The air around Black Lake was cool and crisp, moonlight quivering on the water’s surface like liquid silver. You sat beside Neville, legs folded beneath you on the dew‑damp grass. Between you shared a single joint—Mandrake’s Whisper, Nev’s own creation—its minty scent weaving through the night air.

Neville drew in a slow breath and let it out in a soft plume.

“This is the best batch yet."

He murmured, passing it to you. His fingers brushed yours—just a breath’s worth of contact—and a gentle warmth pulsed through your hand.

You lifted the joint, meeting his gaze. His hazel eyes were bright, as if he’d caught a spark of moonlight in his pupils.

“You’re a menace in Herbology and now in recreational botany. What can’t you do?”

A slow, shy smile curved Neville’s lips. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear—an unconscious gesture, you thought, as if he wished it back in place.

“I thought you’d appreciate something… special.” His voice dipped, quiet as a secret.

When you took that first slow drag, the world softened. The weed carried warmth to your chest, and in that mellow glow you became infinitely aware of Neville’s presence—his steady breathing, the faint quickening of his pulse where your shoulders nearly touched, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

You laughed, breathless, and for a heartbeat the world held still—just you, him, and that unsaid question dancing between you: Is this more than friendship?