You'd think they'd have the decency to leave the common room.
But they don't, of course, which is why Celeste and Maxon all but fuck each other right there on that arm chair they share in front of all the Slytherin fifth, sixth, and seventh years in this Halloween party Pansy dragged me to.
I'd have been perfectly happy in my dorm, maybe studying for classes or reading up on textbooks or catching up on some much needed sleep. Maybe I would have come out here anyway to steal a bottle or two of nettle beer, drink a little in my room, maybe grab a joint and let the Alihosty sink in while I sink into my wonderful, soft silk sheets. No—instead, Pansy just had to make me come to a Halloween party. It's not even on Halloween, considering October ended on Thursday, and yet here I am, watching Celeste unbutton Carlier's stupid pirate blouse while he manhandles her arse.
In front of everyone.
Curling my lips in disgust, I turn my head away to where people dance, dressed up in rather minimal clothing.
Pansy all but shoved me into a costume.
No, she did shove me into a costume. I was asleep when she—with some inhuman strength I didn't know such a tiny, short girl could possess—hauled me out of bed, yanked my shirt over my head, crammed me into this silk, wine red button down I didn't even know I owned, and gave me a full fucking fright when all of a sudden, horns were growing out of my head.
"Don't worry, they should go away on their own by tomorrow morning," she said with a cheeky grin.
I managed to get a hold of my bearings and throw her out of my room—how did she even get in?—before she could yank my sweats down my legs.
So now I'm dressed in perhaps the most typical costume possible, a devil, sitting by the fireplace waiting for the clock to strike eleven so I can leave and Pansy can't give me shit for not staying long enough. I have Firewhiskey in one hand to take the occasional sip out of, though I might need to grab a whole bottle for myself what with the blatant coitus taking place just mere feet from me.
Somehow, even over the blaring music and the cheering and chattering of the students, I can pick up their voices.
"Pansy did well dressing you up, mon ange," Carlier purrs in that light French accent of his, his voice as haughty as ever. It's a wonder I haven't punched him yet.
