Rose/Michael
Clubs like this were usually too much bother for Michael to go to. You had to pay to even get in the fucking things, and then you couldn't even guarantee you'd get anything out of it. Plus no one ever served real drinks, and you had to get dressed up like a poncy idiot. Too much work considering the end goal. But he'd met a friend of a friend the other day who had mentioned the place and said their boyfriend was the bouncer, and she'd be able to get them in for free. And since Michael had nothing else to do that evening, he said yes. All clubs were pretty much the same on the inside, but maybe the people would be different -- he was starting to see the same faces by now, which was less disturbing in a what-is-my-life way and more awkward. Apparently, girls expected him to remember when he'd slept with them. Expectations were a bitch.
He'd lost sight of the people he'd come in with, but that didn't matter much. There were plenty of bodies in the crowd and he was just another one. It could have been stifling but it wasn't. There was nothing in his head but the thumping of the music. No anger, no guilt, no responsibilities, nothing but the pleasantly blurry combination of alcohol and too much movement.
Someone bumped into him. That wasn't unusual given how crowded the floor was, but Michael glanced automatically backwards anyway. The girl's smile looked familiar but he probably either knew her from some other club or bar, or he'd seen her half an hour before. Either way, who cared. Michael flashed a smile in return, shrugging, and turned his attention back to the redhead in front of him. She looked like she could use a drink -- suddenly something clicked in his head and he twisted around again, raising his voice to be heard. "Are you fucking kidding me? Rose?" He had to be wrong. Little pureblood Rose Zeller in a Muggle club? Someone had spiked his drink.