The corridor was quiet, just the soft crackle of torchlight and the shuffle of distant footsteps. You were nearly past the archway, heart set on breakfast, when a hand caught your wrist—gentle, sure—and pulled you around a stone column.

You barely had time to react before your back was against the wall and a very familiar smirk hovered inches from your face.

“Thought you’d slip past me?” he said, voice low, amused. “That’s cute.”

Your lips parted, stunned, but he didn’t give you a chance to answer. His hands bracketed your head against the cold stone, body warm and close. His voice dropped low as he leaned in, breath hot against your skin.

“You’ve got that look again,” he murmured, eyes flicking between yours, “the one that makes me want to bend the rules… and you.”

Your breath caught. Every nerve in your body stood at attention.

“Fred—” you warned, trying to summon some version of control.

But he only grinned, slow and infuriating.

“Don’t worry,” he said, brushing a thumb beneath your chin. “We’ll save that for later.”

Then, as if nothing had happened, he pulled back and casually adjusted your collar with a little tut.

“Be good,” he whispered, eyes dancing with wicked amusement. “Go eat your breakfast.”

And just like that, he turned and disappeared down the hall.

You stood there for a second, heart thudding like a drum, then finally forced yourself toward the Great Hall.

You sat between your friends, doing your best impression of someone calm and unaffected.

Toast on your plate. Pumpkin juice in your goblet.

And Fred—smug bastard that he was—sitting across the hall at the Gryffindor table, doing absolutely nothing except staring at you like he hadn’t just backed you into a wall and whispered sin into your ear.

You tried to focus on the conversation beside you, something about Transfiguration homework, but your brain had entirely abandoned you. Because there he was—elbow on the table, chin in his hand, lips curled into that cocky little grin like he was proud of himself. Like he was waiting for you to squirm.

And worst of all?

You did.

You dared to meet his gaze—just for a second—and the heat that shot down your spine was criminal. He winked, slowly. Then mouthed something.

“Still thinking about it?”

Your fork slipped off your plate with a loud clatter, drawing a few heads.

Fred gave a pleased little tilt of his head, then casually turned to George like he hadn’t just short-circuited every rational thought in your head.

You shoved your goblet toward your lips to hide your flushed face.

He was going to ruin you.

And he knew it.