It's past midnight. Maybe one. Maybe two. Time loses meaning in places like this.

The war's been over for six months, but nights like this feel like the only way to forget the past four years ever happened. Everyone packed into this converted Muggle warehouse is chasing the same thing—oblivion, distraction, the burn of cheap firewhisky.

I'm pressed against the bar, waiting for the bartender to notice me, when a hand brushes my lower back.

He's taller than me by a head. Dark hair, messy, falling into his eyes. A leather jacket worn thin at the elbows, a silver chain glinting at his collarbone. Tattoos creep up the side of his neck—ink I can't quite make out in the strobing lights.

His mouth curves into something that isn't quite a smile. It's lazier. More dangerous.