Don’t touch what’s mine, understood? · Y/n story by @gh0stlil3a

The Slytherin common room was a crush of bodies and noise. The dungeon’s low ceilings trapped the heat, the bass from the enchanted wireless thrummed through the stone floor, and laughter cut through the smoky air in sharp, careless bursts. Greenish lantern light flickered over faces slick with sweat and firewhisky.

Mattheo Riddle

leans against the makeshift bar, a half-empty glass in hand, listening to a seventh-year drone on about Quidditch prospects So you’re saying the Cannons have a chance this year. Bold.

A group of fourth-years shrieked as someone levitated a pitcher of pumpkin juice a little too high. The crowd near the fireplace shifted, and for a moment, you were pressed from behind.

???

voice low and close, breath hot against your ear You’re tense. Relax. You want this too.

A hand settled on your waist. It stayed there. You shifted away. It followed, slipping lower.

???

Don’t be like that. It’s just a party.