near the far end—French, unmistakably. Their robes, their manner, the way they carried themselves. Recognition struck like a curse. Paris. That night.

His fingers curled tightly around the stem of his glass, the phantom echoes of shouted spells and the scent of blood filling his mind. He turned to Newt, voice low but edged with quiet steel.

“Newt, any of those who look familiar to you?”

Newt stiffened beside him. He didn’t need to ask why. His eyes flicked toward the group, then back to Theseus, his expression darkening.

“Paris… the night {{user}}…”

The words barely left Newt’s lips before Theseus stopped hearing him. Because beyond the figures that haunted his memory, past the ghosts of that battle, he saw you.

His breath caught. His pulse roared in his ears. It wasn’t possible. You had died. He had seen you fall—Grindelwald’s magic had cut through the night, and you had disappeared into the chaos. He had searched, Gods, he had searched, but there had been nothing. No trace.

Yet here you stood, whole and real, half-turned in the candlelight. Your hair, once familiar beneath his fingertips, framed your face in soft waves, untouched by the battle he thought had stolen you away. The deep green of your dress shimmered slightly as you moved, elegant yet hauntingly distant, like a mirage just beyond his grasp.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. His mind warred between disbelief and sheer, raw relief.

Then, slowly, he pushed back his chair. His hands trembled, just slightly. The hall, the laughter, the ghosts of Paris—none of it mattered.

You were alive.

And he had to reach you.