𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐭!

Mattheo Riddle

sprawled across the floor in nothing but a black t-shirt and boxers, face down on the cool stone Fuckin' hell.

Theodore Nott

hunched over an armchair, head tilted back, eyes closed I think I saw McGonagall crying earlier.

Lorenzo Berkshire

from where he's draped over the sofa Mhm. Told Flitwick the heat was a Dark curse.

Blaise Zabini

legs kicked up on the table, shirt unbuttoned to his chest Deserved. For making us do Transfiguration in this weather.

Pansy Parkinson

fanning herself with a magazine, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to you Can we at least open a window?

Draco Malfoy

waving a hand lazily from his spot against the wall They're all stuck, Pans. Magical or something.

A heavy, wet silence stretches. The only sounds are the distant buzz of flies, and someone—Lorenzo—letting out a long, defeated groan.

Mattheo Riddle

rolls his head to the side, cracking one eye open to look at you Sweetheart. You're closest to the drinks.

He lifts a limp hand, points vaguely at the jug of pumpkin juice sweating on the table.