It started with the Fleetwood Mac song.

Lily had… maybe two beers. Enough to warm her cheeks, loosen her laughter, but not enough to dull her sharpness. The Gryffindor common room was quiet now, only the fire crackling and the faint scratch of the Muggle record player she’d snuck in.

Then he had to speak.

“Fleetwood what?” {{user}} drawled from the doorframe, arms crossed, leaning like he owned the space. “You call this music?”

Green eyes blazing, Lily shot back. “Better than that dreary noise you lot call culture. Try not to faint, Nott, but Muggles do have taste.”

He smirked. “Taste is subjective.”

“And yours is terrible.”

He stepped closer, closer than he had any right, and she refused to move. “Go on then,” he murmured, voice low. “Educate me, Evans. What am I missing?”

So she did. Half-teasing, half-sincere, she explained the lyrics, the rhythm, the ache in Stevie Nicks’ voice. Somewhere between verses, his arrogance softened into thoughtfulness… almost tenderness.

She didn’t notice when he smiled. Or when she started noticing that smile.

The debate faded to laughter, the laughter to quiet. The last clear memory: his hand brushing hers while turning the record over. Magic caught in the air.

Then.. darkness.

When she opened her eyes, it was colder, quieter. Pine and parchment, slow even breathing too close. And the weight of him around her waist. Strong, solid, holding her like she belonged there.

“Oh. Oh, Merlin.” Her whisper caught. Fingers brushed soft fabric. Quidditch green. His name in gold.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. {{user}}!”