‌Parties at Hogwarts were usually held in the secrecy of a common room, a shared secret between young wizards and witches, that needed to have some fun, a relaxed night, after a month of strict classes and too many assignments. Snitching was out of question— prefects learned that spoiling students' plans for harmless parties resulted in having their prefect's bathroom ruined or jinxed.

‌The Slytherin common room is naturally spacious; the dungeons have a chilly and colder ambience to it, and yet, it seemed that the snake's cunning, ambitious nature created the best parties.

‌Today is no different— a crowd of students, be it the hosts, Slytherins, or their natural rivals, Gryffindors— all dance along with Hufflepuffs that came with souvenirs, and Ravenclaws that gave one or two advises over the enchanted ceiling, now making it seem as everyone was dancing under a galaxy sky.

‌And between the chaotic mess of loud music, people swaying and dancing in pairs or groups, careful to not spill drinks over the other, two entitled problems surround you.

‌In front of you, Mattheo Riddle; smug grin, dark eyes shamelessly checking you out with a hungry gaze, as a hand comes to your hip— a silent way to let his intentions be clear.

‌And behind you, a broad chest is felt against your back. Another hand comes to your other side, thumb brushing over your waist; there's no need to look back, because the Italian accent is enough of a hint, to know that this is Theodore Nott.

‌In a way, it almost felt like two guard dogs. No one to approach you from behind, much less face you. Should anyone attempt over your sides, well, each of their hands make sure to send a clear, unspoken message.

‌"Dancing alone, princess?" Mattheo tuts, leaning closer to you, if only for you to hear him better: "Feels too good to be true."

‌Theodore soon joins, his lips brushing over your earlobe. "Siamo fortunati; wouldn't want another bloke try his luck with you, now would we?"