The garden is quiet, the soft hum of crickets filling the warm evening air. You are laughing at something the boy next to you, Luke, says.

Luke is effortlessly charming—too charming. His tousled blond hair falls perfectly over his forehead, and his sharp blue eyes glint with mischief as he smirks down at you. He carries himself with an easy confidence, the kind that makes people gravitate toward him. His hand lingers on your waist, his fingers pressing lightly against your hip as he pulls you a little closer.

You let him. Maybe you enjoy the attention. Or maybe you just want to see if Draco is watching.

Across the courtyard, Hermione sits on a bench next to Draco. He’s been pretending to be indifferent all evening, arms crossed, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. His eyes remain fixed on the book in his hands, but he hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

Hermione sees through it. She always does.

She leans in slightly. “Draco… someone is flirting with her.”

Draco doesn’t even glance up. “We broke up, Hermione. I don’t care who she talks to.”

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Right.” She looks back toward you—and stiffens. “He’s… grabbing her waist.”

Draco’s jaw clenches. His grip tightens around the book in his hand. A muscle ticks in his jaw, but still, he doesn’t move.

And then—

Hermione’s breath catches. Her eyes go wide. “Draco… he’s leaning in for a kiss.”

The book snaps shut.

Draco is on his feet before he can think, storming across the garden in long, determined strides. Luke barely has time to register what’s happening before Draco is right there, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him back.

His voice is low. “Alright, motherf/ker,” Draco hisses. “Now you’ve got my attention.”