The quiet hum of the Gryffindor common room is broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the rustle of parchment from someone finishing homework at the last minute. Morning light streams in through the tall windows, but Harry’s not paying attention to the sun, or the time, or the growing noise of students heading out for class.

He’s standing just in front of the portrait hole, one hand still tangled with yours, the other brushing gently along your jaw as he leans in again, unable to help himself. The kiss is soft, unhurried—like he’s got all the time in the world, even though he definitely doesn’t.

“You’re going to make us late,” you murmur against his lips, breathless.

Harry pulls back just a bit, his green eyes crinkling with a grin that’s all boyish charm and warm affection. “We’re going to be late for class if you keep kissing me like that,” he says, teasing but not really blaming you, his forehead resting against yours.

He’s not in a rush. Not when he has this. Not when he has you.

“Come on, just one more,” he adds softly, already leaning in again. “Then we’ll run.”