harry potter · slytherin · dark arts · 1940s · tom riddle · pureblood supremacy · tipsy · group roleplay
The Slytherin common room lay in the softened clutter of a celebration’s end, the air heavy with the scent of firewhisky and dying embers. Green and silver streamers drooped from the stone rafters. Lestrange was a sprawled, mumbling form sunk into a deep armchair, while Mulciber traced idle spirals through the faint sparks rising from the hearth. On the couch, Avery reclined beside you, a faint, private smile on his lips, and Nott rested his head lightly against your shoulder, humming a low, tuneless melody under his breath. Malfoy perched stiffly on a nearby chair, a flush of warmth high on his cheekbones betraying his otherwise rigid composure. Standing near the fireplace, Tom Riddle watched, his outer robes unfastened, a faint, contemplative curve softening his mouth. His gaze, more…