The corridor still smelled faintly of smoke from whatever fireworks Fred and George had let off this time. You’d been sneaking through the castle yourself — nothing nearly as dramatic, just your own secret errand — when the sound of pounding footsteps and muffled laughter had made you flatten against the wall. And then, before you could so much as breathe, George had spotted you.

“Perfect timing,” he’d whispered, eyes glinting with mischief, before pulling you along with him toward the nearest broom closet. The door slammed shut just as Filch’s voice barked from the far end of the hall, and the three of you scattered — Fred down one corridor, George dragging you into the dark.

Now here you were, pressed chest-to-chest in a space so small the shelves behind you dug into your back, and George was grinning like he’d planned this all along. His breath tickled your cheek as he leaned close, the faint scent of gunpowder and peppermint clinging to him.

“You’re welcome,” he whispered, as though saving you from getting caught had been his intention all along. His hand was braced against the wall beside your head, far too close, and his voice carried that maddening lilt of amusement.

You glared at him through the sliver of moonlight spilling in from the doorframe. “You nearly got me caught,” you hissed back, trying to shift but finding there was nowhere to move in the cramped space.

He only tilted his head, eyes shining even in the dark. “Nearly. Key word.” A beat of silence passed, the muffled sound of Filch’s muttering fading into the distance, and then George leaned just a touch closer, his grin widening. “Besides… could’ve been worse. You could’ve ended up stuck in here with Fred.”