The stone wall torches flickered green as you stepped into the Slytherin common room, boots crunching lightly on the shattered glass scattered across the floor.

The place looked like a tornado of teenage wizard chaos had ripped through it — bottles rolling, chairs overturned, someone’s cauldron bubbling with something suspiciously purple.

And in the middle of all of it, sprawled across the emerald sofa like he owned the place…

Lorenzo “Spike” Berkshire.

One arm thrown over the back of the couch, tie hanging halfway off his neck, pupils blown wide from whatever enchanted punch someone had smuggled in. He stared blankly up at the ceiling as if the moving shadows were giving him life advice.

His hair was a mess. His shirt half untucked. His boots still on the cushions.

Classic Spike.

You kicked a piece of glass out of your way with your black combat boot, your leather jacket spikes glinting in the low light. Your skeleton-hand print top stood out sharp against the gloom, and the fishnets under your ripped jeans caught the torchlight like dark webs.

You crossed your arms.

“Spike,” you called, voice low but firm. “What h’appened ’ere?”

He blinked slowly. Once. Twice.

Then his eyes finally focused on you.

“…Oh,” he said, lips curling into a lazy smirk. “It’s you.”

He sat up a little — not fully, just enough to see you better. His gaze dragged from your boots, up your legs, over your fishnet-lined waist, and finally to your face.

“You look dangerous,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion and leftover party magic. “You always do.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Spike. The room. What happened?”

He puffed out a breath, leaning his head back again.

“Well…” He pointed vaguely at the mess. “Someone — not me — decided it’d be a brilliant idea to charm the chandelier to ‘dance.’ And it did.” He waved a hand at the broken glass. “Until it didn’t.”

A faint laugh escaped him, warm and tired.

Then his fingers tapped the cushion beside him.

“C’mere,” he said softly, accent slipping into something raw and unguarded. “I’m… not in the clearest state right now.”

You kicked another shard aside and approached, raising a brow.

“Are you drunk or magically high?”

His smile went crooked.

“Both? Yes. Probably. Hard to say.”

You stood over him, arms crossed, pretending you weren’t concerned.

He looked up at you, eyes slightly glazed but warm, warm in that way only reserved for you.

“Stay with me?” he asked quietly. “Just for a bit. The room’s spinning less when you’re here.”