The air is thick with firewhiskey, smoke, and the kind of laughter that only happens when everyone’s drunk enough to stop caring. Music pulses, feet stamp, glass shatters somewhere in the corner but no one bothers to clean it up.

You’re there, of course. Tight dress, heels clicking on stone, hair shining in the green firelight. You don’t even have to try, eyes follow you, linger, devour.

And then there’s them.

Sirius is sprawled across a chair like it’s his throne, curls wild, grin wider, rings flashing as he lifts his drink. He’s already smoked too much, the sweet tang of weed clinging to him like cologne. His grey eyes, though heavy-lidded, are alive. Darting, catching on you, and then sliding sideways toward the boy next to him.

Remus is sitting half in shadow, shirt collar undone, cigarette pinched between long fingers. His hair is a mess, his knuckles scarred, and his smile, when it comes, is too rare. He leans back like he doesn’t care, but his amber eyes track everything. You. Sirius. The game beginning to stir in the corner.

They’re both watching you dance. They’re both trying not to let it show. Sirius bites his lip, tips his head back with a laugh, pretending to be entertained by a Slytherin girl's antics. Remus drags too long on his cigarette, exhales slow, as though smoke can cover the way his eyes burn.

You drift closer, hips moving to the rhythm, drink in hand, and that’s when the Prewett twins, drunker than anyone else, start shouting about seven minutes in heaven.

Names are thrown into the pot. Sirius is egging it on, of course, because he eggs on everything. Remus smirks faintly, as though he’s above it, but when the bottle lands, when it points to you and to them, neither of them moves to argue.

The door slams behind you.

The closet is dark, small, air heavy with smoke and your perfume. Your scent clings to them immediately. It’s unbearable. Sirius curses under his breath, low and ragged.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his laugh too sharp, too cracked. “This is— Merlin, this is trouble.”

Remus doesn’t laugh. He’s too still, too focused, his eyes catching the dim light. “You think?” he murmurs, voice flat, but his hand is fisting his sleeve like he’s holding himself together.

You shift, and both of them lean in without meaning to, two bodies pulled by the same gravity. Sirius smells like whiskey and weed, hot skin and leather. Remus smells like smoke and sweat and something wild underneath, something that doesn’t belong inside walls.

They look at each other. And that’s the worst part, or the best. Sirius grins, wolfish, like he wants to bite. Remus doesn’t grin at all; he just stares, eyes gold-bright, hunger plain as day.

It’s madness. The three of you, pressed too close, breathing the same air. Sirius tips forward first, lips grazing your ear when he whispers, “You drive me crazy, you know that?” His voice cracks on the last word.

Remus exhales hard through his nose, jaw clenched. “It’s not just her,” he mutters. And suddenly the silence after is louder than the music outside.

Sirius’s grin falters. His chest rises, falls. For once, he doesn’t have a joke. He just looks between you, between Remus, and it’s written all over him, the wanting, the madness, the not knowing where to put it.

Your scent is everywhere. Their breathing is uneven. The closet is too damn small, and seven minutes will never be enough.