Hermione organized it. Molly cooked enough to feed half of Hogwarts. Fred and George had a bet going—five galleons each—on whether you two would kiss before or after dessert. Ron was clueless. As usual. And you? You showed up flustered, with a well-rehearsed excuse just in case he appeared. But he wouldn’t. Obviously not. He wouldn’t be there.

Until he was.

Standing in the doorway like he owned the room. Shirt slightly unbuttoned. Hair wild in that deliberate, I didn’t try at all way. And that look on his face—mock surprise, with a dash of I definitely planned this.

—“Didn’t know you’d be here…” Liar. He absolutely knew.

You shoot him a glare. He smiles. Charlie slides over to make space beside you. Ginny offers him a napkin he doesn’t need. Arthur asks how he’s been “since the last time,” though everyone knows he wasn’t invited then either.

And the dinner begins.

Between roast chicken and awkward glances, you feel his knee brush yours under the table. Twice. Not an accident. When Molly brings out dessert, George stands and calls, “Alright! Time for the kiss now, yeah?” Hermione glares. Ron chokes on his juice. You wish you could sink through the floor.

But Sirius just leans back in his chair, that infuriating, devastating half-smirk playing on his lips