Chapter 21
The late‑winter wind blew lightly through the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, carrying with it the scent of warm Butterbeer and freshly baked sweets. The sun, still pale but warmer than in previous weeks, bathed the village in a golden light that reflected off the shop windows.
Harry strolled with his hands tucked in his pockets, his usual feline, relaxed gait, while Draco walked beside him with a composed air, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. Behind them, Ron and Blaise were debating where to stop for a bite to eat, while Hermione, wearing a patient expression, completely ignored them.
«Do you realize it’s almost spring?» observed the brunette, wrapping her cloak tighter as one last gust of cold air tousled her curls.
«Thanks, Granger—we’d never have figured it out without your genius.» Blaise remarked with a sarcastic smile.
Weasley nudged him lightly, but couldn’t help chuckling.
«I say we deserve something sweet. How about we head to Honeydukes?»
The blonde made a grimace as his boyfriend shrugged.
«All I need is a hot cup of tea. Although, watching Ron stuff himself with chocolate might be quite a sight.»
The redhead shot him a withering look, but before he could retort, Zabini slipped an arm around his shoulders.
«Come on, Weasley, let’s satisfy that sweet tooth of yours.»
The Gryffindor blushed imperceptibly, while Hermione stifled a smile and Draco rolled his eyes.
All around them the village was coming alive, the voices of students and visitors filling the air with a lively, carefree energy.
After a stop at Honeydukes—where Ron managed to fill an entire bag with chocolate and assorted sweets, while Blaise merely shook his head with an amused smirk—the group headed toward the boutique of magical attire that Draco had wanted to visit.
The blonde eyed his boyfriend, who was wearing a green shirt, for a moment before shrugging with a small smile. «I must admit, you do have a certain... charm.»
Harry stepped closer, cupping his chin between two fingers and whispering against his lips «I know.»
Then he quickly kissed him before leaving him standing there, looking vaguely confused and slightly irritated.
Meanwhile, Ron watched as Blaise examined a burgundy jacket with keen interest.
«What do you think?» Zabini asked the redhead.
«I think you already seem arrogant enough without it.» he replied.
«Ah, so you find me arrogant?»
The Gryffindor realized too late the trap he’d fallen into and tried to wriggle free, but Blaise caught his wrist, drawing himself in just enough for him to feel his breath on his skin.
«Too bad you love it, Weasley.» he whispered, causing the redhead to blush all the way to his ears.
Hermione, who was watching the scene, made a sound of disapproval.
«Do I really have to put up with you two?»
«I'm afraid so, Granger.» the blonde answered as he wrapped his arms around Harry from behind.
«I knew I should have gone out with Ginny today.» came a remark.
Later, after wandering through various shops and grabbing something warm at The Three Broomsticks, the group headed to Zonko’s Joke Shop.
«See anything you like?» asked the dark‑haired guy, fiddling with a vial of Instinctive Smoke.
Draco fixed him with a gaze, his grey eyes sparkling with something indefinable. «Yes.»
«What?» he asked, turning toward him.
Without wasting time on words, he grabbed him by the scarf and kissed him with an excruciatingly slow, almost measured passion—leaving Harry with a slight shiver running down his spine.
When they parted, the shorter one shook his head with a smile. «What a softie.»
«And yet, you're still here.»
The rest of the day passed in a flurry of jokes, challenges to see who could make Ron blush first, and stolen moments along the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade. As the sun began to set, tinting the sky with rosy hues, the group made their way to the station, carrying a lightness that, at least for that day, made them forget everything else.
The ballroom looked as if it had stepped out of a forgotten legend—a tapestry of light and shadow moving like living beings among dark crystal walls and silver pillars inlaid with ancient runes. The ceiling was a night sky studded with living stars that shone with an unnatural intensity, bathing the room in an ethereal glow.
The guests were a mosaic of creatures that defied all human logic. Some appeared as men and women of otherworldly elegance, but one detail betrayed their true nature: eyes that sparkled like galaxies, curved golden horns merging with intricate headpieces, and sinuous tails that moved gracefully behind them. Others, however, seemed like spirits of the forest and of the night, with bodies that dissolved into mist at the edges or feathers that caught the light in impossible hues.
At the heart of the hall, two figures dominated the scene like undisputed sovereigns.
James was dressed in white—a white so pure it seemed to emit its own light. His attire was adorned with liquid gold that flowed along the embroidery like sunbeams trapped in silk. His shoulders were draped with a delicate, transparent cloak embroidered with tiny golden constellations, as if the very sky had settled upon him. His dark hair was slightly wavy, and a simple yet majestic golden crown adorned his head. He was light incarnate—the sun in flesh and blood—and his smile was a blade of warmth that both comforted and cut.
Beside him, Tom was his perfect opposite. Clad in black, his suit seemed woven from shadow itself—almost liquid, with silver threads drawing dark arabesques along the fabric. His jacket had an antique, almost military cut, with obsidian buttons and shoulders sculpted with regal elegance. A floor‑length cloak, embroidered with silver spirals reminiscent of dark flame smoke, flowed behind him. He wore no crown; instead, a slender black silver diadem encircled his brow, marking him as the sovereign of shadows. His gaze was that of a predator—sharp, lethal, yet infinitely magnetic.
And next to them, there was Harry.
If James and Tom were the extremes of light and shadow, then he was the perfect meeting point. He wore a white tunic draped with elegance, fastened at the shoulders with antique golden buckles that left the sharp line of his collarbones and the sinuous curve of his back exposed. In the light, the fabric seemed almost iridescent—as if it captured the very reflection of the cosmos.
Black drapes, made of living shadow, wove around his figure, brushing him like invisible fingers, as if the night itself clothed him. Around his wrists and ankles, thin golden threads wound into arcane symbols, while on his feet he wore sandals with delicate golden straps that climbed along his legs.
And then, his eyes. Those incandescent eyes, green as emeralds beneath an eternal flame, were the most lethal and wondrous thing anyone could behold.
Draco was not one to be easily enchanted. He had seen beauty in every form, having lived a life surrounded by luxury and elegance. And yet, he always found himself tongue‑tied in the presence of his boyfriend.
The white tunic that enveloped him fell like liquid silk, accentuating the sharp line of his collarbones and his skin, gently kissed by candlelight. The golden threads encircling his wrists and ankles sparkled with every movement, like the chains of a sovereign who allowed himself to be bound only on a whim. But it was the way the shadow caressed him—like a jealous lover—that lent his allure an otherworldly quality.
And then there were his eyes. They were green as burning emeralds, shining in contrast to the almost deceptively gentle sweetness of his lips. They were the eyes of a predator and a deity—of someone who could have destroyed the world with a single blink and perhaps would have, if he ever grew bored enough.
He forced himself to look away, running a hand over the fine fabric of his own jacket. White dominated—a luminous, impeccable fabric that wrapped his figure with aristocratic precision. Golden embroideries ran along the fabric in intricate details, creating patterns reminiscent of the turbulent waves of an ocean in storm. The cloak, a pale blue with pearlescent hues, fell with an almost unnatural grace, and the golden shoulder pads enhanced his regal air. The high collar framed his chiseled face, while a golden medallion hung just below his throat, inscribed with an ancient seal known to only a few.
Before he could even think further, he moved. He approached Harry with a light smile that concealed the storm in his chest.
«Harry, will you grant me a dance?» he said in the most casual tone possible.
The shorter one looked at him for a moment before placing his hand in his.
Draco pulled him to the center of the hall, and the music swelled as if it had been waiting for them all along.
And so they danced. They moved in perfect harmony, with white and gold interlacing with shadow and light. Every movement, every step was calculated to flirt with the limit—to provoke without ever yielding too much. Draco spun him, drew him close, and Harry laughed softly, with a smile that spoke of sin and promise.
Around them, the world seemed to dissolve. There were only the two of them, enveloped in the music and their shared breaths.
Hermione had never been one of those girls who dreamed of fairy‑tale dances or a prince charming. And yet, as she moved in Viktor Krum’s arms, she had to admit there was something incredibly captivating about it all.
The ballroom was a riot of light and shadow, the creatures around them appearing to be suspended between different worlds, while the music enveloped them in an atmosphere that seemed to exist outside of time.
Viktor was warm, solid—a reassuring presence amid all that magical chaos. His suit was impeccable: deep black with silver embroidery that caught the candlelight, fitting snugly enough to accentuate his strong, athletic build. He had an austere, almost stern appearance, but when he looked at the brunette, his dark eyes softened, revealing a tenderness that few had ever seen.
The Ravenclaw, by contrast, looked like the vision of a deity of knowledge descended among mortals. She wore a long ivory dress with subtle golden hues that made her shine as if she were woven from light itself. Delicate sleeves fell gracefully over her arms, while the fitted bodice highlighted her slender figure. Her usually unruly hair was gathered into soft curls that framed her face, with a few stray strands caressing her cheeks. She was effortlessly elegant, radiant without the conceit of someone who knows she is.
«You’re gorgeous.» Viktor whispered in his distinctive accent, making her blush slightly as they continued to dance.
«Thank you…» she replied with a small smile, briefly averting her gaze.
Then, with her customary quick wit, she looked at him with an amused expression.
«You’re surprisingly good at dancing. I wouldn’t have thought it was your forte.»
He laughed softly, his grip on her hand growing just a bit more confident. «Only for you.»
Blaise and Ron were a perfect contrast—fire and night—and yet both stood out amid the crowd of magnificent creatures filling the hall.
Blaise wore a refined suit, dark as night, with delicate golden embroidery that seemed to dance with the shifting light. His long jacket barely brushed his knees, hinting at a burgundy shirt underneath that accentuated the warm tone of his skin. The cufflinks on his wrists sparkled discreetly—minimal details, yet perfectly executed.
Ron’s outfit was a deep blue with golden accents—a bit more elaborate than what he was used to, but somehow it made him stand out. The embroidery on his sleeves and collar formed abstract patterns, like intertwined flames, and the high collar lent him a vaguely regal air, though the blush on his cheeks betrayed his discomfort.
And by some strange twist of fate, they found themselves standing right next to Harry’s parents.
James immediately recognized them and smiled in amusement. «Oh, you’re friends of Harry, aren’t you? Ron and Blaise, if I’m not mistaken.»
«Nice to meet you.» Zabini interjected with a slight nod.
Tom, who had remained silent, observed them with a cold, almost calculating gaze before letting out a quiet snort.
«Yes, of course, nice to meet you.» he said in an unconvincing tone, sipping his dark drink with indifference.
The brunette nudged his companion lightly, who shot him a look of pure annoyance before sighing in exasperation.
«Excuse him—he doesn’t really love parties.» he apologized with a casual smile, while the dark‑haired man averted his gaze, as if the entire conversation were a waste of time.
«Oh, I understand…» Ron muttered, crossing his arms as he glanced at Tom.
Zabini stifled a laugh, amused by his companion’s audacity, while James laughed openly, finding the scene extremely entertaining.
«Well, then we’ll let you have your fun.» Harry’s father finally said, nodding and departing gracefully, while the taller one merely followed with a bored look, muttering something under his breath.
The redhead watched them leave, then turned to the mulatto, who was looking at him with a self-satisfied smile.
«What’s up?» Ron blurted, still a bit rattled by the encounter.
«You’re cute.» Blaise commented nonchalantly, approaching with a playful air.
Ron snorted, trying to ignore the warmth rising on his cheeks as Zabini once again dragged him back into the heart of the party.
James had just bid farewell—with his usual impeccable smile—to yet another guest of the evening when he suddenly found himself being dragged away.
«Enough, my dear?» murmured the taller man with a sly grin, gripping his hand as he led him to the center of the room.
The brunette sighed, casting him a warning look.
«Couldn't you have waited until I finished the conversation?»
«No.» the other replied simply, placing a hand on James’s hip and drawing him close.
For an instant, the music around them seemed to muffle, then resumed, but something had changed. Tom and James moved in perfect, fluid steps, as if the dance had been created just for them. With every movement, the space around them seemed to adapt to their presence.
The lights softened, and shadows began to dance along with them, intertwining with the golden beams of light that appeared to emanate from James. The floor beneath transformed with each step: from smooth, flawless marble it shifted into an ocean of shadow and gold, with waves of darkness brushing past the guests before vanishing.
Tom led the dance with the same elegance with which he dominated everything around him, while James refused to be subdued, matching his every move with equal confidence—a subtle, irresistible power play.
«You know I hate parties.» the dark-haired man whispered, his cool breath against the other’s skin as he spun him around, the white and golden fabric of his robe fluttering like sacred flames.
James chuckled, his velvety voice replying «And you know I never get bored making your life difficult.»
Tom pulled him a little tighter, his red eyes gleaming with something indecipherable.
And as the world around them seemed to yield to their magic, the two of them remained the only constant—a perfect contrast that could only intertwine over and over, endlessly.