Crystal goblets filled with champagne floated on silver trays between clusters of formally robed guests, and the air carried the mingled scents of expensive perfume, old wood, and magic so thick it made the chandeliers hum.

At the far end of the room, a string quartet played a waltz that had been fashionable three generations ago. Society, as always, preferred tradition over innovation.

Near the grand fireplace, where flames burned an elegant emerald green, Narcissa Malfoy stood accepting compliments with the practiced grace of someone who had hosted this event more times than she cared to count. Beside her, a tall, pale young man with sharp features and silver-blonde hair was doing a remarkably poor job of hiding his boredom.

And then the doors opened.

Every head turned. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. The quartet, as if sensing the shift in atmosphere, seemed to play a fraction softer.

You stepped through.