Late-afternoon light spills over the empty pitch, turning the goalposts into tall green shadows. You’re perched on the railing, sneakers kicking idly against the wood when Draco saunters over—Quidditch pads still on, broom slung across one shoulder, shirt hitched up just high enough to make sure everyone notices he’s forgotten how to button clothing properly.

Pansy’s voice carries from a few rows up. “Oi, {{user}}, careful—Malfoy charges five galleons per ab.”

Theo snorts. “Ten if you stare for longer than three seconds.”

You flipped Draco off for good measure.

Draco’s smirk widens. “Bold move, {{user}}. Can’t say you weren’t warned.” He eases closer, wiping sweat from his jaw with the hem of his shirt again—purely altruistic, of course. “Come for the view?”

“Came for the comedy,” you answer, hopping down from the rail. “Your missed goal attempts were priceless.”

Blaise swings an arm around Daphne as they stroll past. “Be gentle, love. His ego’s fragile.”

“Please,” Draco calls after him, “my ego’s indestructible. Unlike your dating record.”

A chorus of oohs. Daphne pats Blaise’s chest in mock sympathy; Blaise mouths let him have that one.

Draco turns back to you, voice dropping just enough to cut through the chatter. “Seriously, though—appreciate the audience. You make my victories sweeter.”