The Slytherin boys make a bet: whoever gets you to go with them to the Yule Ball first wins. Ten days, one winner, five desperate boys.
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@gauntOkay, so John’s here. Hi. I’m narrating. This is the Slytherin common room, which is currently giving ‘submerged gothic library’ but with better lighting and significantly more ego per square foot. Low, greenish light from the lake windows, dark leather sofas, a fire that crackles like it’s judging you. The usual suspects are draped around. It’s a week before the Yule Ball announcements are official official, but the rumor mill is already operating at full, unhinged capacity. The air is thick with the scent of ambition, expensive cologne, and the quiet, desperate need to not be the one who shows up alone. Let’s set the scene, shall we?
On the largest sofa, looking like he owns the fabric it’s stitched from, is Draco Malfoy. He’s slouched, one arm thrown over the back, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches the room. To his right, Theo Nott is half-sprawled, humming something under his breath and looking vaguely amused by existence itself. Across from them, Mattheo Riddle is sitting with that unnervingly still posture of his, sharpening a dagger with a cloth—because of course he is. Lorenzo Berkshire is perched on the arm of a nearby chair, one eyebrow raised as he listens. Blaise Zabini is leaning against the mantelpiece, the firelight catching the sharp planes of his face. He looks bored. He is probably calculating everyone’s net worth in his head.
Pansy Parkinson
sips her tea, eyes scanning the group The whispering is getting pathetic. It’s all anyone’s talking about in the dorms.
Cressida Rosier
It’s the only thing worth talking about until exams. adjusts the sleeve of her robe The speculation is more entertaining than the actual event will be.
Draco Malfoy
Please. The event will be a circus. The speculation is just the clowns warming up. He lets out a long, exaggerated sigh. The real question is who’s brave enough to be my plus-one. It’s a public service, really. Sparing some poor soul from a night of mediocre conversation.
Theodore Nott
Your humility is, as always, breathtaking, Draco.
Blaise Zabini
doesn’t look away from the fire He’s not wrong about the mediocre conversation part. Most of the offers I’ve overheard would cure insomnia.
Lorenzo Berkshire
Offers? You’re getting offers? I’ve just been getting… looks. Heavy, meaningful looks from across the library. It’s unsettling.
Mattheo Riddle
stops sharpening, looks up That’s because you keep making eye contact and smiling. It’s an invitation.
Lorenzo Berkshire
Smiling is polite!
Theodore Nott
Your version of polite is what most people call ‘aggressive flirting,’ Enzo.
Draco Malfoy
waves a dismissive hand It doesn’t matter. It’s a simple equation. You pick the best-looking, most tolerable person available, and you have a passably good time. The hard part is finding someone who won’t embarrass you on the dance floor.
Pansy Parkinson
You say that like you’ve already got a shortlist.
Draco Malfoy
I don’t need a list. I’ve got one person in mind.
A beat of silence. Not a dramatic, record-scratch silence, but the kind where five very observant people suddenly stop pretending they’re not listening. Theo stops humming. Mattheo’s eyes flick to Draco. Lorenzo leans forward slightly. Blaise finally turns his head from the fire.
Blaise Zabini
…Go on.
Draco Malfoy
Grins, all white teeth and mischief Y/n.
John’s note: And there it is. The name drops into the conversation like a pebble into a still pond. Except this pond is full of piranhas. Highly stylized, aristocratic piranhas.
Theodore Nott
Y/n? He says it slowly, like he’s tasting the idea. Interesting choice.
Lorenzo Berkshire
You’re betting on Y/n? Bold. They’ve turned down, what, three people already this week?
Draco Malfoy
They turned down Gregory Goyle. And some Hufflepuff. The bar is subterranean. He sits up straighter, the playful glint in his eyes sharpening into something more competitive. I’m not betting on them. I’m stating a fact. I could get Y/n to say yes. Easy.
Mattheo Riddle
sets the dagger down on the table with a soft, precise click That’s a claim.
Blaise Zabini
It is. And it’s a boring one if it’s not tested.
Draco Malfoy
Test it? What, you think you could do better?
Blaise Zabini
shrugs one shoulder I know I could. Y/n’s clever. They’d see right through your… whole thing. He gestures vaguely at Draco. It’d take finesse.
Lorenzo Berkshire
Oh, now this is getting good. He smirks. You’re both wrong, by the way. Y/n likes a challenge. Someone who doesn’t just… declare victory before the game starts.
Theodore Nott
chuckles softly So we all think we could be the one to convince Y/n to go to the ball?
Mattheo Riddle
It’s not a matter of thought. It’s a matter of strategy.
Draco Malfoy
looks around at the four of them, his grin widening Alright. You’re all so confident? Let’s make it official. A bet.
John, internally: Oh, here we go. The moment the fanfiction tags warned us about. The catalyst. The inciting incident. The stupid, beautiful, chaotic mistake. They have no idea what they’re about to unleash. I’m so excited.
Lorenzo Berkshire
I’m listening.
Draco Malfoy
Simple rules. Five of us. We have until the official sign-up sheet closes in… ten days. First one to get a ‘yes’ from Y/n wins. The losers have to do a forfeit. Something public. And embarrassing.
Blaise Zabini
Sabotage?
Draco Malfoy
His eyes gleam. Clever sabotage allowed. Nothing that gets us detention or actually hurts anyone. But if you can… creatively undermine the competition? Fair game.
Mattheo Riddle
And what constitutes ‘winning’? A verbal agreement?
Draco Malfoy
A clear, unambiguous ‘yes’ to attending the Yule Ball with you. Witnessed, ideally. No take-backs.
Theodore Nott
runs a hand through his hair, smiling This is the most Slytherin thing we’ve done all term. I’m in.
Blaise Zabini
Obviously.
Lorenzo Berkshire
Wouldn’t miss it.
Mattheo Riddle
nods once Agreed.
Draco Malfoy
Perfect. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. It stays between us. No one else knows. Especially not Y/n.
The five of them exchange looks—a quick, silent circuit of understanding, challenge, and pure, unadulterated scheming. The bet is sealed. The common room feels suddenly smaller, charged. And somewhere, completely unaware, Y/n is probably just trying to finish their Potions essay, blissfully ignorant that they’ve just become the grand prize in a high-stakes, pureblood rivalry game. God, I love my job.
The door to the common room swings open.