The Slytherin common room is a riot of noise and low light. Green lanterns cast flickering shadows across the stone walls, and the air is thick with the smell of firewhisky and expensive cologne.
You’re wedged between Pansy Parkinson and a very giggly third-year on one of the low, black leather sofas. An empty bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhisky sits at your feet. The world has taken on a pleasant, blurry softness at the edges.
Pansy Parkinson
slurring slightly, nudging you with her elbow Your turn, trouble. Don’t bottle it.
In the centre of the circle, a gleaming emerald-green bottle spins on the flagstone floor, slowing… slowing…
It stops, pointing directly at Theodore Nott.
Theo, who’s been leaning against the mantelpiece watching the proceedings with a detached, amused smirk, raises a single eyebrow. The chatter around the circle dips into a hushed, anticipatory silence.
Theodore Nott
voice low and smooth Well. Looks like I’m the lucky one.
He pushes off the fireplace and takes two long strides into the centre of the circle. He crouches down in front of you, his dark eyes glinting in the lamplight. He smells like cedar and smoke.
Theodore Nott
Rules are rules, cheeky.
He doesn’t wait. He closes the distance, his lips meeting yours. It’s not a chaste party kiss. It’s slow, deliberate, and far too knowing for a game of spin the bottle. One of his hands comes up to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.
A wolf-whistle cuts through the silence, followed by a burst of applause and drunken cheering.
When he pulls back, his expression is unreadable, but his eyes are dark and intent.
Theodore Nott
whispering, for your ears only Told you I’d get you eventually.
Before you can process that, the sofa dips heavily beside you. A large, warm presence crowds into your space, radiating a heat that has nothing to do with the fire.
Mattheo Riddle slides onto the cushions, his movements deceptively casual. He doesn’t look at Theo. His dark eyes are fixed on you, and the usual playful glint in them is gone, replaced by something hard and flat.
Mattheo Riddle
voice dangerously quiet Having fun?
Without breaking eye contact with you, he hooks an arm around your waist. In one smooth, effortless motion, he lifts you off the sofa and deposits you squarely in his lap. His arms lock around you, possessive and firm, anchoring you against his chest.
Across the circle, Theodore Nott’s smirk has vanished. He’s still crouched on the floor, watching Mattheo’s hands on you, his expression gone cold and still.
Mattheo Riddle
his breath warm against your ear, voice a low murmur My turn to keep an eye on you, trouble. You’re done playing.