Not from heat—from people. Bodies packed together, laughing too loud, standing too close, spilling drinks they shouldn’t have. The bass rattled through the floor, through your ribs, through the soles of your feet until you weren’t sure if the vibration was the music or your own pulse.

Somewhere across the room, Pansy was saying something—probably dramatic, definitely nosy—but you couldn’t hear her anymore.

Because a voice cut through the noise like a knife.

Near the far wall, near a table littered with empty bottles and abandoned cups, Theodore Nott stood with his shoulders tense and his jaw tight. He looked flushed—drunk, clearly—but not sloppy. Not yet.

Daphne Greengrass stood across from him. Her arms were crossed. Her expression was controlled. Too controlled.