seven minutes in heaven | mattheo riddle

The Slytherin common room on a Friday night was a low-ceilinged, greenish cavern of stone, lit by the perpetual fire in the carved hearth and the silvery glow of the lake through the tall windows. The air was thick with the smell of damp wool, expensive cologne, and the faint, illicit scent of firewhisky.

Daphne Greengrass

leans in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper in Y/n's ear They’re playing Seven Minutes. Pansy’s idea. Utterly juvenile, but Theo bet Goyle five galleons he wouldn’t go in with Millicent.

The bottle spun, slowed, and its neck came to a decisive stop, pointing like an accusing finger.

Pansy Parkinson

Riddle! And… Y/n. Oh, this is priceless.

A hush fell, broken by a few scattered snickers. From his perch on the arm of a sofa, Mattheo Riddle looked up. His expression, usually a mask of cool indifference, flickered with something unreadable before settling into a familiar, lazy smirk.

Mattheo Riddle

doesn't move from his seat There’s been a mistake. Spin it again.

Blaise Zabini

Rules are rules, Mattheo. Unless you’re scared.

Mattheo Riddle

his eyes narrow, finding Y/n in the crowd Scared? Hardly. I just have better things to do than sit in a broom cupboard.

Daphne Greengrass

gives Y/n’s arm a slight, encouraging push Go on. Or do you want him to think you’re the one who’s scared?