—“Just one night,” he’d said, voice low, eyes gleaming with challenge and something else you didn’t dare name.

It started with a bet—who could sneak out past Filch, past the wards, past every rule you both pretended not to care about. The prize: a bottle of stolen firewhisky.

But when you reached the edge of the Forbidden Forest, breathless and laughing, it wasn’t the bottle that mattered. It was the silence. The cold air between you. The way he looked at you like maybe he wasn’t always this reckless, maybe with you he could stop running—for just a second.

You shared the whisky. You shared stories.

You shared a kiss.

Slow. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to admit how badly you needed it.

—“Just one night,” he repeated, barely a whisper against your lips. “Just this.”

You nodded. Because you were terrified of what would happen if it became anything more.

And the next morning, he didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

You watched him laugh with James in the Great Hall, like nothing had happened. Like it hadn’t meant everything.

Years passed.

You didn’t talk about it.

Not once.

Until one mission, years later, during the war—you run into him in a safehouse, both bloodied and exhausted.

He stares at you.

And suddenly, it’s all back—the forest, the bottle, the kiss that never left your mouth.

But this time, he doesn’t look away.

And this time, he says it out loud.

—“I never stopped thinking about that night.”