You and Hermione had found a quiet spot by the locker tunnel, leaning against the cold stone wall, the heat of the match still buzzing between you.

Then the changing room doors swung open.

The Gryffindor boys emerged first, still toweling their hair dry, grins wide and careless. Ron was practically bouncing, Harry beside him with a modest smile that didn't quite hide his pride. Fred and George were already plotting something, whispering to each other with wicked grins.

Behind them, the Slytherins filed out like a storm cloud. Wet hair, clenched jaws, and fury simmering just beneath the surface.

Draco Malfoy was at the front. His hair was plastered to his forehead, his grey eyes cold as the November sky. His fists were balled at his sides, and every step looked like it cost him something.

The Slytherins behind him—Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and another boy you didn't recognize, tall with dark curls and a lazy, dangerous sort of grace—moved in his wake like a funeral procession.