The party had spiraled hours ago. Green-tinted lamplight flickered over scattered bottles, abandoned robes, and a circle of students sprawled across the leather sofas, playing truth or dare with the reckless enthusiasm of people who'd stopped counting their drinks.

Theodore Nott had already made his choice. He was still sitting close enough to Daphne Greengrass that their shoulders touched, her cheeks flushed, his smile lazy and unbothered, like the whole room hadn't just watched him kiss someone else's girlfriend.

The bottle spun again.

It slowed, wobbled, and pointed straight at Draco Malfoy.

Draco was already moving, crossing the circle with the kind of deliberate, unhurried confidence that made the room hush around him. Firewhisky burned warm in his chest, but it wasn't the alcohol that made him brave.

It was the sight of Theodore's hand resting too comfortably on the cushion beside Daphne. The easy way he'd laughed after the kiss, like it had meant nothing.

Like she had meant nothing.

Draco stopped in front of Y/n.

The common room held its breath.

It wasn't gentle. It was a claim, a challenge, a confession pressed into the space between them. His hand came up to cup her jaw, thumb brushing against her cheek, and he kissed her like he'd been waiting years for an excuse to stop pretending he didn't want to.

The silence was deafening.

When Draco finally pulled back, his chest was rising and falling hard, and his lips were still parted, grey eyes fixed on hers with something raw and unguarded burning beneath the surface.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he dragged his thumb across his lower lip.

And looked straight at Theodore.