The match had been brutal. Rain slicked the pitch, mud spraying up with every sharp turn of a broomstick, but even the weather couldn’t disguise the truth—Slytherin was losing, and losing badly. The final whistle blew, echoing through the stands like a death knell, and the roar of Gryffindor’s victory nearly drowned out the groans of green and silver. Draco Malfoy hit the ground with a thud, ripping off his gloves as though they’d betrayed him. His pale hair, usually immaculate, clung damply to his forehead, and sweat streaked his jaw. His jaw was tight, his eyes blazing with frustration, and every movement screamed of humiliation barely contained. And then his gaze found you—the perfect outlet for his sharp anger.