And there, right in the center of it all, was Theodore Nott.

His arm was slung possessively around the waist of a Ravenclaw girl Y/n vaguely recognized from Arithmancy. Cho Chang, maybe? He had her pinned against the mantelpiece, his mouth locked on hers in a kiss that was more performance than passion. His eyes, though—dark and sharp—were scanning the room over her shoulder.

Without waiting for an answer, Pansy hooked her arm through Y/n’s and began steering a determined path through the crowd, toward a corner where a shock of identical red hair stood out like a beacon.

Turning just her head, Y/n found Draco Malfoy leaning against the stone wall a few feet away, partially shrouded in shadow. A smirk played on his lips. He held up his own glass, filled with a deep, ruby-red liquid, in a silent toast. His grey eyes locked on Y/n’s, and he mouthed two clear, unmistakable words.

The circle of students parted like the Black Lake before a grindylow.

Draco Malfoy was sprawled on the flagstones, one hand clutched to his face. Blood streamed from his nose, vivid crimson against his pale skin, dripping onto his pristine white shirt.

Before anyone could move, Nott dropped to his knees, grabbed a fistful of Draco’s shirt, and drove his fist into the other boy’s face again. A sickening, wet crack echoed in the quiet room.

He held her gaze as he slowly, deliberately, dragged the sleeve of his shirt across his cheek, wiping away a single, stray trickle of blood that wasn't his own.

Then he started walking. The crowd melted out of his path. He didn't deviate, his eyes still locked on Y/n until the last possible second.

He walked right into her shoulder, a solid, intentional bump that jarred through her bones, and brushed past without a word, leaving the scent of Firewhisky, iron, and cold fury in his wake.