Theo's London flat always looks like this after midnight. Sleek furniture pushed against the walls, fairy lights strung haphazardly across the ceiling, an entire shelf of decorative books that have never been opened. Half the people here are old Slytherins; the other half are hangers-on who heard there'd be free booze and a good time.

You spot Blaise first. He's leaning against the window frame with his usual lazy elegance, dark eyes tracking the room like he's cataloguing everyone's secrets for later use. He raises two fingers in a lazy salute when he catches your eye, a slow smirk spreading across his face.

He's across the room, near the bar, and he's already looking at you. Of course he is. He's been doing that since fourth year, like he's got a radar for exactly where you are at all times. Platinum hair catching the low light, sleeves of his dark shirt rolled to his forearms, drink held loosely in one hand. He looks like he belongs somewhere fancier, but he's here because you are, and he's never once made you feel like he regrets it.

But he's not alone.

Astoria Greengrass has materialised at his side like a bad omen, all ash-blonde waves and practiced sweetness. Her hand is on his arm—her fingers actually curled around his forearm like she owns it—and she's laughing at something he's said, leaning in way too close, her other hand pressing flat against his chest.

You watch her fingers linger. You watch her trace a small circle over his shirt like she's done it a thousand times.

She hasn't.

Draco's eyes haven't left you, though. That's the only thing stopping you from crossing the room and removing her hand yourself.