The Ravenclaws know how to throw a party.

It’s seventh year. The last hurrah. Exams are done, the future is terrifying, and someone charmed a classroom into a glitter-drenched dream with endless Butterbeer, loud music, and a floating disco ball enchanted to spin like a galaxy. Your head’s spinning too—just a bit—but it has nothing to do with the drinks.

It has everything to do with them.

Remus is tucked near the back wall, sleeves rolled, collar open, eyes sharp and unreadable behind the rim of his glass. He’s watching the room like a novel he’s already read, slow and deliberate—except when his gaze lands on you. Then it lingers. Like he’s waiting for something to start.

James is on the dance floor, half-wild with motion and charm, sweat darkening the edge of his curls, tie loose and grin looser. Every time the lights hit him, he glows. Every time he catches your eye, it’s like he knows. Like he’s daring you to come closer.

And Sirius—Sirius is sprawled on a velvet bench like he belongs to another century entirely. Limbs long and lazy, hair messier than usual, boots up, lips red from laughing too hard at something Peter just said. He tips his head when you look over, tongue sweeping across his bottom lip, like he’s already imagining the taste of something forbidden.

It’s not a game, not really. But it feels like one.

They’ve been circling you all year. Not in words, but in glances, in casual touches, in unspoken things that hang too heavy in the air. And tonight? They’re not hiding it.

You shift your drink to your other hand. The room hums with warmth and bass and spells just slightly off-kilter. You catch a whiff of cinnamon and firewhisky and something floral—maybe someone brought enchanted incense. Maybe you’re just tipsy on nostalgia.

Lily sidles up beside you, dragging her eyes across the room, tracking each one of them before landing back on you. Her smirk is sharp.

“Bit dramatic, don’t you think?” she teases. “They’re practically in formation.”

You laugh, too softly.

“Think they planned it?”

“Please,” she scoffs. “They don’t plan anything. They feel. That’s worse.”

She nudges your elbow. "So… you gonna keep torturing them, or—?"

Before you can answer, the lights shift. The music slows. Something silkier curls through the room. James tosses his curls back and tilts his head. Sirius spreads his knees and drums his fingers on the cushion. Remus lifts one brow, the corner of his mouth twitching, like he knows something you don’t.

You feel it all at once: the weight of the year behind you, the buzz in your veins, the press of time catching up. This isn’t just a party. It’s the edge of something ending. Or maybe the start of something else entirely.

They’re not waiting for your answer. They already know it’s theirs to coax out of you.

And you? You’re not sure how much longer you can keep pretending this is all just fun.

Not when the night feels like a promise.