"My lord," Cyril hummed in reply. Theo always preferred this title.
Theo asked, referring to the future they all would be witnessing, "Are you okay with what tomorrow brings? It's like privacy being snatched away, and secrets won't be secrets anymo...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
°•°Cyril Aesthetics •°•
The Slytherin common room flickered with the eerie green light from the lake, casting soft shadows across the stone walls. It was late enough that only a few students lingered, buried in their assignments, the quiet scratching of quills on parchment mixing with the low crackle of the fireplace. Tucked into a corner of the room, Cyril sat in a high-backed armchair, his gaze distant, absorbed in thought. Around him, his court occupied themselves, each with their own company but still subtly attentive to Cyril’s presence, as though his very stillness held a gravity that pulled them in.
On the sofa, Eva leaned forward, her voice lilting with excitement as she animatedly discussed the latest Parisian fashions with Daphne and Tracey.
“Imagine,” she was saying, eyes bright. “They’ve all gone mad for peacock feather patterns. I’m not convinced it suits anyone, but there’s no denying they’re making a show of it.”
Marlene’s eyes lit up with genuine intrigue, her lips curving into a sly smile. "Peacock feathers, you say?" she mused, tilting her head thoughtfully. “Now that’s something. Gaudy, sure, but there’s a bit of charm in it if done right. Makes you wonder who thought of it first.”
Isabella, watching Marlene’s unexpected interest, raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re not actually tempted, are you?” she asked, a smirk playing on her lips.
She shrugged with a playful glint in her eye. "Might be worth the fuss—if only to see the look on their faces."
Daphne tilted her head thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s daring enough. But then, it’s France. They’re all show and no restraint.”
Tracey chuckled. “Eva’s right, though. Give it a week, and we’ll see it everywhere here, too.”
Across from them, Draco was recounting his latest Quidditch tryouts to Alban, his voice edged with a blend of pride and nonchalance. Across the way, Draco sat back with a measured sort of confidence, recounting his recent Quidditch tryouts to Alban and Theo. “So there I was,” he began, with a grin that betrayed his pride, “wind against my face, Madam Hooch watching every move, and right as Warrington goes for a Bludger, I swoop in, clean as a whistle.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Got the position on the spot.”
James leaned in, unable to resist the urge to roll his eyes with a dramatic flair. “Oh, Merlin, he sounds just like his peacock father, doesn’t he?” he whispered to Sirius, a smirk dancing on his face. "Bet he's already measuring up a cabinet for all his future trophies."
Sirius chuckled, his gaze fixed on Draco, who was in the throes of his own recounting. “Dead ringer,” he muttered back, his grin equal parts amusement and disbelief. "Bet he’s even got Lucius' hair toss down—watch him, he'll do it any second now."
