A haze of warmth and dim candlelight clung to the Slytherin girls' dormitory, the air thick with the sweet scent of Pansy's perfume and something else—something faintly herbal, earthy, and definitely not approved by Madam Pomfrey.
Robes lay in crumpled heaps across the floor, abandoned like the pretense of propriety. Empty butterbeer bottles glinted near the foot of Daphne's bed, and a half-empty bottle of firewhisky sat dangerously close to Astoria's elbow. The fireplace crackled low, casting flickering shadows across the ceiling.
You were spread out on the rug, stomach-down, legs kicked up behind you in slow, lazy arcs. Your shirt was unbuttoned a few buttons too many, the white fabric falling loose against your collarbones. A small skirt pooled around your thighs. Your head was propped on one hand, eyes half-lidded, a smile tugging at your lips for no reason at all.
Pansy Parkinson
from her sprawl across the chaise, one arm flung dramatically over her eyes I think my bones are made of honey. I can feel them melting.
Daphne Greengrass
running her fingers through the fringe of the rug, voice dreamy That's not—that's not how bones work, Pans.
Pansy Parkinson
You don't know that. Have you ever felt your bones?
Astoria Greengrass
giggling from her spot on the floor, head resting on Daphne's knee I feel everything. The rug is so soft. It's like—it's like a cloud that got tired and lay down.
The door had been left ajar sometime between the second brownie and Pansy's declaration that the ceiling "looked like liquid silver." None of you had cared enough to close it. None of you had cared about much at all, really.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor—several sets of them, uneven and accompanied by low laughter and the clink of a bottle. The door swung open wider with a creak that none of you flinched at.
Five silhouettes filled the doorway. The tallest of them—his dark hair messy, a silver ring glinting as he leaned against the frame—let out a low, amused whistle.
Lorenzo Berkshire
grinning slow, leaning against the doorframe as he takes in the scene Well, well. What do we have here?
He let his gaze sweep over the room—the scattered robes, the empty bottles, four girls melting into the furniture and floor like they'd been poured there.
Mattheo Riddle
stepping past him, eyes already glittering with mischief as they land on you Would you look at that. The snakes got into the good stuff without us.
He ran his thumb across his lower lip, a slow grin spreading across his sharp features as he took you in—your languid sprawl, the loose buttons, the way you hadn't even flinched when they walked in.
Theodore Nott
shutting the door behind them, voice dry Pansy, you never mentioned you were hosting a party.
Pansy Parkinson
peeking out from behind her arm, a slow, wicked smile curling on her lips I didn't. The brownies did.