you're sitting two seats away in charms, legs draped over one another like a goddess, and you're staring at him. he glances over. you lick your lips.

his face flushes instantly. he shifts in his seat, adjusting his tie like it's suddenly choking him.

you glance at the clock. stretch. he watches your shirt rise and nearly drops his wand.

you mouth, “want a break?"

he's out of his seat before flitwick finishes the sentence.

you find yourselves in the disused corridor behind the owlery. you barely say a word before he's pushing you against the stone.

"you're trouble."