Bodies pressed together, voices hoarse from screaming. The Quidditch Cup sat gleaming on a table, surrounded by half-empty bottles.

At the centre of it all, Draco Malfoy. Hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and lake water, still in his Quidditch leathers, a smug, triumphant smile playing on his lips as he accepted a tumbler of something amber from a fawning seventh-year.

You were cheering too, your throat raw, your heart so full of pride for him it ached. He caught your eye across the room, the smirk softening into something genuine, just for a second.

Then Elara Rosier moved.

She was a pretty blonde blur in the crowd, all confidence and Slytherin-green silk. She pushed through, grabbed the front of Draco’s Quidditch jersey, and pulled him down into a kiss.

The crowd whooped, egging them on.

Draco’s hands, which had been raised in victory, froze for a heartbeat. Then one of them came up to cup the back of Elara’s head. He kissed her back.

The world seemed to drain of sound. The cheering became a dull roar in your ears. The proud, soft boy you knew was gone, replaced by this stranger kissing a girl in front of everyone.

You turned and pushed your way out of the common room, the cold of the dungeon corridor hitting you like a slap.