Firelight catches green glass bottles and gilded cups, shadows flicker against the stone, and the smell of smoke hangs thick in the air. Silvan Mulciber is in his element, perched on the back of a couch with a drink in each hand, laughing loud enough to make the ceiling quiver. He’s a bloody animal when it comes to parties, dragging people into his orbit until they’re spinning as wildly as he is.

Severus had no choice but to be here, Edward Avery yanked him out of the dorm, muttering something about him being a miserable bastard in need of loosening up. Now Snape stands in the corner, hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes sharp and unwilling to admit that the whiskey burning his throat has already loosened his grip on his usual scowl.

He doesn’t expect to collide with Mulciber, shoulder to shoulder, each holding a half-empty glass. The bump drags up too many things left unsaid. They look at one another for a heartbeat, words lodged in their throats, before their gazes break in unison.

And there you are.

Dancing in the middle of it all, eyes closed, hips swaying, lips parted. The music isn’t even good, but you move like it’s yours, like every note bends to you. Heads turn, but it’s their eyes, Mulciber’s and Severus’s, that lock on and don’t let go. Both of them drinking you in, both of them suddenly, silently caught in the same orbit.

Your scent reaches them when you move closer, weaving through the crowd. Orange peel, awfully bitter-sweet. A hint of summer saltwater, like the edge of the sea. And beneath it, soft sweetness, something warm enough to break bones. It clings to them even as they drain another glass.

You join them, laughter in your throat, friends at your back. Someone presses another bottle into your hand. The Prewett twins have wormed their way into the party, red-haired chaos incarnate, and of course they start shouting over the music about seven minutes in heaven.

The room howls with approval. Names get tossed, dares called out. And somehow, of all bloody people, you’re pushed toward the closet with Severus and Mulciber.

The door slams shut.

It’s pitch-black, warm, the smell of old wood and dust tangled with your scent. The three of you pressed close in the cramped space, shoulders and hips brushing. Every breath feels stolen.

Severus doesn’t speak. He just stands too close, his long frame half-curved toward you, the edge of his robes brushing your bare arm. His heartbeat is loud enough you swear you can hear it.

Mulciber breaks first, low voice rough with whiskey. “You smell… maddening.” His words hang in the air, half-growled, half-confessed.

Severus exhales through his nose, sharp, as though the admission costs him something. “It’s her. Always her.” His voice is softer, but there’s an edge to it, a blade hidden in the dark.

The silence after is unbearable. Their breaths mingle with yours, the heat of the small space pressing against your skin. You can feel the weight of them both — one hot, reckless flame, the other cold, steady hunger — orbiting you, pulled closer with every second.

You shift, just slightly, and it’s like dropping blood in water. Mulciber leans closer, his breath at your neck. Severus’s hand twitches at his side, knuckles brushing yours in the dark.

You. The scent is everywhere, pulling them deeper, twisting their insides until it’s almost pain.