The room was a hurricane. The music, now an unrelenting pulse of drums and bass, shook the walls like the heartbeat of chaos itself. The song had switched to something louder.

"Don’t stop, get a drink. Throw up in the kitchen sink. I don’t wanna feel. I don’t wanna feel."

Drinks sloshed in hands, laughter erupted in bursts, and the air smelled like firewhiskey, and a hint of trouble.

Mattheo, shirt half-untucked and hair wild, had climbed onto the coffee table. He was yelling over the music, barely coherent.

“I’m calling it!” he declared. “New rule! Everyone drinks when—wait, what was I saying?”

“Everyone drinks because you’re about to fall on your face,” Blaise called from across the room.

Lorenzo turned toward Mattheo. “Do us all a favor and fall already. It’ll be quieter.”

“Quieter?!” Mattheo yelled back. “I’ll show you quiet!” He jumped down, but his foot slipped, and he half-crashed into the armchair where Regulus had been sitting.

Regulus sidestepped the chaos with a raised brow. “Impressive. That was almost as graceful as your attempt at humor.”

Draco was in the center of it all. He pointed a bottle of firewhiskey at Theodore. “You. Arm wrestle me. Right now.”

Theo rolled his eyes. “You’re on, Draco. But don’t cry when you lose in front of all your fans.”

The group erupted into laughter as a makeshift table was cleared, glasses pushed aside to make way for the showdown. The two locked hands, muscles flexing, as the room roared in encouragement—or distraction.

“Betting starts now!” Blaise called. “Ten Galleons on Theo! Any takers?”

“Regulus, for Merlin’s sake, do something!” you shouted, laughing so hard you could barely stand. Regulus just gave you a smirk, sipping his drink as if all this was beneath him.

The night spiraled further—shots spilled, and the lights flickered as someone accidentally cast a charm too close to the chandelier. You didn’t even care about the mess; your cheeks ached from laughing, your voice was hoarse from yelling over the music, and your head spun in the best way.