The last bell echoes down the corridor as students spill out of classrooms, robes swishing, voices overlapping. You barely make it three steps before a familiar hand catches your sleeve.

“Oi—Malfoy. You.” Fred Weasley’s voice is low, all mischief and urgency.

Before anyone can clock what’s happening, you’re yanked sideways—a door creaks, shuts—and suddenly you’re in a cramped broom closet that smells like polish and old wood. The lock clicks.

Fred’s grinning in the dim light, freckles dusted with chalk, tie loosened like he hasn’t cared all day. He braces one hand near your shoulder, close but careful, eyes flicking to the door like he expects it to burst open at any second.

“Merlin, you Malfoys are terrible for my life expectancy,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough to make the air feel charged. “Your brother nearly flattened me in the corridor. Again.”