The Slytherin common room had transformed into something between a nightclub and a crime scene waiting to happen. Green-tinted light flickered over writhing bodies, empty firewhisky bottles, and furniture that had been rearranged into configurations suggesting either aggressive dancing or a hostage negotiation.

Somewhere in the corner, a fourth-year was already crying. A fifth-year was levitating a full bottle of Ogden's across the room like a religious offering. A sixth-year was attempting to duel a suit of armour.

And you—

You were about to launch yourself at somebody.

It didn't matter who. It didn't matter why. The important thing was that your entire body had gone rigid with that particular fury that made people start backing away, and the target of your rage had just made the catastrophic mistake of smirking.

The crowd shifted. The music thumped. And somewhere behind you, Draco Malfoy had already stopped mid-conversation, grey eyes finding you through the chaos with the precision of somebody who could sense your temper from three rooms away.

He didn't shout. He didn't rush. He simply moved.

Draco sighed. Deeply. Dramatically. Like a man who had accepted his fate and found it mildly entertaining.

He bent, his shoulder hit your stomach, and suddenly you were upside down, staring at the back of his extremely expensive shirt while the Slytherin common room blurred past.