The Slytherin victory party echoes across the grounds—raucous cheers, the clinking of smuggled firewhisky bottles, Pansy's shrill laughter carrying on the wind. You couldn’t care less.

Quidditch, to you, has always been a spectacle of idiocy: men on sticks, chasing shiny things, and Potter’s inevitable, painfully predictable defeat. You’re already halfway to the castle when a voice slices through the dusk like a silver blade.

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

You don’t turn. "Didn’t watch."

A scoff. Then suddenly, he’s there—falling into step beside you like a shadow you can’t shake. Draco, still in his Quidditch leathers, hair tousled from the wind, smelling like broom polish and salt and victory. His gloves are tucked into his belt, his cheeks flushed with adrenaline, and his smirk—Merlin, that smirk—is downright smug.

"Liar," he purrs, flicking a stray strand of platinum from his eyes. "I saw you. Skulking near the stands like some brooding Gryffindor." A pause. "Admit it. You were impressed."