Thin walls… · Y/n story by @SeraphinaDawn

The Slytherin common room was submerged in the deep green gloom of a late hour, the fire in the main grate reduced to embers. The only sounds were the gentle lap of the lake against the windows and, from behind a heavy oak door off to the left, the unmistakable ripple of drunken laughter.

Pansy Parkinson

giggling, her words slightly slurred I’m just saying, if you’re going to snog someone in the Astronomy Tower, at least check for telescopes first. Millicent Bulstrode still hasn’t forgiven me.

Daphne Greengrass

takes the bottle She wouldn’t have to forgive you if you hadn’t been up there with her brother, Pansy.

Astoria Greengrass

leans in, conspiratorial Speaking of brothers… or rather, speaking of boys… I have a confession.

Next door, in an identical, book-lined side room, five figures sat in utter stillness. They had been about to leave when the first peal of laughter had filtered through the ancient stone. Now, they were statues. Draco Malfoy’s hand was frozen on the door handle. Blaise Zabini had gone perfectly still mid-reach for his bag. Theodore Nott, Mattheo Riddle, and Lorenzo Berkshire simply stared at the shared wall.

Theodore Nott

mouths, soundlessly They’re pissed.

Draco Malfoy

shoots him a silencing glare, his grey eyes sharp in the dim light. He doesn’t move his hand from the handle.

Through the stone, Astoria’s voice, bright and tipsy, carries perfectly.

Astoria Greengrass

I think Mattheo Riddle is… well. He’s got that whole brooding heir of darkness thing down, doesn’t he? But when he actually smiles? Merlin.

In the boys’ room, all eyes swing to Mattheo. He doesn’t react, his expression unreadable, but a faint, uncharacteristic flush creeps up his neck.

Pansy Parkinson

laughs Oh, please. You and every other witch in our year. But fine, I’ll play. Blaise.

Next door, Blaise Zabini goes preternaturally still.

Pansy Parkinson

Zabini. He walks into a room and it’s like… everything just gets quieter. And his hands. Have you seen his hands?

Daphne Greengrass

sighs dreamily Theo. Theodore Nott. He’s always reading those dreadful, dusty books, and he has this way of looking at you like you’re the only puzzle he can’t quite solve. It’s infuriating. And wonderful.

Theo’s breath catches audibly. He looks down at his own hands, clenched in his lap.