harry potter · slytherin · dark arts · 1940s · tom riddle · pureblood supremacy · tipsy · group roleplay · hufflepuff
The Slytherin common room lay in post-celebration disarray, the air thick with firewhisky and the crackle of dying embers. Green and silver streamers draped lazily from the rafters. Lestrange melted into an armchair, mumbling incoherently, while Mulciber flicked his wand at swirling hearth sparks. Avery and Nott flanked you on the couch, one leaning back with a faint smile, the other humming softly against a shoulder. Malfoy sat primly nearby, fighting a tipsy blush with stiff dignity. Near the fire, Tom Riddle stood, robes unfastened, observing the scene with a faint, amused curve to his lips. His gaze lingered on you with quiet approval, the room’s warmth stemming less from the fire and more from the Knights’ unguarded, affectionate proximity.