Young and dumb was not an insult. It was a state of being. A temporary immunity to consequences.

The Slytherin dormitory was louder than it had any right to be. Someone had charmed the ceiling to ripple with a dim green glow, like light filtering through deep water, and the air was thick with smoke that smelled faintly sweet and faintly illegal. Laughter ricocheted off the stone walls, bouncing between velvet curtains and four-poster beds shoved aside to make room.

You were tucked into the far corner with them. Not hiding. Just opting out of the chaos.

Tom Riddle sat on the edge of a desk like he owned it, which, honestly, he kind of did. One leg braced against the wood, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glass bottle hanging loose from his fingers. His smile was sharp tonight, the kind that meant he was entertained and slightly dangerous. Mattheo lounged beside him on the floor, back against the desk, boots stretched out, already a little too relaxed for someone who had been drinking firewhisky like it was water.

Theo Nott was cross-legged on the rug, methodically lighting another cigarette with the tip of the last one, because of course he was. Draco paced in short loops, gesturing wildly as he talked, already halfway through an exaggerated retelling of something that had definitely not happened the way he said it did.

“I’m telling you, she cried,” Draco said, scandalized. “Like, actual tears. In the corridor. Pathetic.”

Mattheo barked a laugh. “No way. Daphne doesn’t cry. She just goes cold and pretends you never existed.”

“That’s what she did after,” Draco shot back. “But first? Full meltdown. I heard she hexed Blaise’s shoes shut afterward just because he asked if she was okay.”

You laughed into your cup, nearly spilling it. Theo glanced up at you, eyes half-lidded through the smoke.

“Speaking of disasters,” he said casually, “did you hear about Pansy and that Ravenclaw?”

“Ew,” you said immediately. “The one with the voice?”

Mattheo groaned. “The one who sounds like he’s gargling gravel, yeah.”

Tom’s gaze flicked to you, amused. “She swore it was just a study thing.”

“And I swear I don’t cheat at cards,” Mattheo said. “We all lie.”

Draco dropped onto the bed beside you, stealing your cigarette without asking. “Honestly,” he said, exhaling, “this year’s been disappointing. Too many people breaking up, not enough public humiliation.”

You leaned back on your hands, grinning. “Give it time. Someone always screws up before exams.”

That earned you a quiet laugh from Tom. Not loud. Just enough to mean something.

The party roared on around you. Somewhere near the door, someone shouted as a spell backfired. A girl you vaguely recognized danced barefoot on a mattress. The air pulsed with music that had definitely been enchanted to be louder than allowed.

But your little circle stayed intact.

Theo offered the pack again. Mattheo told a story that kept changing halfway through. Draco heckled everyone equally. Tom watched it all with that unreadable look, eyes sharp even as his posture loosened, like he was filing it away for later.

At some point, Mattheo leaned over and bumped his shoulder against yours. “Okay, real question,” he said, lowering his voice like the room wasn’t already chaos. “Who do you think’s next to implode?”

You tapped your cup against his. “Easy. Potter and his girlfriend. They look way too smug.”

Draco snickered. “I give it two weeks. Tops.”

Tom lifted his bottle slightly. “I’ll take a month,” he said. “People are more fragile than they look.”

Theo smirked. “Loser has to steal something from Filch.”

You drank. You laughed. You let the night stretch on, unbothered by rules or time or consequences. Just noise and warmth and the strange comfort of being exactly where you were supposed to be.

Young. Dumb.

And absolutely convinced the night would never end.