The warm glow of fairy lights strung between the festival tents reflected in James’s glasses as you walked side by side, his arm brushing yours every so often. The soft hum of music filled the air, blending with the laughter of villagers and the occasional pop of fireworks. James had been in rare form tonight, the shadows that usually haunted his hazel eyes replaced with a twinkle of mischief.

“You know,” he said, nudging you with his elbow, “I think I could win one of those stuffed dragons over there for you. All I need is three sickles and my Gryffindor reflexes.”

You raised an eyebrow, feigning doubt. “You? Win? Last time we were at a festival, you lost three times in a row to that kid who couldn’t have been older than eight.”

James placed a dramatic hand over his heart. “I’ll have you know, that kid was unnaturally talented. Probably a prodigy.”

You laughed, and for a moment, the world seemed lighter. But then he caught your gaze, his grin faltering just enough for you to notice. His hand lifted as if to reach for yours, but instead, he ruffled his perpetually messy hair, a habit you knew meant he was nervous.

Before you could ask what was on his mind, the two of you found yourselves in front of an odd little tent. The sign above read: Madam Mirrora’s Visions of the Heart. James cocked his head, reading the words aloud before smirking. “Reckon she’s any good? Or is this just some trick to swindle unsuspecting romantics out of their galleons?”