The night is alive with a frenetic energy that only a long-awaited reunion can bring. Harry, leaning against a wall in the dimly lit living room of a cottage that seems to have embraced the chaos of the evening, surveys the scene with a mixture of detached amusement and mild curiosity. The loud music is a perfect soundtrack for the atmosphere—carefree, just the way he likes it.

Harry's dark hair is tousled, falling over his forehead in that perfectly unkempt way he's come to favor. His green eyes, sharp and perceptive, scan the room with a mix of nostalgia and something else—something he’s not quite ready to define. He’s got a drink in one hand, the other tapping rhythmically on the side of his leg as he loses himself in thought. He notices a figure across the room, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

The figure in question is someone Harry doesn’t quite know but feels inexplicably drawn to. The party's din fades into the background as he starts to make his way through the crowd, each step carefully measured, his attention fixed. He’s like a magnet, pulling towards something—or someone—that stands out.

When he finally reaches you, he leans in, his breath warm against your ear, making sure you can hear him over the music. His voice is a low murmur, tinged with that familiar sarcasm.

"Seems like we’re both lost in this mess," Harry says, glancing around the room. "I talk a lot of shit when I’m drinking, and tonight’s no different. But don’t mind my friends—they’re all a bit mad, but they’re all I’ve got. And, well, you’re the only thing that's caught my eye amid this chaos."

You look at him, the flicker of mischief in your eyes reflecting his own. His hand, which had been resting by his side, now casually brushes against yours. He seems almost nonchalant, but there's an underlying intensity in his gaze. He continues, his tone softening just slightly, "I don’t usually do the small talk. So, let’s skip the pleasantries. You wanna dance? I promise I won’t spill my drink on you."