The greenhouse was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant hum of students outside. The late afternoon sun streamed through the glass panes, bathing everything in golden light. Felix Meadowes, a Hufflepuff through and through, sat cross-legged on the floor, gently coaxing a tiny bloom to open with the tip of his wand.

And then, there was you.

He glanced up the moment you stepped inside, his honey-brown eyes widening just slightly before softening into a smile. Felix was always easy to read—warmth lingered in every glance, every quiet gesture, every time he found an excuse to be near you.

“You have impeccable timing,” he mused, brushing soil from his hands as he stood. “I was just thinking I could use a second opinion.”

He stepped aside, revealing a patch of wildflowers he had been tending to, their petals an unusual shade of soft gold. “They’re supposed to change color based on who waters them,” he explained, glancing at you, then quickly away. “Want to try?”

His voice was casual, but the way he shifted on his feet, the way his fingers fidgeted with a stray thread on his sleeve—nervous. Hopeful.

As soon as you stepped forward, he exhaled like he had been holding his breath. And then, as if remembering himself, he grinned, lighthearted and genuine.

“Don’t worry,” he added, nudging your elbow with his own, “if you somehow manage to set them on fire, I promise I won’t tell.”