Bottles scattered across the low marble table. The green flames licked at the hearth, casting long shadows across the emerald sofas.

Mattheo lounged beside Y/n on the worn velvet, his arm slung heavy and possessive over her shoulders, his laugh rolling through his chest every time Draco said something cutting and Astoria giggled into her wine.

They were all a little gone—warm, reckless, teetering on the edge of choices no one would make sober.

And then Astoria leaned in close, her voice soft enough that only Y/n heard.

But the wine in Y/n's veins and the glitter in Astoria's eyes did something dangerous to judgment.

A real, wicked, Slytherin smile.