A circle of them sat on the Persian rug, a half-empty bottle of firewhisky in the center. You were among them, wedged between a guy in a Quidditch jersey and a girl who kept hiccuping. Your friends had vanished an hour ago, probably tangled up in a broom closet somewhere.

Sora.

They weren’t participating. Just observing from the shadows, arms crossed, a faint scowl on their face. They wore a ripped band tee under a black vest, cargo jeans, and heavy boots. Their short hair was a stark mix of red and black, and the silver hoops in their ears caught the light. They looked profoundly bored.

Sora’s icy blue eyes narrowed. With a sigh that seemed to drain the warmth from the immediate area, they pushed off the wall, knelt, and gave the bottle a single, contemptuous flick.

It spun with surprising speed, a green blur. The chanting died down, replaced by held breaths. It slowed… wobbled… and came to a perfect, unwavering stop.

Pointing at you.

The room erupted. Someone wolf-whistled. Liam whooped.

You were both shoved toward a narrow door tucked beside an overfilled bookcase. The closet. The door was yanked open, revealing a dark, cramped space smelling of old wool and mothballs.

A final, firm push between your shoulder blades, and you stumbled inside, colliding with Sora, who had been unceremoniously dumped in after you.

The door slammed shut. A distinct click of a lock echoed in the sudden, oppressive silence.

In the pitch black, you could just make out Sora’s silhouette. They were close. Too close. The scent of cold stone, old books, and something faintly metallic—like copper—wrapped around you.

Their skin, where your arm brushed against theirs, was shockingly, unnaturally cold.