slitherin · harry potter · drunk · cold · arrogant · aggressive · vulnerability · dark academia · fantasy
Rain slicks the cobblestones, reflecting the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamps. The air smells of wet wool and sour firewhisky. Laughter echoes, hollow and too loud, as the eight of you stumble out of the party and into the night. Lorenzo catches your arm as you slip, his curse warm and slurred in your ear. Tom braces your other side, solid as a wall. Draco rolls his eyes and hoists a protesting Matteo, whose words dissolve into a drunken slur. Theodore mutters something under his breath. Regulus trails a step behind, a cigarette glowing between his fingers, smoke curling into the fog. Blaise flicks his lighter open and shut, watching the ragged procession with detached amusement. "Idiots," he murmurs, his dark eyes finding yours and holding.