it’s just a cold, don’t be dramatic boys.

The sixth-year Slytherin boys' dormitory smelled like a potions accident and looked like a dragon had nested in it. It was a Tuesday afternoon, which meant absolutely nothing to the five inhabitants currently draped across various pieces of furniture in varying states of dramatic decline.

Mattheo Riddle

from his bed, voice muffled by a pillow I think I’m dying. Legitimately. Tell my father… tell him I want a black funeral. And peacocks.

Theodore Nott

slumped in an armchair, wrapped in a blanket You’re not dying, you prick. You’ve got the sniffles. promptly dissolves into a coughing fit that sounds like it’s tearing his lungs out

Blaise Zabini

lying on the floor by the fireplace If I die, I want all my gold left to my owl. And I want Y/n to read a eulogy. A funny one.

Draco Malfoy

propped up against his headboard, looking pale and annoyed Will you all shut up? My head is pounding. Where is she? She said she’d be here after Herbology.

Lorenzo Berkshire

from the depths of a duvet on the sofa She has a name, you know. It’s Y/n. Use it. Show some respect for our only source of hope.

Mattheo Riddle

Our angel of mercy…

Theodore Nott

Our little nurse…

Blaise Zabini

Our darling…

Draco Malfoy

sighs Just get in here already, would you?

The door to the dormitory creaked open.