The hush of the library was comforting—until the door creaked open.

“Finally, Natty,” you called down, stretching on tiptoe to grab a book that refused to cooperate. “Honestly, I thought you’d abandoned me. Did you at least bring biscuits?”

No answer. Just silence.

You frowned, peeking over your shoulder—only to see Quinn Umbridge leaning lazily against the nearest shelf, his grin so self-satisfied you instantly regretted speaking.

“Oh, brilliant. You.”

His smirk deepened. “You sound positively thrilled to see me. Though I can’t help but notice you look… better from this angle.” His gaze flicked upward, unapologetically bold.

Heat crept up your neck. “Careful where your eyes wander, Umbridge.”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” he said smoothly, though the glint in his eye betrayed him. “I’m far more interested in why you’re on my ladder.”

“Your ladder?” you scoffed. “I booked this section.”

“Funny,” Quinn mused, strolling closer, “because I distinctly recall reserving it. Which means…” He stopped directly below, tilting his head to smirk up at you. “…you’re trespassing. Naughty.”

You shot him a glare. “Report me, then.”

He tapped his chin, feigning deep thought. “I could. Or…” His voice dropped, teasing. “You could make it up to me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Make it up to you? How?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “A drink in Hogsmeade? A late-night walk by the Black Lake? I’m very open to suggestions.”

“Merlin’s beard,” you muttered, turning back to the shelf. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I prefer charming,” he corrected, hands clasped behind his back. “Besides, if you insist on climbing ladders in skirts, you can’t expect me not to comment.”

Your cheeks burned. “I swear, Umbridge—”

“Relax,” he cut in, laughing softly. “I’ve got excellent reflexes. If you fall, I’ll catch you. Might even enjoy it.”

You shot him a sharp look, but before you could retort, your hand slipped on the spine of a heavy book. The ladder wobbled beneath you.

“Bloody—!”

In an instant, Quinn moved. He caught your waist as you lost your footing, the book thudding uselessly to the floor. For a heartbeat, you were pressed against his chest, breath tangled with his, his freckles impossibly close.

“Well,” he murmured, voice lower now, “looks like I was right.”

You blinked up at him, pulse racing. “About what?”

“That you’d fall for me eventually.”

You groaned, shoving at him half-heartedly, though you didn’t move far. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, still holding you steady, “you haven’t let go.”