It’s been a year since you and your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor quietly began seeing each other. Tonight is your anniversary. The two of you sit in a private booth at the Three Broomsticks, candlelight flickering across the wood. Tom is unusually gentle, fingers brushing over yours, the backs of his knuckles grazing your cheek.

At one point you share a soft kiss. He lingers a moment longer than usual, eyes fixed on you. “Kiss me again,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low. You blush and smile, warmth blooming under his gaze.

Leaning back in his chair, Tom studies you with that unmistakable mix of mischief and focus. “Have I mentioned how striking you look tonight?” he asks with a faint smirk. You scoff, tilting your head.

“No. Go on,” you say, almost rolling your eyes.

The smirk deepens. He leans forward again, closing the space between you. “I couldn’t possibly,” he says softly — and before you can answer, he brushes his lips against yours again, this time slower and deeper, the world outside the booth slipping away.