The party is loud, hazy with Butterbeer and bad decisions. Fred spins an empty bottle in the middle of the room and, of course, fate decides to be cruel.

You blink as you stare at the bottle looking back at you as if it's mocking you.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

Fred’s grin is maddening. That signature smirk you’ve hated since first year—mischief and arrogance rolled into one redheaded menace.

“Rules are rules, love,” he says with a wink, already moving toward the closet.

You fold your arms, marching past him with a huff. The door closes behind you, and the world goes dark.

It’s cramped. Too quiet. The distant party noise muffled by thick wood.

You shift, arms crossed. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

Fred chuckles, leaning forward until his hand presses flat against the wall behind you, boxing you in with infuriating ease.

“One kiss,” he playfully murmurs “Come on—you never have to tell anyone.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then his other hand gently lifts your chin, fingers grazing your jaw. His touch isn’t teasing this time—it’s careful. Intentional.

“After all these years, don’t you want to know?” he whispers, voice just a breath against your lips.

Your heart’s pounding. You hate how close he is. You hate how curious you are.

You should say no. You really should. But the space between you is shrinking. Maybe one kiss wouldn't hurt...