I’d imagined our first date more times than I’d ever admit—usually something soft, quiet, charming. Holding her hand on the walk down to Hogsmeade. A butterbeer shared by the fire. Maybe, if I was feeling especially courageous, brushing my thumb over her cheek.

I didn’t imagine this.

Not the sideways glances. Not the giggles behind hands. Not the muttered whispers that scuttle along the cobblestones like mice.

And certainly not Cho Chang’s lie clinging to the air like fog.

We’ve barely made it past Honeydukes when I lean in, keeping my voice low. “Don’t listen to them. Please. They’re out for drama, that’s all.”

She gives a tiny shrug—trying to look unaffected, but I know her well enough to see the stiffness in her shoulders.

We pass two Ravenclaw girls who go silent as we approach. One nudges the other pointedly. I catch the words love potion and bite back a groan.

I take a step closer to her—close enough that our arms brush. “They’re being idiots,” I mutter, making sure she hears the frustration in my voice. “Actual idiots.”

We keep walking, but the tension follows us like a shadow.

I clear my throat. “Cho and I… We weren’t even— it wasn’t a real thing. We went on one date. One. And it wasn’t even a good one.”

Her eyebrows lift the smallest amount, silently prompting me to continue.

“I mean—she’s nice,” I say, choosing my words carefully so this doesn’t sound cruel. “But it wasn’t a match. We didn’t talk about anything real. I kept thinking about someone else the whole time.”

She glances up at me, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

I exhale a laugh. “You. Obviously.”

Her cheeks warm. Mine do too.

Madam Puddifoot’s is crowded and glittery and absolutely not where I want to take her after the morning we’re having, so I guide her instead toward The Three Broomsticks.

Inside, it’s warm, loud enough to drown rumors, and full of the smell of butterbeer and roasted chestnuts. I find us a small table tucked away from the crowd.

The moment we sit, I lean forward, elbows on the table. I want her to see the sincerity in my face. “I don’t want you thinking I’m here with you because you—what? Dosed me? Tricked me? Bewitched me? It’s nonsense.”

She looks down, tracing a fingertip over the rim of her mug when Madam Rosmerta brings our drinks.

“Hey.” I nudge her hand lightly with mine. “Look at me.”

She does.

“I’ve fancied you for ages,” I say plainly. “Ages. Before late Prefect shifts. Before you ever noticed me.”

She blinks, surprised.

“It’s the truth,” I continue, unable to stop now that the words are spilling freely. “Every time you walk into the Great Hall, I lose track of whatever I’m doing. I stay late after patrol hoping I’ll run into you. I get jealous when other blokes talk to you, even though I have no right to.”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak. She rarely needs to with me.

“That one date with Cho?” I shake my head. “I spent half the time thinking about asking you out instead.”

Another muted whisper hits my ears from a nearby booth: He looks bewitched, doesn’t he?

I straighten, jaw tightening. “Right.”

I push back from the table. Not rudely—just determined. I move my chair next to hers so we’re side by side instead of across, ignoring the curious looks from nearby students. My arm brushes hers, and she tenses a little before relaxing into it.

“If I were under a love potion,” I say quietly, “would I be this nervous around you?”

A small smile ghosts across her lips.

“Would I be talking this much?” I give a self-deprecating laugh. “Would I be terrified of messing any of this up? Of saying the wrong thing? Of scaring you off?”

Her silence is soft, warm.

I gently take her hand under the table, giving her plenty of time to pull away. She doesn’t.

“That rumor—Cho’s bitterness—it’ll disappear in a day or two.” My thumb brushes her knuckles in a slow, reassuring line. “But I’m still going to fancy you tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.”

I swallow, heart thudding far too hard. “If you let me… I’d like to keep seeing you. Properly. No gossip. No rumors. Just—us.”