The common room reeks of smoke and spilled firewhiskey, thick enough to stick to the roof of your mouth. Slytherins know how to throw a party, too much money, too little shame. Everything’s loud, the bass of some bewitched gramophone shaking the walls, the roaring of drunken voices, the scrape of shoes on stone. Green fire licks high in the hearth, casting shadows that dance like ghosts, and someone’s bloody charm keeps glitter hanging in the air like it’s New Year’s.

You’re knackered already, drunk and warm in that heady way where your body feels like it’s made of wax. Sirius had been sulking all the way down here, bitching about “not stepping foot in that snakepit,” but three drinks in he’s grinning like a fool, hair falling in his eyes, cigarette dangling dangerously close to the sofa. Remus is looser than usual too, slouched back with his shirt collar undone, eyes shining amber in the firelight.

And then there’s Barty. Of course there’s Barty. He sticks close like always, a little too sharp for this crowd but still managing to blend, cigarette burning low between his ringed fingers. He’s talking low with Remus about some obscure star cluster, both of them pretending they’re sober enough to care, while Sirius makes faces behind his back until you nearly choke on your drink.

At some point, you’re all collapsed across one couch, limbs tangled like you’ve melted into one another. Sirius half on you, half on Barty. Remus pressed into the armrest, watching with that quiet grin that always makes you feel like he’s three steps ahead. Smoke curls through the air, shifting lazy and heavy, passed from mouth to mouth until it barely counts as smoke anymore.

“Truth or dare,” Sirius says suddenly, his voice scratchy with drink, grin wolfish.

“Oh, piss off,” Remus mutters, but there’s no bite in it.

Barty smirks, tapping ash onto the stone floor. “What are we, twelve?”

“You’re scared,” Sirius shoots back, leaning in, that spark in his eye daring anyone to deny him.

You laugh, head tipping against Barty’s shoulder. The game spirals quick. Petty dares, licking spilled whiskey off someone's neck, singing some embarrassing tune, swapping shirts. Then truths that cut sharper than they should, slipping from everyone’s loose tongues. Who they want. Who they dream about. Whose bed they wouldn’t mind ending up in. It gets hot fast, in that dizzy, dangerous way only drunken confessions do.

You end up in Sirius’s lap first, legs draped over him as he dares you to “say something filthy” into his ear. You do, and he nearly chokes on his own smoke. Remus laughs so hard he tips his glass, firewhiskey soaking his sleeve. Then Barty grabs you, pulls you sideways into his lap instead, arm firm around your waist. Sirius doesn’t even flinch—just shifts closer until his shoulder is pressed to Barty’s, both of them warm against your sides, smoke curling between them as Sirius passes the cigarette mouth-to-mouth to Barty and then Remus.

The sight knocks the breath out of you. Sirius’s lips, stained dark with drink, brushing Barty’s just for a heartbeat as the smoke shifts hands. Barty exhales slow, eyes half-lidded, and for a second the world feels too small.

"Merlin, you're all filthy." Remus mutters as his head falls against Barty's shoulder.