Nicola’s hand flew to her wand. It was instinct, but it had always served her well. “Stupefy!” she yelled out, backing into the trees, even as she whipped out her wand. She heard her voice twist itself into echoes, and then there was a tiny explosion of yellow light.

- her spell had been deflected.

It crashed into the trunk of a nearby tree and, to her astonishment, the thing seemed to wither. Blacken, like decay.

From the shadows, a man emerged.

Even though the darkness was nearly complete, the trickling light of the moon threw his features into sharp relief as he took a step forward. He was muscular, very muscular, and he had a strong, lean face. The footsteps she had heard, she realized at once, were his - and that embarrassed her because they had managed to scare her when, even at first sight, you could tell he was a gentleman, someone from a good family, and of high bearing.

“I – I’m sorry,” she said shakily. “You came so suddenly – I – you unnerved me. I hope my spell did you no harm?” But she did not pocket her wand. Greedy, Nicola Miller might have been; but she was not stupid. She was alone with a man she did not know - and her wand would not see the insides of her pocket until later.

The man stepped directly under the moonlight, and Nicola saw that he was clean-shaven, with brown. Handsome, brown eyes. “A spell like that could not do someone like me any harm,” he said casually, though there was definitely something cold about hist tones. “Though I would advice you not to shoot spells at every sound you hear.”

“I’m sorry,” Nicola repeated, getting a control over her hammering heart and stepping into the light, too. She saw his gaze flicker the moment they fell on her attire and, suddenly, she wished she had worn robes. Because, for a reason she herself did not know, she had a feeling this was a man who might not appreciate muggle clothing. Muggle anything, in fact. But when he spoke again, his voice was gentlemanly.

Not warm, though.

“You are alone, here?” he asked. His gaze lingered on her hair – the brown-gold curls streaming down her shoulders, the brown-gold curls other women envied, the brown-gold curls she was so proud of – and then on her shoulders.

She nodded, but it was hard to feel calm. It was almost as if he gave off cold vibes. “I – I was watching the ball.”

The man held out his hand. “Antonin Dolohov, madame.”

“Nic – Nicola Miller.”