The corridors of Hogwarts were painfully cold at seven-thirty in the morning, but your cheeks were already burning.

Not from the temperature.

From the way Oliver Wood had you pinned against his dorm door five minutes ago, kissing you breathless, complaining that you “always leave too early” and that “another minute won’t kill you.”

It had been like this for months: Secret kisses. Secret late-night visits. Secret mornings tangled in each other that you were definitely not allowed to be having.

Only two people knew: Percy—because his bed was two meters away. Hermione—because she’d once caught you sneaking back into the Ravenclaw common room at 5 AM with your hair a mess and your sweater inside-out.

But everyone else? Clueless.

Which was perfect… Until this morning.

You bolted down the stairs of Gryffindor Tower, half awake, half dizzy from Oliver’s goodbye kiss, and fully late. Potions was in the dungeons. You were very much not.

When you burst into the classroom, Snape had already begun.

Every head turned.

“You are late.” Snape’s voice sliced the air like a guillotine.

“I—I know, sorry—” you said, trying to straighten your hair, your robes, your—

Your tie.

It felt wrong. Too loose. Too thick. Too—

Snape’s eyebrow arched. “You are not a Gryffindor.”

You froze.

Dead silent.

Not even Malfoy snickered yet. They were all still squinting, confused.

And then your blood turned to ice as you looked down at your chest.

Scarlet and gold.

Oliver’s tie.

You had grabbed his this morning in your rushing, stumbling, half-kissed, half-dazed state.

Hermione, two rows ahead, visibly choked on air. Her eyes bulged so hard you thought they might launch out of her skull.

“Oh my god,” she mouthed.

You mouthed back, “HELP.”

She mouthed, “YOU’RE DEAD.”

Snape stepped closer, looming. “I would suggest,” he said slowly, “that you locate your own attire before entering my classroom. Fifteen points from Ravenclaw.”