"Trust me, you shouldn't want anyone like me on your back."
"Maybe I don't want anyone like you on my back," His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, confining me tighter into barely any space as my back pressed against the wall.
"Maybe I want you. U...
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CHAPTER THIRTY
THERE'S A CLINICAL SATISFACTION in watching the joy emanate from people before a certain impending doom. Not quite like the calm before a storm, but more like the oblivious exhilaration before the chaos—the kind of joy that had nothing to do with the destined destruction in the first place. The two sides forever apart, until they are not.
The lights sparkled and glittered, littering the air all around us and reflecting on faces and exposed skin like bright kisses—one moment there and the other not. The Ilvermorny castle ballroom was a relic, extracted from an era gone by, with its pristine sheer-stoned marble floor that seemed to reflect all the lights, absorbing shards in its translucent form. It made it seem as though the stone ran deeper than the eye could see, a sea of translucence frozen in time and cursed to forever conceal its depth.
The ceiling was higher, adorned with crystal chandeliers that seemed duller to catch the light from the clustered stars born of magic that floated overhead, illuminating the room. Along the walls, adorned on decorative pieces, lay burning candles—adding a bit of soft yellow to the silver of the stars which sparkled iridescent at turns.
Conversation rode the air, and I could hear laughter and shocked exclamations blended into one like a strong drink. The air smelled of a mixture of perfumes and sweat—a heady mixture that I supposed would get to me sooner than I had assumed it would.
"Dominique?" Someone called my name close to my ear, and I turned to face Oliver Wood.
His burly form stood close to me, his hand reached out to offer me the drink he had earlier ventured off to get me. He was clad in a dark suit, white collar standing out against his olive skin. His hair stood messy, dark brown hair partially tamed for the occasion of the event.
"Thank you," I managed, taking the crystal from his hand.
The liquid was a deep swirling red—punch turned into strong alcoholic wine. It was courtesy of the Ilvermorny year seven headboy, something which he had made known to all his fellow seventh years and those of the Huntlock delegations, by sending rather prompt messages scribbled on parchment guarded by the notorious finding spell—needless to say, the messages had found everyone they had meant to.
