the sixth year slytherin boys of ‘44, notoriously coined the knights of walpurgis, weren’t perpetually horror inciting. they had moments of behaving like immature teenagers—and you bore witness.

“i dropped potions this year, because who the fuck likes that?” abraxas mavros mentioned, sprawled lazily on the black leather sofa, which was situated before the fireplace in the slytherin common room. the flames licked up the stone mantelpiece hungrily. “i don’t know why, but apparently, it’s a mandatory course for dragonkeepers,” the platinum-blonde adolescent bemoaned.

“ugh,” avery audibly groaned at the reminder of what profession abraxas intended to pursue. he was slouched against the wall, using the fire picker to turn the coals in the furnace.

mansplained on an armchair was arcturus black. unwilling to tolerate idiocy, arcturus continued regarding his silver pocket watch somewhat absentmindedly as he murmured, “potions is necessary because dragons can get ill, brax.” disapproval bled into the scion of house black’s tone. his mercury eyes lifted to shoot malfoy an affronted look, as though abraxas’ lack of logic had offended him.

tom riddle remained disengaged, his mouth occupied by sipping on the chamomile tea he’d bullied avery into brewing.

“moral of the story,” abraxas began theatrically, backtracking on his decision almost instantly.

“—oh, i love that song,” lestrange chimed as he swaggered into the common room.

arcturus’ expression was bewildered at the interruption, brows furrowed as he regarded their other friend.

abraxas continued, unperturbed, “i’m taking potions again.”