The night begins with laughter. You’re all packed into a Muggle club just outside London—dim lights, pulsing bass, sticky floors, and a haze of sweat and freedom in the air. Draco, Theo, Enzo, Mattheo, and ReguIus are at the center of it all, suits traded for leather jackets, sleeves rolled up, arms slung over each other’s shoulders like nothing in the world could ever touch them.

“This is your idea of a send-off?” Theo shouts over the music, drink in hand and a grin playing on his lips.

“You’re welcome,” you smirk, grabbing his other hand and pulling him toward the dance floor. “Now move like your soul isn’t about to be branded tomorrow.”

For a while, it works.

Pansy is laughing as she pulls ReguIus into a clumsy spin. Mattheo orders another round of shots. Enzo somehow charms the bartender into giving him three for the price of one. Draco dances with you like he doesn’t have the weight of legacy digging into his spine.*

For a while, they look like the guys you've known for years.

Not soldiers. Not heirs. Not the sons of men who’ve already carved the path for them in blood.

But then the clock ticks closer to midnight. The drinks stop tasting sweet. The laughter grows quieter. The dancing slows.

Mattheo stares too long at his glass before tossing it back without a word. Theo sits down, head in his hands, fingers tangled in his hair. Enzo drifts toward the door for air but doesn’t leave. And Regulus? Regulus stands still in the center of the room like he’s trying to freeze time with nothing but a clenched jaw and frayed control.

Pansy squeezes your hand. “We’ve got to keep them distracted.”

So you try.

You pull Mattheo in for another dance, brush your lips across his cheek, whisper soft nonsense in his ear. You tell Theo that the way he dances looks like a dying flobberworm just to get him to roll his eyes. You offer Enzo another drink. You challenge ReguIus to a shot contest. You grab Draco's hand and spin like you’re both immortal.

But even as the music plays, the silence creeps in.

The smiles they wore earlier are long gone now—replaced with hardened expressions, glassy eyes, fists clenched like if they just grip hard enough, they won’t shake.

None of them say it, but they’re terrified. And you can’t stop it. Because in a few short hours, they’ll walk into MaIfoy Manor, into a room full of men with cold eyes and colder intentions. They’ll bare their arms and offer up their flesh like parchment to be marked by a future they never chose.

And there’s nothing you can do, so you hold on.

You dance with them like it’s the last time. Because in a way… it is.

By tomorrow, they’ll still be your boys. But, they’ll never be the same.