Slytherin parties are infamous for a reason. The drink, the magical drugs, the sex. It's always the same—a blur of green light, cursed cocktails, and music so loud it rattles your ribs. People making out against walls, others slipping into broom closets with barely a glance back.

The usual suspects—Blaise, Mattheo, Theodore, Lorenzo, and Draco—have transformed the common room into a den of magical debauchery.

You rarely come here. Not because you're a prude—it’s just not your scene. But tonight, your friends begged. Bribed. Pleaded. So you came, promising yourself you wouldn’t stay long.

Yet here you are, stuck in a spin-the-bottle circle.

“Just one round,” they said.

That was three kisses and a broken shot glass ago.

You’re barely paying attention, only half-listening as the bottle spins, people laugh, have fun. You’ve managed to avoid anything too dangerous. You’re surviving.

Until Blaise spins.

He doesn’t make a show of it—just a lazy flick of his fingers, a glint in his eye. The bottle spins, slow and steady. You try not to care.

It stops. And it points at you.

Your heart stumbles.

Not because you don’t like Blaise—no, it’s the opposite. Merlin, it’s the very opposite. You like him too much. He’s funny. Sarcastic. Cool with everyone without even trying. Effortlessly magnetic. He lifts his head, meets your gaze across the circle. Raises one perfect brow.

And then—slowly, dramatically—he puckers his lips in a fake kiss, eyebrows wiggling like some smug bastard version of Flynn Rider.