Finished I'll go if you go. PV Syrah Vintera

Syrah had known Sinclair was coming before she even sat down. The familiar sound of her steps, steady but just a little hesitant, was impossible not to recognize. She didn’t turn her head. She was wearing an oversized grandpa sweater, charcoal gray, loose and shapeless, hanging off her like she’d just thrown it on without thinking. Her jeans were stiff with dried mud from an earlier walk, and her boots, still caked with it, rested against the damp earth like she had no intention of moving anytime soon.

She absentmindedly rolled the small perfume vial between her fingers, the chain of the necklace slipping against her skin. A gift from her mother. The scent inside had long since faded, but sometimes, if she held it close enough, she imagined she could still catch a trace of it.

She felt the bench shift under Sinclair’s weight. Familiar.

"...You know… I bet there would be lots of people making fools of themselves at the Spring Ball."

Syrah blinked. “Spring Ball?” She hadn’t even known there was one. Not that she kept up with school events.

She let the words sit for a second, then exhaled through her nose. “Well. People make fools of themselves every day. Do they need a ball for it?”

She finally glanced at Sinclair, raising an eyebrow. The other girl looked normal. A little too normal. Like she was trying not to seem like she had a reason for being here. Which meant, of course, that she did.

Syrah didn’t press it. Instead, she turned back to the lake, tapping a finger against the glass of the perfume vial. The water was still, reflecting the stars perfectly. It felt like looking at another sky, one that could be shattered with the smallest touch.

After a pause, she added, “Did you come all the way out here just to tell me that?”

She wasn’t annoyed. Just… mildly curious.

Syrah listened, eyes still on the water, her fingers idly twisting the perfume vial at her neck. Sinclair’s voice had that usual easy cadence, like she was just making conversation, but there was something else underneath—some small, almost hidden reason for bringing this up. Syrah didn’t bother trying to figure it out. She was never great at deciphering emotions and feelings unless they were spelled out for her.

Her brow furrowed slightly. “Light fantasy?” she echoed, unimpressed. “So, let me guess, everyone’s going to show up as some half-baked hero or a princess trying to get out of the tower? Sounds like a real party.” The corner of her mouth twitched. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind watching someone trip over their own cloak.”

The idea of a ball had never crossed her mind. Social gatherings weren’t exactly her thing, and this one sounded particularly insufferable. She had a hard enough time tolerating people when they weren’t wrapped up in layers of pretense and theatrics. The thought of them peacocking around in elaborate costumes, playing at fantasy while still trapped in their usual petty realities, felt... exhausting.

Still.

She glanced at Sinclair, noting the way she was toying with that black ribbon around her neck. She hadn’t looked over much since sitting down, but now, in the pale wash of moonlight, Syrah caught something in her expression. Something almost... expectant.

A quiet sigh left her nose. “I didn't even know there was a ball,” she admitted, finally glancing at Sinclair. “Not that it really matters.” Her gaze flickered briefly to the black ribbon Sinclair was fidgeting with.

The image was so ridiculous that she nearly scoffed. But then she considered something.

“I don't own anything remotely ‘light fantasy.’” Her oversized sweater hung loosely on her frame, her jeans still dusted with dirt from sitting on the ground earlier. “Unless this counts.” She plucked at the hem, deadpan.

She should have been curious as to why Sinclair had decided to mention this to her at all, but that thought never quite connected in her mind. Instead, she just let the night settle back into quiet, as if nothing about this conversation had been important at all.

Syrah glanced at her, suspicious. “So what, you're going?”

Syrah let out a slow, unimpressed sigh, staring at the lake with a deep frown like it had personally offended her. The whole idea of this ball was stupid. Loud, crowded, full of people pretending to be interesting when they weren’t. And yet, here Sinclair was, looking at her like she was actually expecting an answer.

She tilted her head slightly, watching the way the moonlight hit Sinclair’s face. The way she always seemed so sure of herself, always had this way of saying things that made it sound like she knew something you didn’t. It was infuriating.

Syrah clicked her tongue and looked away, tugging at the perfume vial around her neck. “Right. Because standing in a room full of overdressed idiots is exactly how I want to spend my time.” Her voice was flat, but there was something else underneath it—something she didn’t care to analyze.

She nudged a rock with the toe of her boot, watching it roll into the dirt. “But since you seem so tragically in need of someone to make fun of people with, I guess I could suffer through it for a bit.”

She didn’t look at Sinclair when she said it. Didn’t acknowledge the fact that she was already picturing what she’d wear, something that wouldn’t make her feel ridiculous. Didn’t acknowledge the way her chest felt a little weird—tight, like something was pushing at the edges of something she hadn’t fully realized yet.

Instead, she leaned back on the bench, arms crossed, and muttered, “But if it’s awful, I’m leaving. Don’t get any ideas.”

She shot Sinclair a sideways glance. “Dunno why you want me there, though. I’m not exactly the life of the party.”

It was a test, maybe. A half-curious, half-dreading kind of thing. Because if Sinclair had asked anyone else, they probably would’ve been excited to go with her. But she hadn’t.

Syrah remained motionless as she crossed her arms and listened to Sinclair talk, her face scarcely changing. The warmth, and honesty, in Sinclair's voice, was nice, she guessed. Syrah tolerated Sinclair more than most people, which said something.

She exhaled softly through her nose, fingers absently toying with a loose thread on her sleeve. "I don’t mind spending time with you either," she admitted, voice even, as if stating a simple fact rather than returning the sentiment. "You don’t talk just to hear yourself. That’s rare." That was the closest thing to a compliment Sinclair was going to get.

Her fingers tapped idly against her arm."I have a dress,"she muttered after a moment. She hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

A vision of the dress came to mind—something stuck in the back of her trunk, covered in dust. A blue short dress. Baba Zoya had once given it to her. She didn’t recall the reason. Perhaps it was a birthday dress, or maybe she just gave it to her. It had been there ever since, and she had completely forgotten about it. She wasn’t sure why she had brought it. It wasn’t that important. What was important was that she hadn’t thrown it in the bin or left it behind in Inverness.

She should have.

It wasn’t like she cared. It wasn’t like it meant anything. But for some reason, when she was packing for Hogwarts, she had looked at it, hesitated, and then stuffed it into her trunk. Maybe because it was easier than thinking about it. Maybe because it was the only dress she owned that didn’t make her want to claw her skin off.

Or maybe because some stupid, buried part of her couldn’t let go of things so easily.

She clicked her tongue, annoyed at the thought. Then she glanced at Sinclair, her expression blank. "If I wear it, you owe me," she said, as if she hadn’t already agreed to go.

Then, after another beat of silence, she glanced back at Sinclair, her expression unreadable. "You’ll wear dark fantasy anyway, won’t you?" It wasn’t a question so much as a statement. Said with mild disinterest.

Syrah did not see Sinclair go. She gazed at the lake, its surface black and still under the evening heavens. Though she hardly noticed, the air felt cold against her skin. She released a slow breath, hardly perceptible in the low light.

A ball. She actually said yes. What the hell was wrong with her? She didn’t do things like that. Dresses, dancing or socializing for a whole evening. Still, the second Sinclair had asked, she had agreed—like some fool.

She let out a frustrated sigh.

Syrah leaned back on the bench, tilting her head up to the sky. The stars were starting to appear, small and distant.

"Stay warm," Sinclair had said.

Syrah rolled her eyes. What did that even mean? She wasn’t a child. She could take care of herself.

She kicked a loose stone with the heel of her shoe and muttered, “Stupid.” She didn't know if she meant Sinclair, the ball or herself.