And not even watching in a casual way. I mean I’m watching-watching. The kind where you tell yourself you’re just enjoying the weather and then your eyes follow a specific platinum blond head for forty-five consecutive minutes. The kind where your friends have stopped asking if you’re okay because the answer is obvious and embarrassing.

The pitch is golden-hour lit, the kind of light that makes everything look like a carefully staged photograph. The Slytherin team is running drills—Mattheo’s loud and aggressive as always, Lorenzo keeps making jokes mid-air, and Draco is… Draco. Efficient. Sharp. Moving like he owns the sky.

Practice ends the way practice always ends: brooms descending, players peeling off, equipment getting tossed around. A few girls have gathered near the edge of the pitch, the usual crowd. I spot Astoria Greengrass in a perfectly fitted cream jumper, hair done, lips slightly pursed as she watches Draco land.

She’s been watching him land for the past four practices. I know this because I’ve also been watching him land for the past four practices. We’re basically colleagues at this point.

But then, Draco’s feet touch the grass. He scans the crowd. His eyes skip past Astoria like she’s furniture. Past the other girls. Past literally everyone else—

And land on me.

Oh, fantastic. Here we go.

Draco’s grey eyes are fixed on me. Patient. Expectant. Like he’s never once considered that I might say no.