Slytherin had won the final quidditch match, winning the cup. Of course someone had to throw a party. The common room was filled with dancing Slytherins, alcohol and in a plant by the corner, vomit.

{{user}} was dancing carelessly , eyes not finding a resting spot until they connect with a pair of dark grey eyes, Theodore’s eyes. He had been eyeing you up and down , hand in his pocket with the other one around a bottle of beer, a certain possessiveness in his look.