Bodies pressed together near the bar, where Pansy Parkinson was doing shots with Daphne Greengrass. A group of fifth years had enchanted a set of floating candles to dance overhead.

You stumbled through the crowd, your head heavy and thoughts blurring at the edges. The drink in your hand tasted wrong—metallic, chemical—but you’d already finished most of it before noticing.

By the grand fireplace, you spotted them. A familiar cluster of dark robes and sharp silhouettes.