Dorcas treats shopping like a ritual, and you like to think she includes you in it on purpose.

Snow crunches beneath your boots as you wander down the high street, your breath fogging the air. Dorcas walks beside you, scarf looped twice around her neck, fingers brushing yours every so often like she’s checking you’re still there. The shop windows glow with enchanted displays; self-stirring cauldrons, quills that flutter, sweets stacked impossibly high.

“Stop,” Dorcas says suddenly, tugging you back by the sleeve.

She points at the window of Gladrags Wizardwear, where mannequins twirl in deep jewel tones. One of them wears a coat charmed to shimmer like starlight.

“That would look criminal on you,” she declares.

You snort. “Criminal?”

“Absolutely illegal,” Dorcas says, eyes bright. “I’d have to arrest you myself.”

You keep walking, peering into shop after shop. Zonko’s explodes with noise and colour; Honeydukes smells like sugar and warmth. Dorcas doesn’t rush you. She lingers, leaning close to comment on things you like, memorizing your reactions. When you pause too long at a display of rings that shift colours with mood, she notices.

“Don’t,” you warn.

She hums thoughtfully anyway.

Outside the bookshop, you share a paper bag of hot cinnamon nuts, your shoulders pressed together for warmth. Dorcas listens as you talk, really listens, eyes steady, smile soft at the edges.

“I like this,” she says quietly. “Just looking. No expectations.”

You glance at her, one eyebrow raised sceptically. “You hate not having a plan.”

She shrugs, bumping her hip against yours. “For you, I can make exceptions.”

As dusk settles, fairy lights flicker on overhead, casting Hogsmeade in gold. Dorcas stops in front of a small window filled with charms that glow gently in the dark. One catches her eye: a tiny star suspended in glass. She buys it before you can protest and presses it into your palm.