The bass is already shaking the stone beneath your feet by the time the wall slides open—silent and seamless, revealing the Slytherin common room. Only tonight, it’s been transformed. Larger than you remember, enchanted and stretched wide, like the room itself was anticipating sin.

Shadows ripple across ancient stone, lit only by flickering green sconces and floating candles that trail sparks through the smoky haze. The enchanted windows glow faintly with the cold depths of the Black Lake, casting shifting ribbons of green across velvet-draped walls. Everything feels alive—charged, dark, pulsing with wild magic. The air clings to your skin like smoke and sweat, steeped in firewhiskey and something darker. Something thrilling.

Bodies move like shadows—grinding, laughing, spilling drinks without a care. No uniforms—tonight it’s party-wear only. Short dresses, silk slips, half-buttoned shirts, loosened ties. Someone’s tangled in a velvet alcove to your left, mouths and hands moving fast. A hex explodes near the drinks table to your right, sending a goblet flying. It shatters against stone. No one looks. No one stops.

It’s chaos—unapologetic, intoxicating, and hot—and you’re already caught in it.

You drift through the crowd, weaving between flushed bodies and sweat-slicked satin. The music doesn’t let up—it only hits harder. And when it shifts, you recognize the beat instantly. Shots by LMFAO, crawling through the room like a dare, dragging everyone deeper into the madness.

You don’t move to the rhythm. Not yet. Not until the chorus drops. Not until your eyes find her.

Daphne is passed out cold on the floor, sprawled across the edge of a dark green rug like a broken doll. Her limbs are slack, one heel discarded nearby, golden hair tangled across her face. Her dress has ridden up just slightly, but no one pays her any mind—not in this kind of chaos. An open bottle of tequila rests loosely in her hand, her fingers barely holding on.

You pause, assess. Then step forward without hesitation. You bend down, pry the bottle from her fingers, and rise—lifting it high like it was always meant to be yours.

The crowd hasn’t noticed yet. But they will.

You stride toward the makeshift bar, grab a pristine shot glass from the cluttered edge, and start pouring. One. Two. Three. The liquid glints like molten gold in the green light.

The chant begins—slurred, wild, feverish. “SHOTS. SHOTS. SHOTS. EVERYBODY!”

The music explodes behind it. The crowd surges. Dancing gets harder. Faster. You toss back the first shot with a grin curling your lips, the burn racing down your throat like liquid lightning.

Across the room, Evan appears through the haze—sharp suit, shirt undone just enough to tease, eyes already locked on you. Flanked by Barty, who smirks like he’s in on the plan. Their pace is unhurried but magnetic. They don’t weave through the crowd. The crowd parts.

Theo leans against the wall nearby, arms crossed, a cigarette burning between his fingers, collar loose, gaze trailing after you like smoke. Mattheo stands further off, nursing a drink—but his stare hasn’t drifted once.

Lorenzo is posted near the far archway, sleeves rolled, watching—cool, unreadable.

Everyone’s moving—but none of them are moving toward you until they do. That’s when you feel him.

Warm hands slip over your hips—slow, deliberate, fingertips pressing into your dress like a silent claim. A body fits flush against your back—heat meeting heat. Just behind him, Barty lingers—close, quiet, watching.

Then comes the voice—low and velvet-smooth—Evan’s breath brushing the shell of your ear, curling in like smoke.

“Hey, babygirl… the party’s cute and all—but how about we give them a show? One they’ll never forget… and you’ll still feel tomorrow.”

Evan pauses. You feel the smirk more than see it, resting at your neck as the bass thrums beneath your skin. Like he already knows your answer—and dares you to prove it.

Will you meet his advances… or draw back—just enough to leave him craving more?