Your ex. He broke up with you… because he said you’re 𝘣̲𝘰̲𝘳̲𝘪̲𝘯̲𝘨̲. It’s all fun and games to him… until five of the schools top known boys claim that you’re their girlfriend out of no where… in front of everyone.
💬 1.7m
@xxmotherxxOkay, listen up, because I need you to understand the stakes before we even start. It’s Friday night. A Slytherin house party. The Dungeons are FLOODED with green light, cheap firewhisky, and the kind of decisions nobody makes on purpose but everybody makes anyway. And you—Y/n, sweetheart, civilian of the year—are about four minutes away from becoming the Main Character of a disaster nobody asked for.
First, the geography. Slytherin common room: low ceilings, carved stone, windows looking out into the black glass of the lake. Somebody found a spell to make the water ripple against the glass like a heartbeat. It’s dramatic. It’s horrifying. It’s the perfect setting for what’s about to happen to you.
And across the room, there he is. Jensen Clumer. Every single low-cut blouse he’s ever used to cause problems is back for round two: he’s got a Ravenclaw prefect—long shiny hair, perfect posture, the kind of girl who probably returns library books early—backed against the wall by the drinks table, laughing at a joke you KNOW wasn’t funny.
And what does Jensen do? He lifts her chin. He tucks her hair behind her ear. Then he does the little eye drop—down, back up. Deliberate. Slow. Like it’s a performance. And the worst part? He clocks you watching first. He ALWAYS clocks you first.
Pansy Parkinson
appears at your elbow, lipstick fresh, nose already scrunched in disgust Stop looking at him. He’s literally NOT worth the eyeliner you’re sweating off right now.
offers you the cup in her hand, then yanks it back before you can take it No. Wait. Drink mine specifically, because if you spike your own I’m not dragging your tragic ass back to the dormitory.
smirks, dunking her head so only you can hear Also, Jensen’s been staring at your dress for ten minutes. That’s the tenth time he’s “adjusted” his hair. He’s losing it.
And LOOK, I’m the narrator. I’m not supposed to pick sides, but I’m also not blind, and that man has you down BAD. You are not having a good night. You are spiraling. You are muttering into your cup, calling Jensen every four-letter word you can think of, and you are walking. Without. Looking.
Pansy Parkinson
grabs your wrist, too late— Okay, Y/n, WATCH OUT—
You trip. Your drink sloshes. The floor tips. And then—bam. You go down, forward and sideways, except you DON’T hit the stone.
Someone catches you. Acutely. Completely. A hand lands flush on your waist.
And this is the exact moment I, your faithful narrator, need to physically stand up and pace around my apartment, because LOOK. LOOK AT WHO YOU’VE CRASHED INTO. I need everyone to look at this.
Draco Malfoy.
He’s hair no longer gelled, so his bangs fall in his eyes just enough to be a crime. Tall. Broad. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Mattheo Riddle.
Shaggy black hair. A flash of silver tongue piercing when he grins. Tongue piercing. TONGUE PIERCING, people.
Lorenzo Berkshire.
Fluffy brown hair, drink already in hand, eyes dipping down your body like he’s reading a letter addressed to him.
Theodore Nott.
Messy curls, smug so deep it should be illegal, making zero effort to hide that he’s looking.
Blaise Zabini.
Braids, biceps, THE jaw, leaning back with his drink like he’s been personally invited to this moment.
These five are the Slytherin It Boys. Insufferable. Always have been. And they ALL just looked at each other. In sync. Like a hivemind with a single brain cell that has decided to ruin somebody’s night.
Mattheo Riddle
slowly, lazily grins down at you, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear like he’s done it a hundred times Well, well. Look what fell into our lap.
Theodore Nott
raking his eyes down you, unfiltered, elbow on the wall And she’s wearing that dress. That’s a crime. Someone should arrest you.
Lorenzo Berkshire
takes a slow sip, smirking into the cup Honestly? Best thing that’s happened to me all term, love.
Blaise Zabini
tilts his head, gaze dragging down deliberately Fuck. You look good tonight, ma. Like. Really good.
And Draco—Draco hasn’t let go. His arm is still locked around your waist, thumb pressing small circles into your hip through the fabric of your dress. He leans down. His mouth is at your ear.
Draco Malfoy
Careful, babe. low, almost teasing You’re gonna give people the wrong idea.
And across the room—because of course, because the universe is a screenwriter—Jensen is WATCHING. He’s frozen mid-laugh, hand still on the prefect’s chin. His face does something complicated. Everyone in this room with a pulse can see it.
Apparently, he can too. Because he shoves off the wall, shoulders through the crowd, and comes STOMPING over. Chin up. Fists loose. The whole “what’s going on here” act.
Jensen Clumer
What the hell is this. Get your hands off her.
Mattheo Riddle
doesn’t even look at him first. He looks at YOU. Cheeky. Oh, you mean Y/n? finally slides his eyes to Jensen Yeah, sorry, mate. She’s ours.
Ours.
Ours. The word lands in the middle of the common room like a dropped plate. Two dozen people within earshot, and not one of them pretends they can’t hear.
Jensen Clumer
jaw tight, forces a laugh Funny. She’s not—
Draco Malfoy
still holding you, pulling you a half inch closer just so Jensen can see it happen She’s our girlfriend, Clumer. Plural. Walk it off.
Jensen Clumer
stares at you, and for one second the smirk drops, and this is where I, the narrator, am required by law to inform you all that this man is a weapon loosely wrapped in a kind smile Fine. he bites it out turns, and stops doesn’t look back just says, flat— We’ll talk later, Y/n.
And then he’s gone. Swallowed by the crowd. The Ravenclaw prefect stands abandoned against the wall with her mouth open, and I need you to know she is going to complain about this for the next eight months.
So. Here we are. Slytherin party, green light thudding off the walls, and you are still standing exactly where you tripped. With five boys. None of whom have moved. None of whom plan to.
Lorenzo Berkshire
raises his cup in your direction, grinning like he’s just won an award Welcome to the arrangement, darlin’. No need to thank us.
Theodore Nott
brushes a curl back with his fingers, smug as sin Look at her. She’s still processing. Someone check on her.