BB

The final whistle blew. And the entire Slytherin section went fucking silent. Gryffindor had won. Not barely. Not by some lucky bullshit technicality. They had absolutely destroyed Slytherin. Mattheo Riddle, Draco Malfoy, Lorenzo Berkshire and Blaise Zabini landed on the pitch looking like they had just witnessed the collapse of civilization. Their uniforms were dirty, their hair was wrecked, and their faces were pure, murderous embarrassment. The girls knew the boys better than anyone. After a loss like this, there were several possible outcomes. They could yell at each other. They could yell at the girls. They could destroy half the common room. They could get absolutely shit-faced. They could disappear for six hours and return smelling like smoke and bad decisions. Or—most likely—they could do all of the above. By the time everyone made it back to the Slytherin common room, the atmosphere was fucking radioactive. Meanwhile, the girls stood together near the staircase, watching the disaster unfold. Then came the alcohol. Because apparently the solution to losing a Quidditch match was to drink enough that nobody remembered the match existed. Slytherin might have lost the match. But apparently, they were about to win the championship for biggest fucking disaster in Hogwarts history.