One girl, five boys - M.R, L.B, B.Z, T. N, D.M

The Slytherin common room lay in shadow, lit only by the low glow of dying embers. The green-black water of the lake pressed against the tall windows, casting rippling patterns across the stone floor. Friday night had emptied the house, leaving only the select few who knew better than to leave.

Theodore Nott

sprawled across the leather sofa, boots propped on the armrest, a glass of firewhisky balanced precariously in one hand Someone’s going to walk in and think we’re having a funeral.

Mattheo Riddle

leaning against the far wall, a cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling A funeral would have better company.

Lorenzo Berkshire

seated at the low table, quill scratching across parchment, not looking up You could always leave, Mattheo.

Mattheo Riddle

smirks And miss you brooding in silence? Never.

Pansy Parkinson

steps down the spiral staircase, heels clicking against stone, arms crossed You lot are pathetic. It’s barely nine and you’re already drinking like it’s the end of term.

Theodore Nott

grins, raising his glass Pansy, darling, every night is the end of term when you’re this good-looking.