She had even employed a touch of Aging Potion—now she appeared seventeen or eighteen, breathtakingly beautiful in a way that seemed almost dangerous.
His prolonged silence must have unsettled her, because Orli performed a slow, graceful turn before him, asking with uncharacteristic hesitancy:
"Do I look... acceptable?"
Snape finally recovered his voice, though it emerged rougher than intended:
"...Exquisite."
Regret struck him like a physical blow. He shouldn't allow others to witness Orli Waters transformed like this—every selfish instinct demanded he hoard this vision for himself alone... But he couldn't. This was a debt he owed her—a proper ball, something he'd never forgotten promising.
Orli's face lit with that luminous smile that made his pulse stutter. Then, with stunning casualness, she slipped her arm through his, her delicate fingers settling against his sleeve with butterfly lightness.
"Shall we?"
She hadn't called him Professor. Snape caught that subtle omission immediately, and felt shamefully, desperately pleased by it.
He escorted her into the castle's grand ballroom, where conversations died mid-sentence and the crowd parted like the Red Sea. He registered Galande's stunned stare—the Frenchman seemed physically incapable of looking away. Even Prince appeared struck speechless, unable to summon his usual venom.
This was his Orli Waters. Pride and possessiveness flooded Snape's chest until he could barely breathe. He surrendered to the intoxicating fantasy—tonight, she belonged entirely to him.
The first dance passed in a blur of sensation. Her crimson lips hovered tantalizingly close, her breath ghosting across his skin like silk. Her hand nestled perfectly in his palm while his other rested at her waist, separated from her warmth by mere whispers of champagne silk... When the final notes faded, they remained frozen in place, lost in each other's eyes.
"Would you care to rest, Orli?" His voice emerged softer than he'd ever heard it.
Before she could respond, an unwelcome voice shattered their private moment.
"Severus! Fancy swapping partners?"
Galande. That insufferable French peacock again! Snape's greatest regret about this entire conference was allowing the man to lay eyes on Orli... They shared too many similarities—both possessed extraordinary potions mastery, both were final heirs to ancient bloodlines. Galande radiated youth and charm, commanded vast wealth... And Orli had actually read his entire bibliography!
Worse still, the audacious fool had propositioned her directly in Snape's presence, and now he wanted to dance with her?
"Orli requires rest," Snape replied with arctic precision, shooting Galande a look that could have frozen hellfire. Without waiting for argument, he guided Orli toward a shadowed alcove.
His hand remained clasped around hers long after the music ended. She offered no resistance, following his lead into blessed privacy where no one could intrude.
They danced through song after song, as though the night might stretch into eternity. Only when he noticed a delicate sheen of perspiration at her temple did reality penetrate his enchantment.
"You're exhausted, Orli."
"Let me escort you back."
"No, I'm perfectly fine," she protested, dabbing her forehead with graceful fingers while smiling with undiminished radiance.
"Insatiable, are we?" Snape found himself smiling—actually smiling—like an indulgent father watching a beloved child. His voice dropped to an intimate murmur:
"We can continue dancing upstairs—in our sitting room, where no one else exists."
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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