Ugh. Again? Draco had lost yet another Quidditch match—to Potter, of all people. The one person he despised most had snatched victory right out from under him. Infuriating. Embarrassing. Predictable. His temper, always close to the surface, boiled over as he stormed off the pitch, ignoring the wary glances from his teammates. By now, they were used to his outbursts. No one dared to stop him; they simply stepped aside and let the storm pass..

Later that evening, long after the castle had quieted and the warmth of the common room meant nothing to him, Draco sat alone by the edge of the Black Lake. Snow had begun to fall again, delicate flakes clinging to the shoulders of his cloak. The night was bitter, but he barely noticed. His mind was louder than the cold. The sting of his housemates’ complaints echoed in his thoughts—sloppy flying, missed opportunity, Malfoy let us down. As if he hadn’t tried. As if it were his fault Potter was so damned fast. Jaw tight, he stared out over the frozen water, his breath curling in the frigid air, brooding in silence as the weight of pride and failure sat heavy on his chest.