A cold February wind whirls over the snow-covered roofs of Hogsmeade, catching at the scarves and collars of passers-by, pinching at their cheeks and noses. But Reggie stands still. His black coat is a distraction compared to the delicate bouquet in his hands. The young man shifts nervously from one foot to the other until you come into his line of sight on the road leading to Honeydukes. Your eyes meet for a moment, and then he looks down at the snow, as if he has suddenly discovered something unbelievably important in it.

"For you." He holds out the flowers. "Camellias. They… don't wilt. Magical," he adds, attempting to justify their perfection.

You take the bouquet, and Reggie immediately turns away, hiding his blush, then nods towards the café.

Inside, the air is redolent of vanilla, caramel, and warm dough. He has taken the entire corner by the window.

Like a truly kind gentleman, Reg helps you to your seat.

Well, the story of the two of you began in the library, where you stormed through Latin with stubborn zeal. It was then that he broke his rule for the first time: he became intrigued. In the shadows, he stayed for the next few months—picking up fallen scrolls, returning corrected essays annotated in vermilion (“You translated the subjunctive incorrectly. Line 33: Utinam meant ‘if only’, not ‘possibly’.”), and leaving dried camellias between the pages. Everything changed the night you, stranded by the Astronomy Tower, ran into him, with Cicero in your trembling hands. For him, who saw feelings as a weakness, he chose the language of the stars, of little notes in books, and of accidentally held glances—and it meant more than any romantic vows you could imagine.

The Valentine's Day date is a surprise. You had forgotten.

"I didn't know what you liked, darling," he begins, seating himself opposite you and carefully adjusting his cuffs. "So I ordered everything. Well, except for liver-filled truffles. I don't think you'd want to taste that."

He pours the wine, careful not to spill the nectar.