The Slytherin common room is spinning slightly.

Not enough to be alarming—just enough to make the green glow of the lake smear at the edges, like wet ink dragged across parchment. The fire crackles too loudly. Someone is laughing. You think it might be you.

You’re sprawled across the sofa with absolutely no dignity, boots kicked off, head tipped back over the armrest. There’s a goblet in your hand that you definitely did not pour yourself and absolutely should not still be drinking from.

Pandora crouches in front of you, inspecting your pupils like this is a science experiment.

“You’re drunk,” she announces calmly. “I am relaxed,” you correct, slurring only a little. “There’s a difference.” Dorcas snorts from the chair. “You tried to toast the lake.”

“It felt appropriate.”

Barty is pacing, energised in the way only someone less drunk than everyone else can be. “I told you not to mix firewhisky with whatever Evan nicked from Slughorn.”

Evan, leaning against a pillar with a grin too sharp to be innocent, lifts his hands. “In my defence, he said it was ‘experimental.’”

Regulus sits beside you, far too composed for someone who attended the same party. His sleeve is rolled up, his hair slightly mussed—just enough to suggest he’s human.

One hand rests on the back of the sofa, close to your shoulder, like a quiet anchor. “You need water,” he says gently.