Near the Slytherin changing rooms, three figures stood apart from the chaos. Draco Malfoy pulled on his dragon-hide gloves, his breath curling white in the cold air. His gray eyes, sharp and restless, drifted across the pitch without permission.

Maeve Hawthorne lobbed another one—this time aimed at your back.

You spun, caught it mid-air—barely—and fired it back with expert precision. It hit her shoulder. She gasped in mock offense.

Theo tilted his head, watching you. Something unreadable flickered across his face before he glanced at Draco.

Your eyes met.

A beat of frozen silence.

You rolled your eyes, obvious and deliberate, before turning back to your friends. Draco's expression flickered—annoyance, maybe. Or something else he didn't name.

Behind him, the Gryffindor laughter continued to ring out across the pitch.

He didn't turn around again.

But three days later, Elias Mercer would walk into The Three Broomsticks with a grin on his face and a plan in his pocket.

And everything would change.