You're tucked into the corner of a velvet couch, legs crossed, a half-empty glass dangling from your fingers. Smoke curls from a cigarette someone passed you five minutes ago.

Blaise is beside you, mid-story about some Ravenclaw he's been stringing along. Pansy's on the floor, giggling into Theo's shoulder. The party is loud. Messy. Everything a Saturday night in Slytherin should be.

And across the room, Draco Malfoy is leaning against the wall, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved to his elbows, a drink in one hand and a girl tucked under his other arm.

She's laughing at something he said. Her fingers are tracing the line of his jaw.

He lets her.

He's not looking at her.

His grey eyes find yours across the crowd. Hold for a second longer than they should. Then he smirks, slow and lazy, and looks away.

Like he wasn't just looking.

Blaise nudges your knee.