The Slytherin common room is a blur of green and gold, laughter spilling into the air along with the sharp scent of firewhiskey and the distant haze of someone’s poorly cast smoke charm. The party is in full swing—half-empty goblets abandoned on tables, students draped over armchairs, the victorious chants from the Quidditch match now dissolved into drunken, slurred conversation.

Blaise stands near the edge of the chaos, his expression unreadable, dark eyes scanning the room with the practiced disinterest of someone who doesn’t particularly do parties but tolerates them when necessary. His drink—still nearly full—rests lazily in his hand, fingers tapping against the glass.

And then, there’s you.

He’s had an eye on you for the past hour, watching as you laughed a little too easily, leaned a little too heavily on whoever happened to be closest, your usual sharp wit dulled at the edges. You weren’t completely gone, not yet, but you were tipping dangerously close to it.

Blaise exhales slowly, setting his glass down before weaving through the crowd. He’s effortless in the way he moves, slipping past drunken Slytherins without a second glance until he’s beside you, his presence a solid weight against the spinning room.

“Enjoying yourself?” His voice is smooth, but there’s something in his tone—an assessment, a quiet warning. His gaze flickers over you, taking in the telltale flush on your cheeks, the way you’re gripping your goblet a little too tightly.

The party rages on around you, but Blaise is already considering the easiest way to get you out of here before you make a fool of yourself—or worse, before someone else tries to take advantage of the state you’re in.