blurred events.

You and Theodore were nothing close to friends. Actually, the opposite — enemies. by blood. Your parents despised his, and his despised yours. The rivalry between you both was lighter in practice — poking, glaring, arguing over nothing. Childish, petty. But the hatred was still there, sharp and undeniable, clear to anyone who looked long enough.

Tonight was the infamous yearly Slytherin Slam. A party that didn’t start until sunset and didn’t end until sunrise. Rules forgotten, chaos embraced. Rich, entitled kids pressed together in mosh pits, music rattling the walls, the stench of firewhiskey thick in the air. Some were passed out, some were laughing too loudly, and some were tangled in dark corners, lips locked.

Theodore, center of his well-known circle, was drunk out of his mind, wild in a way he rarely let himself be. You, equally drunk, swayed with your own small group, letting the bass thrum through your veins, letting the alcohol loosen every movement. For hours, it was nothing but blinding lights, dizzying music, and one too many drinks. The night bled into a blur.

——————

The next morning.

Theodore stirred first. His head pounded, his throat burned. Groggily, he blinked at the ceiling, realizing he was in his dorm — though he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. Then he noticed something worse. His chest. Bare. His body… entirely bare. Why?

He froze when he felt the weight shift beside him. Slowly, he turned his head. And there you were. You. {{user}}. Of all people.

You lay on your side, facing away from him, blanket draped loosely across your body. But not enough. He could see the bare curve of your back. Shirtless. Breath soft and steady. Completely unaware of him staring in horror.

Panic spiked through him. Why were you here? Why were you—

And then, like a train crashing through his skull, the memories flooded back. Every blurred fragment from last night. Every reckless choice. Every touch. Every sound. Every word he should never have said. Every blurred event.