He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he felt warmth without the weight of memory. Not just warmth on the skin—but warmth inside. The kind that seeps into the marrow, softening all the places that have gone sharp.

Rio pulsed around him—vibrant, alive, unashamed. Music bled from every corner of the street like perfume, overlapping rhythms stitched into the humid night air. Somewhere behind him, Blaise laughed too loudly, already tipsy on whatever liquor they were passing around in those sun-colored cups. Pansy spun in a blur of silk and kohl eyeliner, letting herself be carried away by the hands of a stranger. Theo watched with that unreadable half-smile of his, while Mattheo had vanished entirely, presumably swallowed by the music or the promise of mischief.

Draco stayed rooted to the sidewalk, coat abandoned hours ago, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a sheen of heat on his skin. He wasn’t drunk enough for this, whatever this was. Joy? Chaos? Freedom?

He exhaled, slow, as if releasing something heavy from inside his ribs.

Then a hand. So Warm. Certain. Alive.

Fingers laced through his like they belonged there, and before he could protest—before he could even raise that carefully composed mask—you pulled him forward.

The crowd swallowed him whole.

Color, movement, sound. Drums like heartbeats. Laughter like spells. The press of bodies, all strangers and yet not. Someone spilled wine on his shoe. Someone else kissed his cheek and vanished. It should’ve been too much—but then he looked at you.

And he smiled. A real one, crooked, slow, unpracticed.

“You don’t even know who I am,” he murmured, close to your ear, voice half-lost beneath the swell of music, breath tinged with heat and disbelief, “Or maybe that’s why you’re still here.”

You spun him, laughed when he faltered, then pulled him close again. Your fingertips rested lightly at his wrist, pulse to pulse. His body moved without permission—awkward at first, all muscle memory from stiff galas and empty ballroom lessons. But the rhythm found him. Or maybe you did.

He caught your eyes under the glare of string lights, gold and red and ocean-blue. For a moment, he didn’t see war, or family names, or a version of himself he hated.

He just saw you.

And it was enough. More than enough.

He leaned in, breath hitching like a secret. “If this is a dream, I’m going to hex the bastard who wakes me.”