My Dark Lord

Chapter Twenty-Four: Winter's Last Waltz

Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, January 3rd

The Prince estate stood in polished defiance of the wild Highlands around it-- its iron fences sharp with runes, its towers dusted with snow, glowing like amber teeth in the late winter dusk.

Inside, the air shimmered with warm enchantments. Crystal chandeliers hovered above the ballroom like inverted constellations, casting golden light across velvet walls and obsidian floors. Musicians from the French wizarding quarter played a slow-burning waltz, and goblets of spiced wine floated gracefully between guests, refilling themselves without prompting.

It was Eileen's parents' anniversary celebration.

More accurately: a performance of marital contentment for the benefit of the other ancient houses-- all gathered here in their finest robes, laughter a little too high, smiles a little too wide. Gold trim. Family crests. Silent assessments behind every glass of wine.

"Do you think anyone here's actually happy?" Eileen muttered beside me, her black satin dress trailing like smoke.

I smiled tightly. "Only the ones who brought their own flasks."

She laughed, but it didn't touch her eyes. Eileen hadn't wanted this. Not the party, not the pressure. But her mother had insisted-- a chance to remind everyone that the Princes still held court in northern wizarding society.

So I had agreed to stay the full holiday with her. We had spent lazy mornings reading beside frosted windows, afternoons skating on the frozen pond, evenings dancing through corridors in stocking feet. It had been a blissful, if borrowed, dream.

And now, reality.

"They're all here," I murmured, scanning the ballroom.

The Rosiers. The Traverses. The Burkes. Even the young Bulstrode heir, already peacocking beside the drinks table. Mara was chatting up someone from the Yaxley line; Calliope was dazzling in emeralds that could feed a village.

But one name-- one shadow-- was conspicuously absent.

"No Tom."

Eileen's gaze dropped. "No word either."

I didn't ask more. I could see she was worried, even if she wouldn't say it aloud. Tom's influence lingered even in his silence.

Where are you, Riddle?

A trumpet signalled the start of the formal dance. Partners began to swirl into position, robes whispering across the floor. A voice called my name.

"Layla! Dance with me, before the vultures descend!"

I turned-- Abraxas Malfoy, sharp in black robes and brighter than I remembered, holding out a gloved hand.

"If I must," I teased, letting him lead me into the waltz.

We spun into the sea of movement, and for a time, I let the rhythm carry me. His hand rested confidently on my back, our steps crisp and effortless. He had the easy confidence of someone born into charm, and for a fleeting moment, I let myself smile without weight.

"So," he said, after a few turns. "Any more cursed books or dark prophecies for your next birthday party?"

I laughed, breathless. "Not unless you're planning to bring some firewhiskey again."

"Only if I get to steal you away for another dance."

My cheeks warmed, but the moment was snapped by the briefest flicker-- a shadow in the glass of the tall ballroom windows.