Inside, the lair of the sixth-year boys was a study in green and silver. Quidditch posters were pinned at odd angles over the stone walls, a pair of discarded gloves lay crumpled on the floor, and the air hung thick with the mingled scents of broomstick polish, old parchment, and something faintly herbal.

It was warm, though. Private.

Draco Malfoy lay on his side, propped up on one elbow, his body angled toward Y/n like a compass needle pointing north. The pale light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the faint, lingering ghost of a bruise beneath his eye—a faded yellow-green from last night's impromptu duel in the common room.