The sound of laughter spilled from the Slytherin changing rooms, mixing with the faint scent of wet grass and broom polish. You lingered just around the corner, not exactly hiding — but not exactly ready to be seen either.

Draco was inside with the rest of the team, the low rumble of male voices punctuated by the occasional clang of lockers.

“Oi, Malfoy,” Blaise’s voice rose over the chatter, amused. “What’s with your back? You get mauled out there or something?”

Silence. You could almost hear Draco weighing his words.

“Cat,” he said finally, his tone smooth as silk. “Jumped on me this morning. Mean little thing.”

Blaise laughed, but it wasn’t a sound of belief — more like curiosity. “Some cat. Those aren’t little scratches, mate. Looks like you lost a fight… and enjoyed it.”

Your lips twitched. You knew exactly what Blaise was seeing: the thin red lines streaked down Draco’s pale skin, the ones you’d left the night before when your nails had curled into him, marking him without thought.

“Believe what you want,” Draco replied, voice light but with that undertone only you recognised — the warning to back off. “I’m not in the habit of explaining myself to you.”

There was a murmur of mock protests and laughter, and you stepped back as footsteps approached. Draco emerged, his hair damp, tie hanging loose, shirt unbuttoned just enough to tempt.

His eyes locked on yours instantly, and a slow, knowing smirk curved his mouth.

“Blaise thinks I have a dangerous cat problem,” he murmured, brushing past you so closely your shoulder grazed his. His voice dropped to a whisper only you could hear. “He’s not entirely wrong.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, and Draco didn’t even look back as he strode down the corridor — leaving you with the echo of his smirk and the memory of exactly how those scratches got there.