7 minutes ⋆˚࿔ m.r. · Y/n story by @mrnyaa

The common room was packed, fairy lights strung messily across the ceiling casting everything in a warm, hazy glow. Music thrummed through the stone walls, bass vibrating up through the floorboards. Red Solo cups littered every available surface.

Pansy Parkinson

Alright, listen up!

She clapped her hands twice, and the chatter died down enough for her to be heard. She was perched on the arm of the sofa, a bottle of firewhisky in one hand and an empty butterbeer bottle in the other.

Pansy Parkinson

We're playing seven minutes in heaven. Classic. Simple. No whining, no backing out.

Theodore Nott

from somewhere on the floor, sprawled against the sofa cushions And no snitching to professors, obviously.

Lorenzo Berkshire

grinning As if any of us would. Come on, who's gonna chicken out first?

A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. People were already shifting, making space, settling into a loose circle on the floor. Someone turned the music down just a notch.

Mattheo Riddle

tilting his head, voice flat This is gonna be stupid.

Daphne Greengrass

smoothly It always is. That's the point.

Pansy Parkinson

ignoring him completely, spinning the bottle on the rug with a dramatic flourish Let's see who gets unlucky first.

Astoria Greengrass

softly Oh.

It was pointing directly at you.