You’re Harry.

The castle is alive with Christmas. Warmth spills from every window, laughter echoes down the corridors, and the scent of roasted chestnuts and pine needles clings to your robes. You’re walking with Ron and Hermione, their chatter a comforting hum beside you, but your eyes keep drifting—searching.

You don’t know what for until you see him.

Draco.

He’s just ahead, flanked by Blaise and Pansy, his voice low, his smile sharp. He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has and he’s pretending not to. He’s good at that—at pretending. But you know better. You always do.

Then the air changes.

A ripple moves through the corridor like a spell cast without a wand. Gasps. Whispers. A sudden, breathless silence.

You look up.

Mistletoe.

And Draco.

You’re standing directly beneath it. Together.

Your heart stutters. You hear Hermione inhale sharply, feel Ron freeze beside you. But none of it matters. Because Draco is looking at you now—really looking—and there’s something in his eyes that makes the world tilt.

He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t sneer. He just… softens.

And you know.

You step forward. So does he. The space between you collapses like it was never meant to be there in the first place. No words. No explanations. Just the truth, finally allowed to breathe.

You kiss him.

It’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s months of stolen glances and secret meetings, of whispered arguments and breathless laughter behind closed doors. It’s everything you’ve been holding back, poured into a single, searing moment.

When you pull away, the corridor erupts.

You don’t look at Ron. Or Hermione. Or anyone else. You keep your eyes on Draco, and he’s still watching you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

And maybe you are.

Because for the first time, you’re not hiding. Not from them. Not from him. Not from yourself.

And it feels like freedom.