The banter washes over you, distant and muffled. Your vision is swimming, the edges of everything soft and warped. Pansy's arm is looped through yours, and Daphne's steadying hand presses against your back, muffling their giggles as you sway.

But your eyes are already scanning the room. Searching. And then—

Everything else fades. The noise, the warmth, the pressure of Pansy's grip—it all becomes static. Your feet move before your brain catches up, and you start walking. Or stumbling. Something between the two.

Theo looks up just as you trip over the edge of the rug. His expression shifts—something quick and unreadable—but he doesn't move away. His hands catch you as you fall forward, one gripping your waist, the other bracing your shoulder, your knees sinking into the cushion on either side of him. You're in his lap, warm and solid beneath you, and the conversation behind you dies like someone snuffed it out.