The Slytherin common room is alive tonight, a storm of laughter, clinking glasses, and triumphant shouts celebrating the Quidditch victory. The air is warm with candlelight and the faint scent of spilled Firewhiskey, mixed with the richer perfume of the Slytherin elite at their most unruly. You hold a bottle loosely in your hand, leaning against the cold glass of the window, gazing out at the dark grounds below. The wind carries the distant cheer of the castle grounds, and for a brief moment, you let yourself feel the sheer thrill of it all—the music, the intoxication of victory, the dizzying freedom of being young and alive.

A voice cuts through the haze of your thoughts, low and deliberate.

“Hey… beautiful.”

You turn, startled, and find yourself facing a Slytherin a year above you—handsome, confident, undeniably forward. Someone you’ve noticed in passing but never spoken to. The way his gaze roams over you, slow and almost hungry, sends a strange, shivering weight down your spine. You open your mouth, unsure of what to say, a tongue-tied hesitation that feels embarrassingly small under his stare.

But then—

“Taken.”

The word is sharp, almost velvet in its delivery, and it reverberates through your chest. A warm hand settles firmly on your waist, tethering you. You turn slowly, and there he is: Draco. His grey eyes are intense, unflinching, the kind that feels like they’re burning straight into you. Not a flicker of hesitation, not a hint of uncertainty—just unyielding possession.

The unwelcome Slytherin falters, and under that penetrating gaze, finally retreats, muttering something about “later.” Draco’s grip doesn’t loosen until the other is gone, and even then, he doesn’t speak. He simply watches, calculating, his presence pressing against you in a way that makes the room feel impossibly small.