Fred had a way of leaning against walls like he owned them—shoulder pressed to stone, ankles crossed, hands tucked in his pockets as if gravity tipped in his favour. You, meanwhile, had a way of making the corridor feel warmer just by walking into it.

He saw you first. Of course he did. Fred Weasley could sense you the way a fox senses the shift of wind that carries the scent of something sweet—instinctively, unerringly, with a smirk forming before he even turned his head.

“Evening, love,” he drawled, looking down at you with the kind of grin that made your stomach tilt like unsteady ink in a quill. “Or should I say—down there?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm. Tall, too,” he added thoughtfully, pushing himself off the wall with the easy grace of someone who has never tripped over anything in his life except you. “Does make it a bit of a challenge, doesn’t it?”

“A challenge?” you echoed, suspicion sharpening your gaze.

He nodded solemnly—though the corners of his mouth twitched like a secret he couldn’t hold in. “Well, yeah. Tragic really. My poor girl having to scale a mountain every time she wants a kiss.”

You crossed your arms. “Fredrick Gideon Weasley—”

“Oh, full name. Dangerous territory,” he purred.

But he stepped closer anyway. He always stepped closer.

And you hated—truly hated—how your breath caught, how his shadow draped over yours like a cloak, warm and heavy and smug.

His fingers brushed your chin. Just a touch. Enough to draw your eyes up to his, those amber-ember irises that looked as if someone had trapped summer behind them.

“You know,” he whispered, “there’s no shame in tiptoeing.”

You scoffed. “I am not—”

He leaned down a fraction. Just enough to prove precisely how tall the mountain was.

“Go on,” he murmured, voice low, wicked, the kind of trouble mothers warn daughters about but daughters fall for anyway. “I won’t tell.”

And there it was—the smallest, traitorous rise of your heels from the stone floor.

He saw it. He absolutely saw it. And he laughed softly, delighted, as if you had just handed him fireworks and said light them.

“Merlin, darling,” he said, brushing his nose against yours, “you look like a blooming daisy trying to reach the sun.”

You tried to shove him. You failed. Miserably.

“Then maybe,” you said, chin tilted stubbornly upward, “you could meet me halfway.”

Fred considered this—dramatically, hand on heart.

“Halfway?” he mused. “For you? Always.”

And then, with the gentlest bow of his head—like a comet falling deliberately toward the earth—he met your lips.

The kiss tasted like something stolen, something mischievous, something the castle walls would sigh about later when no one was listening.

When he pulled back, he tapped the tip of your nose.

“But,” he added, grin resurfacing like a fox stepping out of the tall grass, “I maintain—your tiptoeing is adorable.”

You groaned. “I hate you.”

He kissed your forehead, lingering. “Darling,” he murmured, “you’re going to have to stand a lot taller than that to scare me.”

And as he walked away—whistling, hands in pockets—you realized he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

As usual.