He lit a cigarette with the tip of his wand, the flame sharp and short-lived, like the attention span of most people at Hogwarts. Smoke curled from his lips as he leaned back against the cold stone wall of the alley beside Honeydukes, one boot crossed over the other. The wind carried the faint scent of sweets, cinnamon, and damp earth—remnants of the morning rain still slicking the cobblestones. His fingers were cold, but he didn’t mind.

You were late. You were always late. It was one of those things he used to roll his eyes at, but now? Now it made him smirk. Like clockwork, you’d come hurrying around the corner, cheeks flushed from the wind, eyes catching on his like you’d been searching for him the entire time. The funny part was, even if you weren’t late, he’d still wait in that alley just to see you arrive.

His hand moved to his pocket, not for his wand, not for another cigarette—but for the crumpled note you’d left in his textbook yesterday. A heart drawn next to a stupid inside joke only you two would understand. He didn’t smile. Not really. But something in his chest eased like a tight thread pulling loose.

“Where is she…” he muttered under his breath, voice a quiet sigh dragged across gravel. He wouldn’t admit it, but he liked this—liked pretending. Liked the way people looked at you two now, like you were something sacred, untouchable. You weren’t just the heartbreak girl anymore, and he wasn’t just Nott, the loner with the dark stare. Together, you were something else entirely. Something believable. Almost.

Last weekend you’d dragged him to Madame Puddifoot’s, all wide eyes and laughter behind your hand as he scowled at the pink lace and floating cherubs. You’d held his hand across the table, your thumb brushing his knuckles in a way that made it too easy to forget it was pretend. He remembered watching you take a sip of your tea, the steam curling against your lashes. You’d caught him staring.

“What?” you’d said, grinning.

He’d just shrugged, muttered, “You’ve got sugar on your lip,” and wiped it away with his thumb. You hadn’t looked away.

His fingers twitched at the memory.

And now, here he was again, waiting. Not for the fake-girlfriend act. Not for the Hogsmeade show. But for you. For the sound of your boots against the stone, for the way you’d loop your arm through his without asking. For the way your smile always hit him somewhere deep in his ribs, where he kept all the things he never said.

He crushed the cigarette beneath his heel, exhaled one last stream of smoke.

And then—there you were.

He watched as you walked toward him, the corners of your mouth already tugging upward like the sight of him was something soft and familiar. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in silent observation. Every time he saw you, he noticed something new. The way your scarf didn’t quite sit right on your neck. The faint smudge of ink on your finger. The fact that when you looked at him, you didn’t look through him.

“Finally,” he said, voice flat but laced with that subtle affection only you ever caught. “Thought you’d left me to die in the cold with nothing but overpriced chocolate for company.”

You laughed. And Merlin, he’d kill to hear that again.

He offered his hand without thinking, like he always did now. You took it without hesitation. He didn’t look at you, not directly, but he did tug you a little closer.

Just for the show, of course.

Just for that.