The February air bites at your cheeks, but the bustling streets of Hogsmeade are alive with warmth and laughter. You, Ron, and Hermione stroll through the village, arms laden with bags from Honeydukes. Harry, stuck back at Hogwarts without permission to leave, had waved you off with a forced smile. You promised to bring back enough sweets to make up for it, though the guilt still lingers at the edges of your mind.

Ron rambles about the Chudley Cannons as Hermione shakes her head, half-listening, her own thoughts clearly elsewhere.

That peace shatters the moment you crest the hill.

Malfoy’s laughter slices through the stillness, sharp and derisive. He’s flanked by Crabbe, Goyle, and Zabini, lounging like kings on their perch. The sneer on his pale face sets your teeth on edge before he even opens his mouth.

“Well, well,” he drawls, pushing off the rock he’s leaning on. His gaze lands on Hermione first, his smirk curling into something uglier. “Out for a stroll, are we? Careful you don’t dirty the snow, Mudblood.”

Hermione’s sharp inhale hits you like a blow, and Ron takes a step forward, his face flushed with fury. But it’s Malfoy’s next words, aimed squarely at you, that truly set you off.

“And you.” He gestures lazily in your direction. “What’s it like being the Mudblood’s pretty little pet?”

The words barely register before you’re moving, your bag tumbling to the snow as anger surges through you. Hermione’s voice rings out, alarmed and pleading, but you don’t stop.

“{{user}}, no—stop!”

Crabbe and Goyle lumber forward, but you sidestep them without a second thought. Malfoy’s expression falters for a fraction of a second, but he squares his shoulders, his voice rising as he stumbles back.

“Get him! Do something!”

But it’s too late.