It was a room roughly the same size as his dungeon office, but both the wallpaper and flooring were decorated in a style remarkably similar to the old Waters estate—as if it had been deliberately arranged to suit Orli's preferences.
Wooden bookshelves lined the walls, filled entirely with Potions texts. On the marble table before them sat two cauldrons, surrounded by an array of potion bottles, scales, funnels, and other brewing equipment.
In the opposite corner stood a towering Christmas tree, adorned with golden and silver baubles that caught the soft light.
The room contained no chairs—only a plush two-seater sofa positioned beneath the Christmas tree, draped with a delicate throw and scattered with silk cushions. Several crystal vases held arrangements of fresh flowers, mostly in shades of white, pale lavender, and champagne, their subtle fragrance drifting through the air.
But what made Snape feel most acutely uncomfortable was the conspicuously open space in the room's center, beside which sat a gramophone playing a lilting, romantic waltz. The moment he'd stepped inside, he'd immediately flicked his wand, silencing the infernal device.
"Wow." Orli gazed around the room, letting out a soft sound of wonder.
"This really is a lovely room."
Snape turned to close the door behind them, causing it to vanish from the corridor entirely. Now there were only the two of them in this space—no one could possibly disturb them.
"Waters." His voice carried an unusual note of satisfaction beneath its customary depth.
"Look at this."
He withdrew the journal and extended it toward her.
Orli accepted it with obvious puzzlement, but the instant she glimpsed the title page, her eyes widened in delighted astonishment.
"My name is on here!" She flipped through the publication in disbelief, staring at the dozens of meticulously detailed pages documenting their Wolfsbane Potion research. When she spotted their two names listed side by side in the author credits, her face broke into a radiant smile:
"Is this my Christmas gift, Professor?"
"Yes." Snape replied. Remarkably, his voice lacked its usual oppressive undertone—there was even a hint of warmth threading through it.
He produced a certificate as well. The marble table conveniently held a bottle of ink and a pristine quill.
"You're the youngest author to publish in this journal in two centuries. They've awarded you a prize—you need to sign here—"
Orli felt as though she were floating in a dream. She stared dazedly at the elegant script reading "Most Promising Newcomer Award," uncertain whether she'd even spelled the letters of her name correctly. This Christmas felt impossibly, wonderfully surreal—her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.
Perhaps it was the lingering effects of that half-bottle of sherry, but words tumbled from her lips before she could stop them:
"Professor... today is the Christmas Ball."
"...And?" Snape arched one dark eyebrow.
"...There's a gramophone here, and this open space... Even though I didn't prepare a proper gown..." Orli was stumbling over her words now, but some inexplicable courage drove her forward:
"...Would you dance with me?"
Silence descended upon the room like a heavy curtain.
After what felt like an eternity, Snape's voice emerged, dry and carefully controlled:
"There are countless boys who would be delighted to dance with you, if you returned to the Great Hall tonight."
"But I don't want to dance with them!" Orli bit her lower lip, certain that Snape would refuse her—perhaps even turn and leave, never speaking to her again.
But he didn't.
She heard the gramophone begin to turn once more, filling the air with that achingly beautiful waltz.
"Just this once." Snape's voice was barely above a whisper—so quiet it was impossible to tell whether he was speaking to Orli, or to himself.
――――――――
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