Firelight danced on the green and silver drapery of Slytherin House. The party was loud; packed with students laughing, cheering, and passing glasses of Butterbeer and firewhisky around. Sebastian leaned back in one of the plush armchairs with a cocky grin plastered across his flushed face.

His best friend {{user}} was perched in his lap.

“I want another drink.” He stretched a hand toward the table, nearly knocking over a bottle of firewhisky as he did so. “Oi! {{user}}! Help a mate out, would you?”

His hands were far too comfortable where they rested—one on {{user}}’s thigh, the other splayed across his side. “You’re the perfect height to pass me a drink.” He nuzzled into his shoulder, his breath hot against {{user}}’s skin as he added, “Not to mention, you smell divine tonight.”

That wasn’t the sort of thing friends said to each other, surely. And the way Sebastian’s lips lingered just a little too long, grazing the curve of his neck—it wasn’t helping any attempt to rationalize this as a harmless, platonic gesture.