With most of the Slytherins gone for the holidays, the common room holds only twenty or so students.
From our year, there's only Draco, Maxon, and me. Maxon's trip in France got cut short when, according to him, his father got into a nasty spat with his uncle and decided that there was no need for their stay to extend the full holiday. They took a Portkey home, and Maxon was on the same Express ride to the castle as Draco and I.
The two of us are currently sitting side by side right on the floor against the arm chair next to the fireplace. Behind us on the armchair is Cheeky who hisses and claws at anyone who makes any attempt to move him so they can sit there instead. After several bandaged arms and even a few spilt tears from a fifth year who decided to return to their dorm, it became decided that Cheeky would keep his throne.
Maxon's arm is swung loosely around my shoulders, and I use as a makeshift pillow while leaning into his side. He's holding a bottle of Butterbeer in his hand, and occasionally the cool glass brushes against my arm and makes me shiver even through the sleeve of my shirt.
None of us really bothered to get too dressed up. Normally, I'd find this atrocious, as I think any chance to dress to the nines should be seized by its ass, but I find myself grateful to be wearing sweatpants and tight black shirt I found in the corner of my closet.
Draco, though, despite being dressed similarly in sweatpants and a simple shirt, manages to look echelons above the rest of the Slytherins scattered around the fireplace. Maybe it's the way he lounges so lithely across his armchair, one leg sling over the arm opposite that which he leans against and his other foot planted firmly on the ground. His one arm is folded under his head and the other holds a bottle of Firewhiskey.
"Are we just gonna sit around drinking, then?" Verona huffs from where she sits on the top of the sofa, her feet on the seat with Pandora to her left—and right next to Draco's arm chair, coincidentally—and her hand twirling her wand. "It's the last day of the bloody year, and I feel like I'm gonna fall asleep hanging 'round you boring morons!"
"Why don't you come up with something clever, then?" Adrian Pucey huffs while struggling to light the joint propped between two of his fingers. "Not like I'm having the time of my life listening to you griping and groaning..."
