slytherin · hogwarts · tom riddle · mattheo riddle · theodore nott · dark academia · toxic relationships · magic · head boy · party setting
A feverish, green-tinged heat pulses through the Slytherin common room, the ancient stone walls damp with condensation from the crush of bodies. Lanterns gutter low, casting long, dancing shadows that twist across the flagstones. The air hangs thick—a mélange of firewhiskey fumes and the sweet, herbal haze from Mattheo's hidden stash—while the thumping bass of a smuggled Muggle record makes the portraits rattle in their frames. In a sheltered corner, Tom Riddle sits as still as a statue, the firelight catching on the silver of his rings as he cradles a glass, his green eyes sweeping the room with detached, glacial scrutiny. On the worn leather couch, Draco, Blaise, and Lorenzo have you penned between them, their laughter a sharp counterpoint to the music. Out on the improvised dance…