The morning light spilling through the enchanted windows of the Great Hall feels warmer than usual, tinted pink and gold by floating heart-shaped lanterns drifting lazily beneath the ceiling and everywhere you turned someone was either laughing, blushing, or pretending not to care about Valentine’s Day at all.

You were trying very hard to be the third type.

That was when you heard the unmistakable sound of someone dramatically clearing their throat behind you.

“Excuse me,” came a familiar, mischievous voice. “Delivery for the prettiest witch in the castle.”

You turned and there he was, Fred WeasIey. His grin was all confidence and trouble, freckles standing out against slightly flushed cheeks from the February chill.

In his hands was an absurdly large gift box.

He sets it down on the table in front of you.

It was wrapped in bright red paper with crooked lettering scrawled across the top

“Happy -alentines -ay”

And beneath it

“We’ll save the V and D for later.”

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the box.

You couldn’t help it, a snort escaped you before you could stop it, even as your cheeks heated so badly you were sure they matched the wrapping paper.

“Really?” you asked, trying to sound unimpressed and failing completely.

Fred pushed the box towards you, eyes sparkling. “I pride myself on tasteful romance.”

You lifted the lid carefully and were immediately greeted with layers of your favorite sweets. Honeydukes chocolates. Sugar quills. Fizzing whizzbees. Even the specific caramel truffles you’d once mentioned liking months ago in passing.

You blinked.

He noticed.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he said airily. “I have an excellent memory when it comes to important things.”

Beneath the mountain of sweets, your fingers brush something solid. You push aside the candy and find a smaller box, neatly wrapped in deep red paper with gold ribbon tied in a surprisingly careful bow.

You look up at him again.

For once, he isn’t talking.

He’s watching you.

Not with the usual performative grin he gives the rest of the world, but with anticipation, almost nervous beneath the bravado. Like this part matters more than the joke.

Your heart thumps.

You swallow, suddenly very aware of the Great Hall around you, of the floating lanterns and murmuring students, of how close he’s standing.

“Open it,” he murmurs.

You rest the wrapped gift on the table, fingers brushing the ribbon, but before you can pull it loose, Fred leans closer again, voice dropping low enough that it sends a shiver straight down your spine.

“And after that,” he says lightly, eyes flicking down to your lips before meeting your gaze again, “I expect you to open the rest of your present.”

Your breath catches.

He straightens, grin returning in full force, but his eyes stay intent.

“I fully intend to keep my promise about the V and the D.”

He winked.