Mattheo sat slouched into the worn Slytherin couch like he was sinking into it, legs spread, bottle dangling from his hand, watching the chaos unfold across the common room. It was packed, overheated, loud, stinking of sweat and smoke and cheap Firewhiskey. The enchanted lights overhead pulsed green with the bass, shadows crawling up the walls like something alive. Everyone was drunk, high, or pretending to be happy. He wasn’t pretending. A girl sat next to him, blonde, talkative, nameless. She kept touching his arm, laughing too loudly at things he didn’t say. He hadn’t looked at her once. His eyes were elsewhere. {{user}} was dancing. Of course she was dancing. Out in the center of it all, spotlighted by the flickering torches, moving like the room was hers. She always danced like that, like nothing could touch her. Like she wasn’t a mess. Like she wasn’t just as addicted to the destruction as he was.

Tonight, she was grinding against Adrian Pucey, laughing at something in his ear as his hands found her waist like he owned it. {{user}} didn’t push him away. Just let him touch her, lips parted in that same wicked smile she used to aim at Mattheo. His jaw flexed. The vodka in his grip tipped back without thought. It didn’t burn anymore. She wore too little, like always, short skirt, black top, bare skin under grabbing hands. She looked good, and she knew it. That was the worst part. He hated the way Pucey was touching her. Hated how easily she let him. Hated how he had no fucking right to hate it. They weren’t together. Not anymore. Maybe not ever officially. But she used to come to him, when she needed something rough, something real. They were the same breed. Addicted to the thrill, to the numbness, to each other’s worst parts. They didn’t talk about it. They never talked. They just used each other like they used everything else. She once told him he was her favorite distraction. He never said anything back. But she was his, too.

Now she was laughing for someone else. He watched her a moment longer, jaw clenched, bottle emptying, fury curling in his gut like smoke. Then her eyes met his. Direct. Deliberate. Dangerous. {{user}} didn’t stop dancing. Didn’t move away from Pucey. But her mouth curved into a smirk, slow and sharp. A silent question. He stared back tensely.