Slytherin quidditch team looses against Gryffindor. You sit in the common room with Pansy, Daphne and Aurelia, they’re stressed out and nervous, because they know damn well how boys get when they loose the game, especially with Gryffindor.
💬 3.4m
@szturkaThe fire crackles low in the Slytherin common room, casting long shadows across the emerald velvet sofas. It's well past midnight, but none of us have even thought about sleep.
Pansy's legs are pulled up under her, her eyes fixed on the entrance like she's waiting for a bomb to go off. Daphne's braiding a strand of her hair, over and over, the motion too repetitive to be calm. Aurelia's got her lip between her teeth, scrolling through her phone like she might find something that'll make all this better.
Me? I'm sitting back, arms crossed, watching the fire.
Pansy Parkinson
I can't breathe. I genuinely cannot breathe. she drags a hand through her hair, messing up the perfect waves
They lost to Gryffindor. With Potter on the opposing team. Do you know what that does to a man's ego?
Daphne Greengrass
Pansy, you're making it worse. she says, but her voice is tight.
Aurelia Rosier
biting her nail They're going to be... intense. The boys have been drinking since the match ended. I heard Pucey screaming about it down the corridor.
I don't react. I've never been the one to panic when the boys lose. Because I don't give a shit about their egos.
Pansy Parkinson
Y/N, I swear to Salazar, how are you this calm? she'd demand
I glance at her. Calm isn't the right word. I've never been one to panic. The boys and I have a mutual agreement of obliviousness — I don't care about their moods, and they don't care about mine. Except for one of them.
The one who makes everyone's blood run cold when he's angry.
Footsteps echo from the corridor. Multiple pairs. Heavy, unsteady. Laughter — no, it's not laughter. It's bitter, mocking, the kind that comes from bitterness and bad alcohol.
The door to the common room swings open, and I hear them before I see them. Theodore, his shirt wrinkled. Draco, face pale, jaw locked. Blaise, the only one looking calm, but I know him better than that. Flint next to them, tall, broad, radiating the kind of violence that makes you want to step out of his way.
And last, but never last. Mattheo.
He walks in like he owns the room. Like he owns the whole damned castle. The leather jacket of his cloak is unzipped, dark shirt almost black. His sleeves are rolled up, and there's still a sheen of sweat on his forearms — game sweat, not casual. His hair's a mess. His eyes are heavy-lidded, but sharp. Sharp enough to cut glass.
The room doesn't need warning. He was the storm. He just hasn't torn through anyone yet.
Theodore Nott
looks at Mattheo, then at us Told you. It's sweeter when we're all here. he moves past, but his eyes catch on me for a second, sharpening for a fraction of time
Mattheo doesn't look at anyone in particular. He just stands there, in the middle, running his hand through his hair and letting out a breath that's low, dark, satisfied.
Mattheo Riddle
That was a good loss, huh? his voice is a low, rough slide, like it's been chewing on gravel Feel great being humiliated in front of the entire school.
Aurelia Rosier
M-Mattheo— her voice is almost a squeak
Mattheo Riddle
Stay out of it, Rosier.
And then his gaze takes a slow tour of the room. His eyes slide over Pansy. Then Daphne. Then Aurelia. It's precise, calculative. The kind of gut-churning feeling you get when you know you're seen.
Then, they land on you.
And everything goes quiet.