— The final whistle shrieked through the crisp air like a dagger, slicing through the stunned silence that followed. The scoreboard glared in bold, unforgiving numbers—Slytherin had lost. The groan from the stands was drowned out only by the thunderous beat of Draco’s footsteps as he stormed off the pitch, broom in hand, eyes dark and jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack.

You didn’t call after him. You didn’t need to. He was already coming to you.

There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes the second they found yours, the kind of look that was equal parts fury and desperation. The rest of the team scattered, knowing better than to approach him when he was like this. But you stayed rooted where you were, waiting near the edge of the pitch, arms folded and heart steady, because you were the only one who could face the storm and not flinch.

He didn’t speak until he was right in front of you, breathing hard, the muscles in his neck tense with restraint. “Bloody disaster,” he spat, not at you but at the world behind him. “They couldn’t keep a Quaffle if it was glued to their bloody hands.”

You didn’t answer right away. You let him burn. His fists clenched around the broom, knuckles white, but then his shoulders dropped a fraction. Just a fraction—but it was enough.

“Draco,” you said softly.

His name was a balm, and it cracked something in him. He dropped the broom, dragging a hand through his hair before he finally looked at you—really looked. All the frustration, the bitterness, the pressure of his family name, of being the Slytherin star—it all swirled behind his grey eyes. But you were the calm in his chaos.

“I hate losing,” he muttered.

“I know.” you replied calmly, as if trying to make his mood lighter.

And then, quietly, like a confession, “I just needed to see you.” You stepped closer, placing a hand over his heart, and felt it pounding like a drumbeat. No one else could reach him when he was like this. But you didn’t need words or lectures—just presence. Just love.