Professor Sharp, a man who looked as if he’d been brewed in one of his own cauldrons, didn't look up from the blackboard where he was scrawling complex instructions. He merely gestured with a piece of chalk towards the only empty workstation in the room.

It was at the back. And it was already occupied.

As Y/n moved to the empty stool, a wave of jasmine perfume hit from the left. Elara Vane from Slytherin leaned over from the adjacent table, her smile sharp and proprietary.

On the workstation between them sat the recipe for a Draught of Peace, a complex brew requiring precise, alternating steps. A silver knife for the Jobberknoll feathers and a copper cauldron for the initial infusion lay at the centre of the clutter.

As Professor Sharp called for them to begin, two hands moved at once. Y/n's, reaching for the silver knife. And Theo's, his fingers brushing against hers as he simultaneously went for the copper cauldron.

They both froze. The contact was brief, electric. For a single, suspended moment, the performative smirk on Theo's face vanished, replaced by something raw and startled.

Then it was gone. He snatched his hand back as if burned, the mask slamming back into place.