"I genuinely need to discuss something with you..." Snape's voice drifted toward her again, but she maintained her theatrical deafness.
Finally, after a moment's visible hesitation, he tried once more.
"Orli, listen to me."
His voice carried weary resignation beneath its familiar depths. He settled beside her on the sofa, extracted the book from her grip with deliberate care, and deposited it on the coffee table with studied casualness.
The instant her name left his lips, Orli's head snapped up, cheeks blooming rose-pink while her eyes danced with barely contained delight.
"I'm listening, Professor," she said, practically radiating joy.
Snape found himself utterly confounded by her mercurial moods. Part of him wanted to deliver a scathing lecture about her childish behavior, but faced with that radiant smile, every harsh word withered before it could form. Worse still, he felt an alarming urge to smile back.
He cleared his throat with obvious discomfort, wrestling his expression into something approaching professorial dignity before continuing:
"Tomorrow afternoon concludes all formal sessions—tradition dictates an evening ball to close the conference."
"A ball?" Orli's euphoria evaporated instantly, replaced by mounting panic. "Professor, I didn't pack any formal robes!"
Snape made the slightest gesture with his wand. A magnificent silver box emerged from a nearby cabinet, floating with ethereal grace before settling gently across Orli's lap.
"I've arranged appropriate attire," he said with careful neutrality.
"Consider it... a gift."
"A gift?" Orli surfaced from her stunned amazement, eyebrows arching with curiosity. "This isn't my Christmas present, is it?"
"Absolutely not!" Snape practically snarled.
"Excellent—then don't forget to send me something proper for Christmas," Orli declared with shameless audacity. Before he could formulate a response, she had swept up the enormous package and vanished into her room, leaving Snape alone on the sofa, torn between exasperation and reluctant amusement.
He remained motionless for several minutes, acutely aware of her lingering warmth beside him. Three weeks had passed like a fevered dream... He sank deeper into the cushions and closed his eyes. At least the end hadn't arrived quite yet. One final day remained—one last opportunity to pretend the world beyond these walls didn't exist, to focus entirely on the present moment, entirely on her.
The following day stretched endlessly, Snape caught between contradictory torments.
Time raced mercilessly forward—noon arrived with shocking swiftness.
Yet simultaneously, each minute crawled with agonizing deliberation—evening seemed impossibly distant.
When Orli disappeared into her room at four o'clock with mysterious purpose, he found himself pacing the sitting room like a caged panther. By six o'clock, when her door finally released its soft click, breathing had become a conscious effort. Perhaps those troll-brained students had experienced similar suffocation before the Yule Ball during the Tournament. His high-collared robes felt like a noose, but the next moment, all coherent thought abandoned him entirely.
Orli Waters emerged from her sanctuary like something from a Renaissance painting, draped in the champagne silk gown he'd selected. Black roses cascaded from hem to waist in an intricate botanical symphony, while her lustrous hair had been gathered into an artfully casual arrangement. Her lips gleamed with deep crimson that made his pulse stutter.
She approached with unhurried grace, smile expectant, clearly awaiting his verdict.
Snape had always prided himself on possessing an extensive vocabulary for social niceties—stunning, elegant, enchanting, radiant... Yet standing before her transformed presence, every word felt inadequate, almost insulting in its insufficiency.
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