The frozen Black Lake mirrored Dracella Malfoy’s icy glare as she sat alone, her platinum hair spilling over her fur-lined cloak. Across the snow-covered grounds, you and Ginny walked side by side, their laughter cutting through the stillness. Dracella’s chest tightened as she watched you brush snow from Ginny’s shoulder, the redhead’s hand lingering on your arm.

Dracella looked away, her gloved hands clenched in her lap. She told herself it didn’t matter—you had never been hers. But the stolen glances in the Great Hall, the lingering touches, the whispered arguments in shadowed corridors… they had felt like something. Watching you now, so free with Ginny, felt like a blade twisting in her gut.

An hour later...

“Malfoy,” a familiar voice called, low and hesitant. Dracella stiffened. Of course, she would find her. You always did, like some maddening, unshakable curse.

“What do you want, Potter?” she snapped, her voice sharp to mask the ache beneath it. Your footsteps crunched closer, and when Dracella finally looked, she saw the concern etched in your green eyes.