The air was thick with the bite of firewhisky and the faint, smoky haze of spell-induced fog that curled around dancing figures. Laughter and taunts echoed off the damp stone, blending with the rhythm of the music—dark, hypnotic, and just a little dangerous.

Bodies pressed together near the center of the room, a tangle of green and silver ties, loose buttons, and flushed skin. A group of sixth-years had conjured a makeshift bar along the far wall, bottles of firewhisky and cheaper liquor lined up like soldiers.

Near the fireplace, Pansy Parkinson held court on a velvet settee, a goblet dangling from her fingers as she laughed at something Blaise Zabini had said. Theo Nott was sprawled beside her, cigarette tucked behind his ear. Daphne Greengrass leaned against the mantle, scrolling through her phone.

And then there was the other side of the room.

Draco Malfoy sat in the high-backed armchair that everyone pretended wasn't his throne. He was dressed in black—slacks, a fitted button-down with the top two buttons undone, silver rings catching the low light. A cigarette burned between his fingers, untouched. His jaw was sharp, his expression unreadable as he watched the crowd with the lazy disinterest of a predator who'd already eaten.

Astoria Greengrass was perched on the arm of his chair, her hand resting on his shoulder, her mouth moving close to his ear.

Malfoy wasn't looking at her.

He was looking at you.