As soon as they reached the bustling heart of Hogsmeade, their friends scattered like a bunch of Nifflers let loose in a Gringotts vault. Fred and George, shockingly, didn't even pretend they had other plans. They bolted straight for Zonko's, muttering something about "crucial product testing," which was code for "Let's see how close we can get to lifetime bans from Hogsmeade."
Ron, Lee, and the rest of the Gryffindor squad exchanged knowing grins before peeling off toward the Three Broomsticks. No doubt they were on a mission to hoard butterbeer and claim the best seats before the place turned into a student mosh pit.
That left Harry and Jean standing in the middle of the snow-dusted street, surrounded by the warm glow of enchanted shop signs and the distant laughter of Hogwarts students reveling in their temporary freedom.
Jean tucked her hands into her coat pockets and glanced around, pretending to be deep in thought. "So, now that we've survived the Weasley hurricane, where to first?"
Harry, who had been using the absence of Ron as an opportunity to finally enjoy some peace, shoved his hands into his cloak pockets. "I dunno, Jean. Should we follow the smell of melting chocolate, or go straight for the haunted murder house? Real toss-up."
Jean smirked. "Well, considering I have been promised the full Hogsmeade experience, I suppose we should start with something iconic."
"Right," Harry said, nodding solemnly. "Honeydukes it is. Time to buy an irresponsible amount of sugar and definitely not regret it later."
The moment they stepped inside the shop, the scent of caramel, cocoa, and childhood joy assaulted them. Students swarmed the displays like sugar-starved lunatics, snatching up licorice wands, fizzing whizbees, and the ever-popular chocolate frogs.
Jean took one look around and let out a low whistle. "Okay, I take back everything I said before. This is heaven."
Harry chuckled. "Wait until you try the best part—free samples."
Jean arched a brow. "Harry Potter, are you about to teach me the fine art of sneaky candy acquisition?"
"Absolutely," Harry said, steering her toward a counter where an elderly wizard with a twirling mustache was handing out tiny, brightly wrapped squares.
Jean unwrapped one and gave it a skeptical look. "What is it?"
"Exploding Bonbon," Harry said, popping one into his mouth. "They—"
BANG. A tiny burst of crackling cinnamon-flavored magic went off in his mouth, making him cough, his hair temporarily standing on end.
Jean barely had time to register what was happening before hers did the same. A bright spark of magic fizzled in the air, and she let out a startled laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth.
"That was—wow," she said, blinking. "That was an experience."
"Yeah, and now imagine the horror of accidentally eating one during a History of Magic lecture," Harry said. "Binns thought I was spontaneously combusting. Ten points from Gryffindor for 'disrupting the class with excessive enthusiasm.'"
Jean snorted. "That's honestly the most action that classroom has seen in centuries."
"Exactly. Now, let's get you something that won't try to set your mouth on fire."
Jean raised an eyebrow. "You mean something boring?"
"Something safer," Harry corrected. "How about chocolate frogs? Classic, no explosions, and you get a collectible card."
Jean scanned the shelves, then grabbed a pack. "Alright, let's see what the hype is about."
They paid for their sweets and stepped back outside into the cold. Jean unwrapped her chocolate frog while Harry kept an eye on the street, half-expecting Ron to emerge from the Three Broomsticks and start yelling about the gross injustice of not being included in their snack run.
Jean flipped over the card that came with her frog and gave Harry a look. "Dumbledore. Again."
Harry groaned. "Of course. That guy multiplies like garden gnomes. I think I have, like, twenty of him stashed somewhere."
Jean smirked. "So what you're saying is, you collect wizard trading cards? How very adorable, Potter."
"Hey," Harry defended, "when you grow up in the Muggle world and suddenly find out magic is real, you collect anything magical. It's a rule. Like, if I find a rock and it floats, you bet I'm keeping it."
Jean tucked the card into her pocket, still grinning. "Fair enough. Alright, oh mighty Hogsmeade tour guide, what's next?"
Harry scanned the bustling street. "We could grab some butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, or we could check out the Shrieking Shack for the full 'allegedly haunted house' experience."
Jean took a sip of butterbeer from the to-go cup she'd snagged from a cart outside Honeydukes. "Are you trying to impress me with ghost stories?"
Harry shrugged. "I mean, Hogwarts literally has ghosts, but sure, let's pretend the Shack is the scariest place around."
Jean considered this, then smirked. "Alright. But if it turns out to be lame, you owe me another round of butterbeer."
"Deal," Harry said. "But if you scream, I will mock you forever."
Jean snorted. "Bold of you to assume I scare easily, Potter. I grew up with Kurt and Kitty. I have survived."
"Okay, but have you lived?" Harry shot back. "Because nothing says 'peak Hogwarts experience' like breaking into an abandoned building with questionable structural integrity."
Jean gave him a look. "So this is actually just an elaborate way to get me to commit minor trespassing?"
"Yes," Harry said cheerfully. "Now, let's go before someone responsible like Hermione shows up and ruins the fun."
With that, they set off toward the eerie silhouette of the Shrieking Shack, their laughter echoing through the crisp winter air.
Because if there was one thing Hogsmeade was good for, it was making memories. And possibly committing some light felony. But mostly memories.
—
It was a perfect day for a bad decision. The snow-covered hills of Hogsmeade stretched out behind them, the rooftops glistening under a pale winter sun, but Harry Potter and Jean Grey had decided that hot butterbeer and warm fireplaces were overrated. No, they were trekking up a hill to the most haunted building in Britain.
Which, frankly, was a little unfair to Hogwarts, because between Myrtle's bathroom, Peeves, and the actual ghosts that lived there, the castle should've won that title ages ago.
"Okay, I'll bite," Jean said as they climbed over the broken fence. "Why is this place so famous? Like, what's the deal? Is it actually haunted, or are people just being dramatic?"
Harry shot her a grin. "Oh, it's absolutely haunted. The walls whisper at night. The air screams. Sometimes, if you listen really closely, you can hear a voice wailing in agony, saying—" He paused for effect. "'Ooooh, I left my wand in my other robe!'"
Jean gave him a flat look. "You're the worst."
"Am I, though?" Harry smirked. "Because someone is still standing here, listening to me instead of running back to the Three Broomsticks like a sensible person."
Jean rolled her eyes and shoved him lightly. "That's because I enjoy watching you make a fool of yourself, Potter. It's entertaining. Like, on a deep, spiritual level."
Harry clutched his chest. "Ouch. That almost hurt."
They stepped onto the creaky porch, and the entire structure groaned like it had just been woken up from a two-hundred-year nap and was not happy about it. The place looked like the textbook definition of 'haunted.' Crooked roof. Boarded-up windows. An overall aesthetic of Please, enter so I can murder you in a cinematic fashion.
Jean folded her arms. "So. Ghosts?"
Harry sighed dramatically. "You really want ghosts, don't you?"
"I feel robbed if I don't at least see some ghostly nonsense," Jean said. "I live in a castle where portraits talk to me and stairs change when they feel like it. The bar for spooky is very high."
Harry pushed open the door, which naturally creaked like a horror movie cliché. "Okay, here's the thing—there are no ghosts here."
Jean's head snapped toward him. "What?"
Harry grinned, stepping inside. "Never were."
Jean narrowed her eyes. "But the screaming—"
"Ah. See, that's where it gets good," Harry said, strolling deeper into the dust-covered room. "The screaming wasn't ghosts. It was a werewolf."
Jean blinked. "Lupin?"
"Bingo," Harry said. "Back when he was at Hogwarts, this is where he transformed. The teachers needed somewhere safe for him, so they set up this place. Every month, he'd come here to, you know, violently rearrange his skeleton."
Jean made a face. "That sounds painful."
Harry nodded. "Yeah. And loud. Apparently, he howled so much the villagers started spreading ghost stories. Dumbledore, being the absolute legend that he is, was like, 'Cool. Let's roll with that.' So the Shrieking Shack got its reputation, and Lupin got some privacy."
Jean's expression softened slightly. "That's actually kinda sad."
Harry shrugged. "Eh. On the bright side, he accidentally created the spookiest urban legend in Britain. Not many people get to say that."
Jean walked over to one of the broken windows, running her fingers along the dust-covered sill. "And now, decades later, people still think it's haunted because of a bunch of old howls?"
"Pretty much," Harry said. "But the real terrifying thing?" He knocked against one of the rotting walls. "This place has been abandoned for years. No one maintains it. No one fixes it. And yet, somehow, it's still standing."
Jean squinted at the ceiling. "Magic?"
"Or ghosts," Harry said, grinning.
Jean gave him the look—the one that said, I tolerate you only because you amuse me. "You want there to be ghosts, don't you?"
"I mean," Harry said, "we could start a rumor that the werewolf never left."
Jean snorted. "Oh, yeah, let's definitely make Hogwarts even more chaotic. That'll end well."
"Speaking of ending well," Harry said, stretching. "Are we done here, or do you really want to find out what's been scuttling under the floorboards this whole time?"
Jean immediately took a step back. "Nope. Nope. Absolutely not."
Harry grinned and followed her out into the cold, the Shrieking Shack looming behind them, still creepy, still full of secrets, and probably still waiting for the next round of nosy teenagers to wander in.
Because, haunted or not, the legend never really died.
—
Snowflakes swirled around Harry and Jean as they trudged through the rapidly falling snow toward the Three Broomsticks, looking like a couple of snowmen in training. The air was cold enough to freeze your breath, but the promise of warmth and something strong to drink was enough to push them forward.
"So," Jean asked, glancing sideways at Harry as they trudged through the snow, "what's the plan when we get inside? Butterbeer, or something more exciting like… firewhisky? Not that I'd recommend it for someone who's technically underage."
Harry grinned. "Definitely butterbeer. It's a safe bet. And besides, we're probably about to get dragged into some ridiculous situation as soon as we walk through that door."
Jean arched an eyebrow. "With you, Harry? Oh, there's no probably about it. It's more like a universal law at this point."
"Touché," Harry said with a shrug. "Can't help being popular."
They entered the Three Broomsticks, greeted by the familiar cozy warmth and the smell of mulled cider and roasted chestnuts. The bustle of conversation filled the air, and Harry immediately spotted the mess that was Ron.
"Uh-oh," Harry muttered under his breath as he saw his best friend practically hanging over the bar. His face was contorted into what Harry could only assume was his best attempt at a charming smile, but it was coming off more 'slightly constipated' than 'dashing rogue.'
"Is he… trying to flirt with Rosmerta?" Jean asked, already half-laughing.
"Yup. And failing miserably," Harry said with a grin. "I mean, I admire the effort, but if I didn't know better, I'd say he was auditioning for 'How Not to Ask Someone Out 101.'"
Jean snorted. "Does he ever learn?"
"Nope," Harry said, watching Ron lean in a little too far, his awkwardness becoming increasingly obvious. "That's the beauty of it. You can always count on Ron to make things… special."
Across the room, Hermione sat at a table, her nose buried in a book, though her bright red cheeks told a different story. She was trying desperately to pretend she wasn't paying attention to Ron's not-so-smooth moves, but Harry could practically hear her thoughts: "I really don't want to be here right now. Please, someone save me."
Then, as if the universe was playing some cosmic prank on them, Rosmerta finally noticed them and gave Harry a warm smile that made him feel both special and slightly uncomfortable.
"Well, well, well," Rosmerta said, her voice warm and flirtatious, eyes twinkling. "If it isn't Harry Potter. Been waiting for you to show up, dear. I heard you're causing quite the stir."
Jean gave Harry a side-eye. "You've met her before?"
"Not exactly. But I am famous, you know?" Harry said with a cheeky grin, puffing out his chest just a little. "You'd be surprised how many people know me by sight."
Rosmerta cocked her head, studying him for a moment. "You look just like your father," she said, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. "Same messy hair, same cheeky grin. But those eyes… definitely your mum's."
A pang of something weird and familiar hit Harry's chest. He quickly shook it off. "Thanks," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.
Rosmerta gave him a mischievous wink before turning to Jean. "Seems like you've got your act together already. Faster than your father, I'll say that much."
Harry's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"James Potter?" Rosmerta said, leaning in conspiratorially. "Took him years to convince Lily Evans to go out with him. And here you are, managing it by third year. That's progress, my boy."
Jean couldn't help but snicker. "Oh, I did warn him, didn't I?"
Harry groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Great, now I'm definitely never going to hear the end of this."
Rosmerta, clearly enjoying herself, folded her arms and looked them over. "Well, Potter men always fall for redheads, don't they?"
Jean raised an eyebrow. "Really? We're going there?"
"Apparently, yes," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "Potter legacy and all that."
"Alright, alright," Rosmerta said, waving a hand in the air like it was no big deal. "I'll stop teasing. How about I get you two a table? You know, proper date and all that. Let me take care of it."
Harry, who was still contemplating his sudden celebrity status, barely had time to protest before Rosmerta was already moving toward the back, leading them to a quieter table tucked away from the main bar.
"Well, this is new," Harry muttered as he slid into the seat across from Jean. "Told you we'd be roped into something ridiculous. But hey, I guess this isn't the worst."
Jean grinned. "I think it's cute. It's like Rosmerta knows exactly what you need."
"Yeah, right," Harry said, slumping in his chair. "She's just happy to get me out of the way so Ron can suffer through his unrequited crush."
Speaking of Ron, Harry glanced over at the bar. The redhead was still at it, leaning way too far forward in a bid to get Rosmerta's attention—his face flushed redder than a Weasley jumper. Meanwhile, Hermione had buried herself even deeper in her book, but Harry could tell by the way she kept flicking her eyes toward Ron that she was just waiting for the trainwreck to finish.
"I think Hermione's about to commit mass murder at this rate," Harry said, chuckling.
Jean looked over at Ron and raised an eyebrow. "Should we intervene?"
"Not a chance," Harry said with a grin. "Let him suffer. It's the only way he learns."
Jean raised her glass of butterbeer and smiled. "To Ron. May his embarrassing failures continue to provide us with endless entertainment."
Harry clinked his glass against hers. "To Ron. And to the fact that at least someone in this group knows how to make a complete idiot of themselves."
As they laughed, Harry felt an odd sense of peace settle over him. Maybe not every adventure had to be a dangerous, life-threatening one. Sometimes, it was just about sharing a drink, laughing at your best friend's total lack of social grace, and letting the warmth of the pub wrap around you like a blanket.
And if that was the case? Well, maybe third year wouldn't be as bad as he thought.
—
As Jean slipped away toward the bathroom to freshen up, Harry leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head like he was lounging at a beach, not sitting in the bustling Three Broomsticks. He cast a sideways glance toward Madam Rosmerta, who was expertly polishing a mug with the kind of concentration that could probably solve a Transfiguration problem. He wasn't even sure how that woman managed to look so effortlessly glamorous while cleaning, but here she was, doing just that.
"Well, well," she said, catching his eye and smirking. "A little quiet without the usual havoc, huh? You miss her yet?"
Harry, pretending to look deeply pained, nodded solemnly. "You know, life just isn't the same when Jean's not around. It's like my whole world is in grayscale, and the jokes are just... less funny."
Rosmerta raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Uh-huh. You've got a good sense of humor, Harry, but I'm not sure that's why you're so obsessed with her." Her voice dropped to a playful whisper, though they were far enough from the other patrons that no one would hear. "Got a bit of a soft spot for her, do you? Bet it's more than just her amazing ability to make everyone else look like they're about to cry from her glare."
Harry flushed, doing his best to hide his sudden discomfort. "I don't know what you mean. I'm totally a professional at keeping my emotions in check. I'm practically a rock. A very, very emotional rock."
Rosmerta burst into laughter, shaking her head. "Sure, Harry. And I'm the Queen of England." She flicked her blonde hair back, her eyes twinkling with that classic Rosmerta charm. "Anyway, about that birthday surprise you two have been scheming—don't worry, it's all in hand. The cake's done, and I made sure it was just the right level of ridiculousness to surprise her, but not so over the top she'll accuse you of being extra."
Harry let out a relieved sigh. "You have no idea how much I appreciate that. She can be hard to impress."
"Oh, I know," Rosmerta said, leaning in slightly, her tone suddenly conspiratorial. "Trust me, I've seen the way she gives people 'the look.' I swear, I've had grown men crumble under it. But you," she grinned, "you've got her figured out. So, cake's perfect, and the meal's ready. I made sure to put the extra effort in. You're gonna be her hero after tonight."
Harry grinned, his confidence surging. "I knew I could count on you."
Rosmerta winked. "You've got a good thing going with her, Harry. You'll be fine. Just don't mess it up with—" She stopped mid-sentence, glancing over at the far side of the room where Ron was now gesturing wildly with his hands, trying to impress Madam Rosmerta with what could only be described as the most ridiculous and embarrassing story about Quidditch ever told.
Harry snorted, glancing over to where Ron was currently failing to make a solid point. "Well, at least someone's in trouble today. I swear, that man could charm a dragon into giving him a ride, but a simple 'hello' to a pretty woman? Completely out of his league."
Rosmerta shook her head, her smile widening. "Oh, I've seen it all before. Ron's like a walking disaster zone. But don't worry, it's endearing, in a 'how did you get out of the house without anyone noticing?' kind of way."
Harry chuckled. "If there were an award for 'Most Likely to Be Completely Oblivious,' Ron would have at least three trophies on his shelf by now." He paused, watching Ron stumble over his words as Rosmerta's eyebrow arched higher with each failed attempt to flirt. "That poor, poor soul."
"I mean, he's cute, in a trainwreck sort of way," Rosmerta said, returning to her mug-polishing with a knowing smile. "But you're right—he's got the charm of a boiled potato. I've got half a mind to give him some tips on how not to make himself look like a fool."
Harry couldn't help but grin at that. "Don't worry, he'll figure it out. Maybe. Eventually. Probably."
"You know," Rosmerta said, lifting her chin slightly as she took a step back, "as much as I like watching Ron dig his own grave, I think your timing's perfect. Jean won't suspect a thing. Just play it cool."
"I can do 'cool,'" Harry said with a dramatic flourish, sitting up straight, putting his hands behind his head. "I'm practically the definition of cool."
Rosmerta eyed him, her smile turning mischievous. "Right. Cool. Sure you are, Harry. And I'm totally not going to bring out that ridiculously cheesy cake now that Jean's about to come back."
Harry raised an eyebrow, grinning. "You wouldn't dare."
She winked. "Oh, I would. And I'm proud of it."
Just then, Jean returned to the table, her cheeks flushed from the cool air outside. As she sat, she gave Harry a sharp, questioning look. "Well, well. What have you two been up to? Plotting my demise again, or are you just working on another elaborate birthday scheme?"
Harry, his face the picture of innocence, replied, "I don't know what you're talking about. Just checking in to make sure everything's set for the big reveal. You know, low-key, stress-free... totally not ridiculous at all."
Jean's eyes narrowed. "Right. Because this whole 'birthday surprise' thing is going so smoothly, isn't it?" She paused for a second, her gaze flicking between Harry and Rosmerta, before she added, "You're not getting me some embarrassing enchanted broomstick or anything, are you?"
"No! Nothing like that!" Harry protested, holding up his hands defensively. "I promise, there's nothing magical, embarrassing, or entirely over the top happening here."
Jean raised an eyebrow but seemed to soften a little. "Mm-hmm. I'm sure. This feels like one of those things where I'm gonna have to act surprised and be grateful for it, right?"
"Exactly," Harry said, trying his best to keep a straight face. "That's the plan. You act shocked, maybe cry a little for dramatic effect, and I'll be the hero."
Jean gave him a skeptical look but couldn't suppress the smirk tugging at her lips. "You're lucky you're cute when you try to pull off these ridiculous stunts."
Harry leaned back in his chair, clearly relishing the moment. "Hey, when you've got this much charm and finesse, how could I not be the center of attention? But hey, I'll let Ron take the heat tonight."
Jean's grin widened as she looked over at Ron, who was still flailing his arms like a windmill in an attempt to explain a particularly complicated Quidditch move. "That poor, poor soul," she muttered under her breath.
"Yeah," Harry said with a chuckle, "It's like watching a car crash in slow motion, only somehow more tragic."
They clinked their glasses together in a mock toast. "To Ron," Harry said with a wicked grin. "May his eternal awkwardness continue to be a source of never-ending entertainment for the rest of us."
"To Ron!" Jean echoed, laughing as she took a sip. "And to chaos. Because apparently, that's the theme of the evening."
—
Harry Potter, the self-proclaimed "master of subtlety" (though that title was hotly contested by anyone who had ever met him), sat across from Jean in the cozy corner of the Three Broomsticks. The midday sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over their table, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world had decided to give them some peace and quiet. The chatter of students and staff faded into the background, leaving only the two of them. Harry leaned back in his chair, looking like he was trying to look cool—but failing spectacularly.
"So," he said, breaking the silence, "I know I'm supposed to be some suave, charming bloke right now, but can we just agree that I'm winging this whole 'romantic lunch' thing?"
Jean, leaning on the table with her elbows and a sly smile dancing on her lips, eyed him. "Oh, absolutely. I mean, if you were any less subtle, we'd have you standing outside in the snow with a massive banner that says, 'Look at me, I'm trying to be romantic!'"
"Hey, I have standards," Harry replied, giving her a mock-offended look, "It's about balance, you know? Just the right amount of charm without tipping over into 'awkward teenage boy territory'."
She raised an eyebrow. "Which you're already in. You're in the 'awkward' section right now, mate. I'll admit, it's impressive that you're this bad at it. Usually, it takes real effort."
Harry gave a dramatic gasp. "Jean, how could you? I'm insulted! I'm practically a romantic genius in the making." He wiggled his eyebrows, earning an eye roll from her.
"Sure, sure, genius," she muttered under her breath, trying—and failing—to hide a smile. "You're so subtle that Madam Rosmerta probably knows all your secrets by now."
At that, Harry had to stifle a laugh. "Okay, maybe I might have had a tiny bit of help," he said, leaning in and lowering his voice as if sharing a dangerous secret. "But I swear, it's all part of the grand plan. Just wait for it."
Jean squinted at him, suspicion written all over her face. "I don't trust you."
Just then, Madam Rosmerta appeared at their table, effortlessly balancing two steaming plates of food. Her entrance was so dramatic that it could've been a scene out of some cheesy romance novel. The barmaid—blonde, bubbly, and impossibly good-looking—set the plates down with a flourish.
"Your meal, lovebirds," she said, winking at Harry like they were in on some secret joke. "Anything else? A bit more wine, perhaps?"
Jean gave Rosmerta a suspicious look. "We're good. Thanks."
Harry shot the barmaid a wink. "Yeah, we're fine... unless you've got something that could really set the mood, you know, like a magic potion for romance."
Rosmerta didn't miss a beat. "I'm sure you two will manage without it. Enjoy your lunch, darling."
With that, she bounced off with a mischievous grin, leaving Harry to roll his eyes.
"I'm telling you, Jean," Harry said, shaking his head as he dug into his food. "This place is full of dangerous women who know exactly what they're doing."
Jean looked over at him with a playful smirk. "I think you're just an easy target, Potter."
"Is that a challenge?" he asked, not missing a beat.
"Take it how you want," she replied with a wink, diving into her own meal.
For a while, they ate in comfortable silence, the food rich and savory, and the conversation punctuated by the occasional insult and playful banter. Jean seemed to genuinely enjoy herself, and Harry was quietly thrilled by how much she was enjoying the meal—and mostly because of how she was letting her guard down with him.
"So," Harry said, the nerves creeping back into his voice as he cleared his throat. "How's the birthday surprise coming along?"
Jean arched an eyebrow. "Birthday surprise? You've been planning something?"
"Me?" Harry feigned innocence. "Not at all. I'm just here for the food, and to bask in the glory of your radiant company. You know, the usual."
She snorted. "Uh-huh. That's a load of rubbish, Potter. You're definitely up to something. You always are."
Harry shrugged, trying to look casual but definitely not pulling it off. "Look, I'm just here to make today special. That's all. No big deal."
Jean crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair, her eyes narrowing. "Special, huh? I'm starting to feel like you've been plotting against me. And I'm not sure I like it."
Harry gave her a sheepish grin. "Maybe. Maybe not. But if I'm being honest with you, I'm just doing this for the effort. You deserve it, alright?"
She gave him a teasing look, softening just a little. "I'm not exactly easy to impress, you know."
Harry waved it off dramatically. "Who said anything about impressing you? This is all about intention. You know, the thought behind it."
"Uh-huh." She smirked, clearly unconvinced. "Let's see if you can keep the act up until the end."
They continued to banter, but there was an undercurrent of something a bit warmer between them—something genuine. The food disappeared in a blur of witty exchanges and playful insults, until only the last few bites remained.
Then Harry looked at the time and leaned in, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. It was time.
"Jean," he started, his voice quieter now. "I'm really glad you're here."
She looked at him, surprised by the sudden sincerity in his voice. "Potter, are you about to get all mushy on me?"
"Maybe," he said with a grin. "But I'm serious. You're—you're just... you. And that's enough for me."
Jean froze, looking slightly flustered. She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, the door to the Three Broomsticks swung open, and in came Madam Rosmerta, carrying a massive cake on her hands.
Jean stared, blinking. "Wait, is that...?"
It was. A giant cake—layered with rich, golden sponge, frosting dripping in a rainbow of colors, and perched on top was a shimmering little phoenix, as if daring to catch the light. It was definitely not an ordinary cake.
"Surprise!" Rosmerta chirped, setting the cake down with a flourish. "A birthday treat for the birthday girl, courtesy of our favorite Gryffindor."
Jean's mouth dropped open, her eyes locked on Harry. "You... actually did it."
"Yup," Harry said smugly, grinning from ear to ear. "Told you I could pull off the romance thing."
Jean blinked, clearly impressed. "Okay, okay, I admit it. You did outdo yourself. But don't let this go to your head, Potter. It's just cake."
"Just cake?" Harry raised his eyebrows, pretending to be scandalized. "That's the kind of response I get after all this effort? Insulted."
Jean took a bite of the cake, and her eyes closed in surprise. "Okay, fine. This is... actually amazing. You've got points. For now."
"Of course," Harry said, holding his glass up. "I told you. Master of romance, right here."
Jean shook her head, laughing despite herself. "You're ridiculous. But thanks, Harry. Seriously."
"Anything for you, Jean," Harry said, flashing her a wink. And for the first time that day, he didn't feel quite so awkward.
For a moment, as they continued to joke and eat, everything felt just right. Not perfect, maybe. But good enough.
"Happy birthday, Jean," Harry said softly, his tone sincere now, and just a bit warmer.
Jean smiled at him, her expression softening. "Thanks, Harry. This has been... nice. Really nice."
And with that, they finished their cake, their laughter mingling with the hum of the Three Broomsticks, a quiet little slice of magic in the middle of a busy world.
---
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