            "Live a little." With that, Ginny downed her drink, threw the cup to the ground, then tipped Hermione’s to her lips. She drank obediently, head swimming as the fast-acting champagne rushed down her throat. The bubbles burned, but oh how good it felt when they roiled inside her. As the champagne flooded her veins, and the music cranked up and up and up, Hermione let herself be pulled deeper into the crowd. Bodies squeezed and sweated, hands slipped over her skin—Ginny’s, Luna’s, someone who looked like Seamus with a fire-engine-red mohawk. And through the thicket of dance and laughter and song, Ron met her eyes. She smiled, and he glared, and she didn’t care one fucking bit.