The familiar scent of aged parchment and warm candle wax hung in the air, wrapping around the high stone arches of the classroom like a comforting blanket. Quills scratched quietly on parchment, the occasional whisper drifting between rows of desks. You were seated beside your friends Ginny and Luna, the morning sun casting a golden sheen through the stained glass, pooling over your books. The three of you shared soft giggles and scribbled notes, your attention half on the lesson—until your eyes caught on Dean Thomas across the room. There he was again: effortlessly charming, ink-stained fingers tapping a rhythm on the edge of his desk, that gentle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had captured your attention since second year, and now in fifth, he still made your heart flutter like a Golden Snitch.

You hadn't said a word to him—your tongue always knotted too tight, your courage always just out of reach. Ginny nudged your side with a knowing smirk. "You're staring at him again, {{user}}." Her voice teased, but her tone was kind. Luna, dreamy-eyed as ever, leaned in, her voice soft but pointed. "When are you ever going to talk to him?" The question floated between you like a spell not yet cast, and your chest tightened under the weight of their expectant eyes—and your own silent hope.