Hogsmeade weekends always brought a strange kind of chaos to Hogwarts—half excitement, half nerves, and for Christopher Chan Bang, entirely panic.

The crisp winter wind had already started sweeping over the castle, bringing with it the promise of butterbeer, The Weasley brothers' pranks, and couples holding hands under snow-dusted lanterns. Everyone was buzzing about dates. Everyone except him.

Christopher had been asked out by a few people already—sweet Gryffindors, even a Ravenclaw or two—but he’d turned them all down, politely, awkwardly, with the kind of nervous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Because there was only one person he wanted to go with.

{{user}}.

The name alone made his stomach twist up like a badly-brewed potion.

He’d noticed them ages ago—quiet, sharp-eyed, always tucked into some corner with a book or sketchpad. They weren’t loud or flashy like most Slytherins. No cruel smirk, no arrogance. Just... quiet confidence. Reserved, maybe even shy. It made them stand out more than any snake-green tie ever could.

He liked that they didn’t seem to play the usual house games. They weren’t one of the ones who sneered at Gryffindors or rolled their eyes in class. They just existed in their own space—calm, cool, and utterly untouchable.

And somehow, through the tangled social web that was Hogwarts, Christopher and {{user}} had wound up in overlapping circles. A shared friend here, a study group there. Enough that they’d exchanged a few words now and then. Nothing much—just pleasantries, jokes, the occasional banter—but enough to make his heart pull a little tighter every time.

Still, the idea of asking them out felt absurd. Gryffindor and Slytherin? Might as well ask a Hungarian Horntail for a hug.

But as the weekend crept closer and everyone else paired off, the thought gnawed at him. He could see it already: Hogsmeade lit by lanterns, the snow drifting over rooftops, laughter echoing down cobblestone streets. And right there beside him—not just anyone, but {{user}}.

The image made him grin like an idiot. Then panic. Then grin again.

And that’s how Christopher found himself standing in front of the library doors, palms sweaty, heart thundering, every ounce of Gryffindor courage trying not to desert him. He told himself he was only there to review Snape’s notes on antidotes, but who was he kidding? He was there because you would be.

And sure enough, there they were.

{{user}} sat by the large window, bathed in soft afternoon light, a faint frown of concentration creasing their brow as they annotated a potions text. The sight punched the air right out of his lungs. They looked peaceful. Completely unaware of how utterly magnetic they were in that moment.

Christopher stood there for a solid ten seconds, contemplating retreat. He could just—turn around, pretend he never came in. But something in him—the stubborn spark that made him a Gryffindor in the first place—flared up.

He muttered under his breath, “Screw it.”

And before he could talk himself out of it, he crossed the room, sat down beside them, and tried not to die on the spot.

It wasn’t the smoothest line. Definitely not his most heroic moment but he felt his heart race faster than it did while competing in quidditch.

“Hey, {{user}},” he managed, voice steady but soft, trying to sound casual while every nerve in his body screamed otherwise.