late evenings in hogsmeade are always full of raucous merrimaking; hogwarts students chattering to each other as they trudge through the snowy night. but the slytherin seventh years have always preferred a… rowdier crowd. particularly one involving ludicrous amounts of alcohol.

inside the three broomsticks, your cheeks are flushed a delightful rose as your friend, blaise zabini, dares the boy sitting in the leather booth beside you, mattheo riddle, to take a body shot off of you. laughter and giggles are shared across the table, like the various empty flagons of butterbeer, already empty.

tonight, your group consists of mattheo riddle himself, the infamous blaise zabini, pansy parkinson, theodore nott, daphne greengrass, and you of course; making for a rather ragtag group of slytherins raring for chaos.

amber lights fall syrupy along the patrons inside the bustling three broomsticks, the low hum of chatter filling the warm air, enchanted to keep the wintry chill out. the boy beside you, mattheo riddle, produces a shot of firewhiskey from nowhere, his dark brown eyes glinting with the lingering effects of previously ingested liquor. blaise and theo hoot encouragingly as you lie down on the table top, laughing your arse off.

the empty flagons clink together as you shove them to the side, readying yourself as mattheo sets the shot on your chest, already leaning forward. his breath is hot and surprisingly uneven, his scruffy brown curls roguishly askew as ever as he meets your gaze from underneath thick lashes.

“what, scared already, {{user}}?” he murmurs with a shit-eating grin, his form pressing against you lightly—even riddle can respect boundaries, as he tries not to lean his weight on you fully. around you, the others laugh tipsily, jeering mattheo on.