You’d only meant to study. That’s it. Just some light reading before bed, maybe finish that half-written essay on werewolf legislation before Snape breathed down your neck.

But there was a sudden thump, the quiet crackle of a paper exploding gently into ash, and then Seamus Finnigan whispering, “Oh, bloody—sorry, sorry!” as he tried to shake sparks from his sleeve and awkwardly hide a half-charred piece of parchment behind his back.

You glared at him over your textbook.

—“Studying,” you mouthed silently.

—“I am studying,” he mouthed back, grinning like he absolutely wasn’t.

He sat across from you, elbows on the table, chin in his hand.

—"So, the Yule Ball, huh?"

You raised a brow, unmoved.

Seamus leaned in.

—“Just wonderin’. If you’ve got a date.”

You didn’t answer, flipping a page instead. He took that as an invitation to keep talking.

—“I mean, I was going to ask Lavender but she’s all over Ron now—don’t ask—so I figured maybe I’d ask someone smarter. Someone who doesn’t set their cauldron on fire twice a week.” He gave you a lopsided grin. “Like you.”