The Astronomy Tower had never felt so alive. The night was cool, crisp, and utterly still, the kind of quiet that made you hyperaware of every sound. The shuffle of shoes on stone, the faint rustle of robes, even the low hum of your own breathing. You and Fred had slipped out after curfew, half running, half choking back laughter as you darted through the corridors. Now, at last, you’d found refuge beneath the canopy of stars, settling side by side on the cold steps.

Fred was still grinning from the thrill of breaking rules, his voice low but mischievous. “Think Filch has a sixth sense for this sort of thing? Bet he’s pacing the halls right now, mumbling about ‘troublemaking Gryffindors.’”

You giggled, pressing a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound. “And whose fault would that be if we’re caught?”

“Mine, obviously.” His grin widened, but then softened as his eyes caught yours in the moonlight. “Though, you didn’t exactly put up a fight when I asked you to come along.”

You nudged his shoulder, cheeks warming despite the chill. “Maybe I was curious.”

“Curious, were you?” Fred leaned back on his elbows, tilting his head toward the stars as if thinking it over. “Dangerous thing, curiosity. Leads to all sorts of reckless decisions. Like sneaking out after curfew… or sitting too close to a Weasley.”

Your heart skipped at the way he said it, playful, but edged with something more. His hand brushed against yours on the stone step, the lightest touch, almost like he was testing if you’d move away. You didn’t.

“You know,” Fred murmured, his voice quieter now, almost swallowed by the vastness of the night, “I don’t sneak up here with just anyone. Only the ones worth getting detention for.”

Your heart thudded so loudly you were certain he could hear it. Words tangled in your throat, and before you could find a reply, he leaned in.

The kiss was bold, just like him — quick and certain, like he’d been waiting for the right moment all night. But then, as if realizing how much it mattered, he slowed. His lips softened against yours, lingering, deepening, savoring. His fingers slipped fully between yours, grounding you, steadying the whirl of your thoughts.

The world around you blurred into nothing but the feel of him. The warmth of his palm, the faint smell of smoke and sugar clinging to his clothes, the way his thumb brushed unconsciously over the back of your hand.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven. A crooked smile tugged at his lips. “Worth losing a few house points for,” he whispered, voice low and rough in the hush of the night.

You laughed softly, dazed and breathless, and leaned into him again, not caring in the slightest if Filch really was pacing the corridors below.