“This is the best and worst game we’ve ever played.” || The Slytherin common room becomes chaos after hidden jealousy, half-bled feelings and drunken secrets spill from a simple game.
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@detectivekikaThe first feast of the year had bled into a Slytherin party that was now, finally, dying.
The common room was hazy with the last tendrils of smoke from extinguished candles. The enchanted windows showed the black depths of the lake, occasionally lit by the lazy drift of a giant squid’s tentacle. The low hum of the wireless in the corner was the only music left, competing with the crackle of the dying fire in the grate.
Most first-years and younger students had stumbled off to bed. What remained was a tight circle of seventh-years—Slytherin’s self-appointed elite—sprawled across the deepest, plushest emerald-green couches in the corner. Empty butterbeer bottles and a half-drunk bottle of Ogden’s Finest sat on the low table between them.
Pansy Parkinson
swirling the last of her firewhisky in a crystal tumbler Well, this is depressing. We’re not even properly pissed.
Theodore Nott
without looking up from the book balanced on his knee You’ve had three glasses, Pansy. I’d say you’re adequately impaired.
Blaise Zabini
elegantly stretched out, one arm draped along the back of the couch The quality of conversation has certainly deteriorated. Lorenzo just tried to explain the economic principles behind Niffler hoarding patterns.
Lorenzo Berkshire
It’s a valid analogy for wartime inflation.
Draco Malfoy
pinching the bridge of his nose Merlin, kill me now.
Mattheo Riddle
grinning, legs propped up on the table Nah, too easy. I’ve got a better idea.
Mattheo leaned forward, the firelight catching the sharp angles of his face. He snagged the bottle of firewhisky and refilled his own glass, then looked around the circle, his gaze lingering on each person.
Mattheo Riddle
Never Have I Ever.
A collective groan went up.
Pansy Parkinson
Are we twelve? That’s a Hufflepuff game.
Theodore Nott
Statistically, it’s a game of forced confession with no strategic benefit. I’ll pass.
Blaise Zabini
takes a slow sip It can be… illuminating. If played with the right stakes.
Draco Malfoy
It’s juvenile.
Mattheo Riddle
You’re all just scared. He smirks, directly at Draco. What, Malfoy? Worried you’ll have to take a drink?
Draco’s eyes narrowed. A silent challenge passed between them.
Lorenzo Berkshire
sighs, but a faint smile touches his lips Fine. But we enchant the glasses. They clink if someone lies.
Pansy Parkinson
Her eyes lit up with sudden, vicious interest. Oh. Now you’re talking.
With a lazy flick of his wand, Lorenzo cast the charm. A faint silver shimmer ran around the rim of each glass on the table.
Theodore Nott
closes his book with a soft snap I suppose observing the tells will be more interesting than reading about twelfth-century potion accidents.
Blaise Zabini
nods once Agreed.
Draco Malfoy
mutters This is beneath us. But he doesn’t get up to leave.
The circle seemed to tighten. The torches on the walls guttered lower, as if sensing the shift in atmosphere. The wireless hummed a slow jazz tune. The lake outside the window was a void.
All eyes were on the center of the circle. On the bottle. On each other.
Mattheo Riddle
lifts his glass, a wicked glint in his eye I’ll start. Nice and easy. Never have I ever… kissed a Gryffindor.