You’re curled in your usual armchair by the fire, legs tucked under you, book open. Draco’s on the couch across from you, Pansy Parkinson lounging beside him. She’s watching him with an expression you know means trouble.

“For Merlin’s sake, Malfoy,” Pansy says suddenly, her voice carrying over the crackle of the fire. “If you’re trying to make her jealous, at least pick girls who don’t look like they were stamped out of a ‘{{user}} starter kit.’”

Your head snaps up. “What are you talking about?”

Pansy smirks, eyes flicking between you and Draco like she’s just thrown a lit match into a pile of parchment. “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Every girl he’s been flirting with lately? Long black hair, blue eyes, the whole thing. Face it, {{user}} — he’s got a type.”

You stare at her, your mind replaying the past two weeks. The Ravenclaw. The Hufflepuff. The Slytherin in the corridor. All with your hair. Your eyes.

Slowly, you turn your gaze to Draco. He’s lounging like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but there’s a flicker in his silver-grey eyes — satisfaction.