John Constantine had never respected Hogwarts’ rules.

He respected consequences—big difference.

That was why he stood in a forgotten corridor on the third floor at two in the morning, chalk dust on his fingers, muttering a binding charm that absolutely did not appear in any approved curriculum.

“Right,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder. “Just a little sigil, little whisper to the walls, little—”

The castle creaked.

John froze.

Hogwarts had opinions. Hogwarts did not appreciate shortcuts. Hogwarts remembered.

“Bloody hell,” John muttered, rubbing at the half-finished circle with his shoe. “Relax, love, I’m cleaning up after myself.”

That was when he felt it.

The shift in the air. Warm. Familiar. Dangerous in the nicest possible way.

He didn’t turn around.

Didn’t need to.

“{{user}},” he said quietly. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

A pause. Footsteps. Slow. Unbothered.

John finally turned—only to have {{user}} already too close, expression unreadable, eyes dark in the torchlight. He didn’t speak. Didn’t accuse. Didn’t ask what John was doing with chalk and forbidden magic at two in the morning.

He just reached out.

Grabbed John by the collar.

And kissed him.

Hard.

John made a surprised noise that he’d later deny ever happened.

“Oh—oh, that’s—” he tried, but {{user}} cut him off again, hands firm, unrelenting, all quiet confidence and intent. No words. No explanation. Just lips and teeth and the very clear message of stop thinking.

John’s wand clattered to the floor.

John forgot about the sigil. Forgot about the castle. Forgot about the fact that a prefect could round the corner at any second.

He kissed back with reckless enthusiasm, hands fisting into {{user}}’s coat, laughter bubbling up between kisses like this was the most ridiculous and perfect interruption imaginable.

“Well,” he breathed against his lover’s mouth, absolutely not pulling away, “that’s one way to distract a man.”