The Slytherin victory party echoed across the grounds, filled with raucous cheers, the clinking of smuggled firewhisky bottles, and Pansy Parkinson’s shrill laughter carrying through the evening air. The celebrations could have gone on until sunrise for all cared.

Quidditch had never struck {{user}} as particularly entertaining. A collection of idiots flying on broomsticks, chasing a ball around the sky, and Potter inevitably finding some spectacular way to lose. There were far better ways to waste an afternoon.

She was already halfway to the castle when a familiar voice sliced through the dusk.

"Oi! Enjoy the match, {{user}}?"

She didn't turn, didn't bother to. A scoff followed, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps. Moments later, Draco Malfoy fell into step beside her as though he'd been invited, his presence as irritatingly difficult to ignore as ever.

He was still wearing his Slytherin Quidditch leathers, his platinum-blond hair tousled by the wind and his cheeks flushed from the match. His gloves were tucked into his belt, and he carried himself with the unbearable confidence of someone who had just won the greatest sporting event in wizarding history.

He smelled faintly of broom polish, expensive cologne, and victory.

Most annoyingly, he was grinning.

"You know," he purred, sweeping a stray strand of hair away from his eyes. "I saw you. Skulking near the stands like some brooding Gryffindor."

He tilted his head, studying her profile with theatrical suspicion, as though he expected her indifference to crack under the sheer force of his charm.

"Admit it. You were impressed."