The scratch of quills and the low hum of parchment rustling filled the classroom, the air thick with the smell of ink and old books. You were hunched over your essay, eyes narrowing at the dense paragraph in front of you, determined to get at least something finished before the bell.

Then, from the seat beside you, came a low whisper. “You’re holding your quill wrong, love.”

You didn’t look up. “Fred, I’m trying to work.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” he said, leaning in close enough for his breath to stir the hair near your ear. “All this studying is terrible for you. You should take a break. Preferably one that involves me.”

You bit back a smile and kept writing, which only seemed to encourage him. A folded scrap of parchment slid onto your desk. When you didn’t immediately open it, Fred tapped it with the end of his quill until you finally unfolded it — revealing a crudely drawn doodle of you two on a broomstick, him dramatically hanging on while you looked unimpressed.

You were still trying not to laugh when a shadow fell over your desk. Professor McGonagall’s lips were pressed into a line, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Ten points from Gryffindor,” she said crisply. “For failing to pay attention in class.”

Fred just smirked as she walked away, leaning over to murmur, “Worth it.”