**Steve Rogers × Harry Potter**
Some wars leave scars.
Others leave ghosts.
Years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Alice Queenie Scamander leaves the wizarding world behind in search of a new beginning, believing that nothing could ever hurt more than...
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The evening of the Yule Ball arrived beneath a sky of deep, endless blue, so clear and cold that the stars above Hogwarts seemed almost unnaturally close, scattered beyond the towers like fragments of silver caught upon a velvet curtain, while the castle itself had surrendered entirely to the enchantment of the approaching celebration.
Snow covered the grounds in a glittering blanket, the windows had been adorned with frost that curled across the glass in delicate patterns resembling vines and flowers, and everywhere Alice looked, Hogwarts had been transformed by candles, ribbons, winter blossoms and hundreds of tiny lights that floated through the corridors as though the castle had decided, for one single night, to abandon its ancient solemnity and remember what it meant to celebrate.
Her rooms, however, were quieter.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth while Alice stood before the mirror, studying her reflection with an expression that suggested she still had not entirely decided whether attending the Ball had been a good idea. The dress she had eventually chosen was beautiful, though she found herself feeling strangely embarrassed by the thought that she had spent far more time preparing than she cared to admit, and for several moments she simply stared at herself as though the woman in the mirror belonged to someone else.
There had been years when dressing for a ball had been simple.
She remembered the Yule Ball from her fourth year with painful clarity: the corridors filled with nervous students, the excitement she had tried so desperately to conceal, and Cedric waiting for her with that warm, gentle smile that had once made everything else seem unimportant. For an instant the memory came to her with such sudden force that her fingers stilled against the fabric of her dress, and her reflection blurred behind a thin veil of unshed tears.
But she did not cry.
Not tonight.
She lowered her hand and took a slow breath, allowing the memory to remain where it belonged—not forgotten, never that, but no longer permitted to dictate every step she took afterwards.
On her desk lay the invitation.
For the Ball.
She had read those three words far too many times over the previous days, occasionally wondering whether the handwriting would somehow reveal its author if she stared at it long enough, although she had refused to use magic to discover the answer. Curiosity, she had decided, was allowed to remain curiosity.
Besides, there was something strangely pleasant about not knowing.
With one final glance towards the mirror, Alice gathered her courage, adjusted the emerald skirt of her dress and stepped into the corridor.
The castle was already alive. Students passed her in groups, laughing nervously as they hurried towards the Great Hall, while several younger Hufflepuffs stopped abruptly when they saw their professor and stared at her with such open admiration that Alice could not help laughing.
