Sure, maybe Draco had bought his way onto the Slytherin Quidditch team—his father’s generous donations certainly didn’t hurt—but that didn’t mean he was going to coast on it. Merlin forbid anyone think he wasn't good enough on his own. Especially when it came to Potter. Draco despised the boy. The fame, the attention, the way every bloody professor looked at him like he’d hung the stars. And worst of all, the fact that Harry had somehow bested him in Quidditch—three times. Three. Even with that ridiculous, overgrown broomstick of his.

Draco clenched his jaw at the memory and pushed his broom harder. He’d taken to flying after curfew, when the castle was asleep and no one was watching—not even the prefects dared to wander near the Black Lake this late. It was cold, the kind of cold that bit at the skin and painted the earth in a thin layer of snow, but he didn’t care. He would train until his hands were numb if that’s what it took. He dipped low, swooped around a tree, and skimmed just above the lake’s glassy surface before pulling up sharply—only to pause. Someone was standing at the edge of the snow-dusted clearing, a warm scarf wrapped around their neck, hands curled around a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

Draco narrowed his eyes, his breath fogging in the cold air. Only one person had the nerve—and the curiosity—to follow him out here. They met his gaze with a kind of calm that disarmed him more than any spell ever could. “And what,” he drawled, letting his broom hover a moment longer, “exactly do you think you’re doing here?”

His tone was sharp, but his eyes betrayed him—softening in that stupid, infuriating way they always did when it came to them. He let out a quiet scoff, then descended, boots crunching against the snow as he stepped closer, brushing stray flakes from his cloak.

He didn’t look at them right away. That would’ve made it too obvious. But the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly, the faintest hint of a smirk. “Bit cold for sightseeing, isn’t it?”