They weren't supposed to touch.

Not like that.

Not with eyes, not with hands, and certainly not with hearts already promised elsewhere.

But when she passed him in the hallway, too close—her perfume soft and bookish, like crushed pages and secrets—his breath hitched. Their fingertips brushed for a second too long. Enough to feel the pull. Enough to know they were already lost.

They met in the quiet corners of the Marauders Studio, always late, always pretending it was coincidence. A forgotten book. A late-night assignment. A flickering light that needed fixing. Lies, all of them. But lies they clung to like lifelines.

Remus kissed her like he was starving, but held her like she’d break. Their moments burned—desperate, fleeting, sacred. She tasted like guilt and longing, and he always pulled away too soon, breathing like a man drowning in air.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she whispered once, shirt half-unbuttoned, her lips swollen with truth.

“I know,” he said. But his hands stayed on her waist.

Every touch was a betrayal. Every silence, an ache. But neither of them walked away.

Because when the world wasn’t watching, they belonged only to the fire. And it was never enough.