The Gryffindor common room was all roaring firelight and reckless laughter. Someone had spelled the floor to shimmer faintly with gold every time a footstep landed—probably one of the marauders doing—and a charmed gramophone in the corner spun a record that didn’t quite match the beat of the chaos around it.

You weren’t really a party person. But Marlene was.

And where Marlene went, you found yourself following.

She was magnetic—shoulders back, head held high, voice always pitched to be heard over the noise. But when her eyes found yours from across the room, the sharp lines of her face softened. She crossed the crowded space like she owned it, drink in one hand, confidence in the other.

She appeared beside you in a blur of curls and firewhisky, her red party cup sloshing slightly as she looped her arm through yours. “There you are,” she said. “I’ve been looking for someone who doesn’t smell like butterbeer and regret.”

She paused.

“You’re doing that brooding thing again,” she said as she came to stand in front of you, a smirk tugging at her lips. “It’s very tragic. Very sexy.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you flirting or making fun of me?”

“Yes,” she answered, handing you her drink and stealing a sip from yours without asking.

You blinked. “You know that’s illegal, right? Stealing someone’s firewhisky?”

“Oh, I’ll be punished thoroughly, I’m sure.” She winked, then tilted her head. “You hate these things. So why are you here?”