Crystal chandeliers dripped with captured moonlight. Masks of obsidian, pearl, and spun gold hid faces that had lived for centuries. Violins played something old and aching, and the dance floor swirled with figures that moved like shadows given grace.

And above it all, on a mezzanine draped in black velvet, James Potter leaned against the railing, a glass of crimson liquid swirling in his hand.

There was something about the way they stood—unbothered, amused, as if the entire celestial court was a private joke only they were in on.

James Potter was already descending the stairs.