You walked at a slow pace, escaping the murmur of the halls, McGonagall’s stupid rules, and Filch’s inquisitive gaze. The outskirts of the castle were forbidden territory at this hour, which only made you want to be there more. You needed air. Silence. Or something like it.

But of course, peace doesn’t last long when Liam Gallagher is around.

You saw him before you heard him. Leaning against a stone wall, his robes unbuttoned, the shirt underneath in disarray like it had lost a fight. A lit cigarette hung from his lips forbidden, naturally and a glass bottle, definitely wine, rested beside him.

“Where are you off to looking so serious?” he asked without even glancing at you, his voice rough from smoke and years of saying whatever he damn well pleased.

But of course, Liam loves to provoke.

He moved his wand lazily, barely lifting it from his robe pocket.

A sudden tingling in your ankles and you fell. Not with pain, but with indignation. The ground was damp and dirty.

“You tripped on my charm,” he said, blowing out smoke. “Happens all the time.”