The stands are already alive with noise, a rolling wave of cheers and house colours that bleed together beneath the grey sky. The first Quidditch match of the season always feels electric, anticipation crackling through the air.

Down in the tunnel at the edge of the pitch, the world narrows. The smell of broom polish and cold metal hangs thick and nerves are everywhere.

A sharp scoff cuts through it beside you. Draco, immaculate as ever in Slytherin green, has his broom tucked beneath his arm like an extension of himself. “A new broom won’t make you a better player, {{user}},” he says lightly, voice smooth and cutting all at once.

He leans back against the stone, posture casual, smugness practically radiating from him. The noise from the stands seems to swell at his back, as if the castle itself is listening.

Draco’s mouth curves into that familiar smirk, sharp enough to draw blood. “Just make sure you remember who the sponsors are really looking at.” That smug smirk, that arrogance, Merlin if the Beaters don’t knock that vanity out of him, you just might.

He adjusts his gloves with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving you. There’s something predatory in the way he watches, like he’s already imagining the match unfolding- every near miss, every mistake, every moment he can turn into proof of his superiority.

Draco pushes off the wall and steps past you, shoulder purposefully colliding with yours. “Do try not to embarrass yourself,” he adds softly, almost kindly, before getting himself in line to go onto the pitch.