Thousands of floating flames hovered above the long tables, casting golden shadows across enchanted ceiling that reflected a winter sky—dark, crystalline, scattered with stars that seemed close enough to touch.

Snow fell soundlessly against the towering windows.

And the Yule Ball was in full, glittering swing.

Students and guests filled the hall in cascades of silk and velvet, emerald and silver, deep burgundies and midnight blues. Laughter rose and fell in waves. Champagne flutes clinked. The orchestra played something slow and elegant near the far end of the room, where couples swayed beneath the enchanted mistletoe.

And everywhere—everywhere—people were watching you.

Not subtly. Not politely. Openly.

Neither of them answered.

Because across the hall, standing near the staff table with a glass of wine he had barely touched, Marvolo Riddle was already looking at you.

Not watching. Observing.

The way someone studies a complicated spell before attempting it for the first time.

Then—

He hadn't asked to dance. He'd asked to stand beside you.

Which, somehow, meant more.