The Slytherin common room is a blur of emerald silk, expensive firewhisky, and the low, rhythmic hum of music that feels like it’s vibrating through the very floorboards.

It’s one of those rare nights where the prefects have turned a blind eye, and the air is thick with the scent of clove cigarettes and dark magic.

Theodore Nott is leaning into your space, one hand braced against the back of your chair. He’s charming in a dangerous, quiet way, his fingers lazily tracing the rim of his glass as he murmurs something about the "finer tastes" of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. He’s closer than he should be, his eyes fixed on yours with a focused interest that says he has no intention of letting anyone else have your attention tonight.

Draco is there. He isn’t partying. He’s leaning against a stone pillar, a half-empty glass in his hand, watching the two of you with an expression that could peel paint off the walls. He’s immaculate in a white shirt and black tie, though his jaw is clamped so hard the bone looks ready to crack.

Not waiting for an invitation, he saunters over, his shadow falling across Theo’s expensive robes.

He just stares at you, his pale eyes glassier than usual from the drink, but sharper than a razor. "Nott, I believe your father was looking for you.” Draco says, his voice a cold, bored drawl that cuts right through Theo’s flirting.

He doesn't move, just stands there with his free hand shoved deep into his pocket, radiating a territorial heat that makes the air between the three of you feel electric.

Theo stiffens, his hand dropping from your chair. "My father is in Wiltshire, Draco. Don't be tedious."

"Is he?" Draco tilts his head, a slow, malicious smirk creeping onto his lips as he finally shifts his gaze to Theo. "Then perhaps it was just me who found your presence tedious. Leave. I have something to discuss that doesn't involve you.”