Valentine's Day had swept through Hogwarts like a sugar-high Niffler. The castle was bursting with hearts, glitter, and the subtle aroma of amortentia someone had foolishly spilt near the second-floor stairwell.
In the Hufflepuff common room, Hadrian and Dora sat on opposite ends of the fireplace, very much pretending to read. Iris sat in between, quill in hand, eyes moving between them like she was watching a very slow game of romantic chess.
"So," Iris said casually, "did you hear about the room?"
Dora perked up. "What room?"
"Fifth floor. Some seventh-year Gryffindor and Ravenclaw apparently enchanted an old classroom. Based on amortentia magic, only it doesn't make you smell things—it shows you a memory. Of someone you care about. Supposed to help people figure out who they're really into."
Hadrian looked up from his book. "That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen."
"That sounds fascinating," Dora said at the same time.
They both blinked at each other.
Iris smirked. "Thought you might say that."
By late afternoon, the three were slipping quietly up to the fifth floor, past a long tapestry depicting a goblin poetry duel. At the far end of the corridor, behind an archway draped in red and gold ribbons, they found the door. Someone had charmed a plaque to hang on it, reading:
"The Reflection Room — See What Your Heart Already Knows."
"Subtle," Hadrian muttered.
"I'm going in," Dora said firmly, her hand on the knob. "In case it's trapped."
"You said the same thing about the chocolate frogs from Zonko's," Iris reminded her.
"They were trapped," Dora replied darkly, and entered.
The room inside was quiet and soft-lit, like moonlight on parchment. The walls shimmered faintly with a bluish sheen. Dora stepped forward, heart suddenly pounding louder than she liked.
Then the magic bloomed.
Before her appeared the image of Hadrian, sitting on the Hogwarts Express—one of the earliest days. He was looking out the window, his reflection in the glass flickering with autumn trees. He'd turned and smiled at something she'd said, and in that smile was the warmth that had tethered her ever since.
She stared for a long moment.
Then turned, walked out, and said, "Weird room."
Her hair had changed to a soft magenta.
Hadrian didn't comment.
His turn.
He stepped inside, feeling oddly exposed, like he was walking into a dream that knew too much.
The image formed quickly.
Dora again—snowflakes in her hair, standing triumphant after a snowball fight. Her laugh echoed in his ears even though the image was silent. She looked impossibly alive in that moment—bold, bright, and his.
He lingered longer than necessary before leaving.
When he stepped out, Dora looked up, and for a brief second, their eyes met and held.
"Well?" she asked.
"Interesting experiment," he replied.
"Useful," she said, too fast.
Iris rolled her eyes. "You two are exhausting."
She started walking back toward the stairs.
Hadrian and Dora fell into step behind her. Their shoulders brushed. Their hands nearly touched. They didn't speak.
But as Iris glanced over her shoulder, she caught the tiniest of blushes coloring both their cheeks.
Hopeless.
Adorable.
And absolutely obvious.