The corridor was already buzzing with the usual morning chaos — shoes pounding against the stone floor, a few stragglers still clutching toast in their hands, the muffled echo of Peeves’ cackling somewhere down the hall. You were weaving through it all, books pressed tight to your chest, tie hanging half-tied because you’d barely had time to drag a brush through your hair.

You’d just rounded the corner toward the staircase when a hand shot out from nowhere and hooked a finger through your tie. The sudden tug made you stumble, your books nearly slipping from your grasp as you were pulled sideways into a familiar wall of warmth and mischief.

“Morning, love,” Fred murmured, his grin already tugging at the corner of his mouth. His fingers tightened just enough to keep you from pulling away, the length of your tie wound lazily around his hand. He was close enough that you could smell the faint, sweet hint of whatever jam he’d nicked from breakfast, the edge of his hair still damp from a rushed shower.

“I’m late—” you started, but the words barely made it out before he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours in that infuriatingly confident way of his — no hesitation, no checking if anyone was watching, just the quiet claim of someone who knew exactly how much power they had over you in moments like this.

The kiss was brief but lingering, his mouth curved into a smile against yours, like he knew full well you’d be thinking about it all through class. When he finally let go, he didn’t release your tie right away, dragging the moment out just long enough to make your pulse stutter before loosening his grip.

“Now you’re late and flustered,” he said, voice low and amused, eyes flicking over your face as if committing the sight to memory. Then he stepped back, hands slipping casually into his pockets, already turning to stroll in the opposite direction like he hadn’t just completely derailed your morning.