It was somewhere past midnight when the dungeons started to spin.

The Slytherin common room was lit like a cauldron fire—green, gold, and warm with victory. The Quidditch Cup gleamed on the fireplace mantle like a trophy from war, and the team was drunk on triumph. And Firewhisky. Mostly Firewhisky.

You weren’t even that drunk. Just pleasantly numb. You’d spent most of the night laughing too loudly with Pansy and Blaise, sipping some sickly-sweet Muggle drink Millicent had snuck in—blue and glowing like it belonged in a potions cabinet.

Someone had put on music. Theo had taken his shirt off. Crabbe and Goyle were trying (and failing) to invent a drinking game that didn’t involve just hitting each other with brooms.

Everything was glorious chaos.

And then— He appeared.

Draco Malfoy. Hair immaculate. Robes barely wrinkled. Holding a half-empty tumbler of Ogden’s like he’d been sipping it with dignity all night, not downing shots behind the tapestry like the rest of you.

He wasn’t smiling.

“Alright, that’s enough for you.” His voice cut clean through the noise like a knife dipped in ice.

You blinked up at him, half-lounging on the couch, your drink still in hand. “I’m fine.”

“Not the point,” he said flatly, already reaching down and plucking the cup from your fingers like it offended him personally. “You’ve had three of these glowing abominations. That’s two more than I tolerate.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Tolerate? You’re not my father, Malfoy.”

“But someone clearly needs to act like it,” he muttered, casting a glance over his shoulder at the madness around you. He leaned in.