DARLING, DEAREST (…) DEAD.

There’s a wand aimed at his throat, yet still the man talks. What was it with men and their egos? ❝ Stay still, and start talking, ❞ the small witch demands stiffly, ❝ Now. ❞

Teenage revelry at its finest, sixth and seventh year students bustle about the common room. They reminisce with friends they’ve gone without over the summer months. The first weekend at the start of term was always a notable one, often doused in firewhiskey, if they could get their hands on it. The purveyors of said liquor now loiter in a line before the fireplace, eyeing their domain with four matching grins. ❛❛  Proud of yourselves, aren’t you?   ❜❜   Her pretty eyes roll, the firelight offering a lighthearted gleam amongst her cool expression.

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