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Hermione feels like throwing caution to the wind.
So she does.
She doesn't think, not really, about what she's doing, about what's going to happen, or about him even.
She just simply reaches her arms out, wraps them around the back of his neck, and pulls his lips down to hers.
There are no warning signs, no sirens, just the sound of the wind and the water, and the little gasp he lets out.
It's a little stiff, mostly due to the surprise (on both their parts), but then it isn't. She moves, and so does he, and then they're kissing. His arms come to hug her waist, then pulls her closer.
She doesn't resist, and lets herself forget absolutely everything else. She forgets that at the beginning of the night she had come here with a different boy, she forgets that he had come with a different girl, she forgets, too, that they didn't even really know each other.
The kiss doesn't even last that long, no more than a few seconds. But the sensation of his lips against hers, of her being pressed against his body, she doesn't think that'll ever go away.
"Granger," He whispers, as he lets his forehead fall against hers, "I'm spoken for."
She smiles a little at this.
"So am I."
And then he's kissing her again, but this time a little less sweet, a little less innocent. This wasn't her first kiss anymore, and there was a difference, she could feel it.
There's a little bit of teeth, a lot more tongue, and it makes her so incredibly warm, despite the wind nipping at her skin, despite the fact that her dress leaves her arms bare and vulnerable to the cold.
He shivers though, but the chills don't come from the temperature, they come from the way the tips of her fingers dance along the back of his neck, the way he knows she hasn't done this before but still excels in every way possible.
He thinks it a little silly, that no one's ever discovered this about her before, that she was an impossibly good kisser.
But part of him is glad, that he'd gotten here first, discovered it himself, even if there's a slim chance he'll be the last.
He wonders then, as she parts her lips just slightly, laughing a little into his mouth as his hands roam around to places that aren't strictly appropriate, if she'd been planning on doing this with another boy entirely.
The thought doesn't bother him too much (it's hard to be bothered by anything with the way her mouth was making work of his), but he also knows his night wouldn't have nearly been as good if she hadn't decided she wanted him for this.
In the end he's glad he'd walked out here and bumped into her, he's glad for the argument she'd had with her friend that had lead her out here, and he was certainly grateful that his partner earlier that night had decided to retire early.
(Maybe, if his thoughts weren't half hazy and consumed entirely by the girl in his arms currently, he'd feel a little guilty, a little shameful, that he was out here snogging someone he most definitely wasn't supposed to be snogging).
When they eventually part for air again, her cheeks are flushed a pleasant red, and his breaths come out hard, and uneven.
It's strange for him, who's been kissed, and has kissed so many times before, to think that this one night, this one lone kiss, with this one girl he barely knows, might be one he'd never forget.
The feeling is there, though strange and somewhat unwelcome, that this is a moment he might end up holding onto for longer than strictly necessary.
"What brought that on?"
He asks, though not really caring to know the answer.
"I'm not sure, Diggory. Does it matter?"
No, no it doesn't.
And so they kiss again, and many more times after that, and that one night slowly stretches into days, to weeks, to months, to years. They never really stop kissing.