You found him in the corridor outside McGonagall’s office.

The faint smell of smoke still clung to his jumper, and there was a streak of soot across his cheek. His hair was a little more disheveled than usual. His smile, though—still perfectly intact.

Of course it was.

“What did you do this time?” you asked, arms crossed, heart already bracing.

George just grinned. “Let’s call it a miscalculation involving fireworks, Filch’s cat, and a very unfortunate statue.”

You stared at him.

He shrugged. “Was worth it.”

Before you could reply, the door behind him creaked open—McGonagall’s unmistakable voice ringing out sharp and annoyed.

“Weasley. Now.”

“In a minute, Professor,” George called back, eyes still on you.

Then he took a step closer. His expression didn’t change, but there was something different in it—something heavier. His hand came up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek where you didn’t even realize you had soot on your skin.

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t let you speak.

Without warning, he reached for the front of your collar and tugged you toward him.

And then he kissed you.

Not a quick kiss. Not a cheeky goodbye.

He kissed you like a man going off to war. Like he didn’t know if he’d get the chance again. Like this was his only shot.

His lips moved against your like he was afraid he’d forget the feel of your mouth if he didn’t memorize it now. His hands stayed on your collar, keeping you there, grounded and close, like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting go.

A sharp gasp echoed from the open office door.

“Mr. Weasley!”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go.

When he did finally break the kiss, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours for a breath.

You blinked up at him, breathless. “What was that for?”

“Just in case they kill me in there,” he murmured, almost joking. Almost.

He pressed one more quick kiss to your mouth—softer this time—and stepped back with that familiar, infuriating grin returning to his face.

“If I make it back in one piece,” he said softly, “I’ll find you first.”

Then he straightened his robes, gave you one last crooked grin—and stepped into McGonagall’s office without looking back.

You stood in the corridor, heart thundering, fingertips still tingling where his lips had been, already counting the hours until he emerged.