For first- and second-years, Valentine's Day didn't really an much.
It was mostly just pri entertainnt—watching the older students turn into blushing, stuttering disasters.
This year, though, the show was next-level.
The little Cupids zipped through the castle all morning, white wings fluttering, scattering sparkles like living fireworks. They delivered Valentine's cards and love letters with perfect timing, complete with background music—soft harp for the sappy ones, bright trumpet for the dramatic ones, bouncy drum for the fun ones—plus a shower of glowing petals.
The tiny angels were scarily efficient, too. If the recipient was in class, they'd wait patiently outside the door or circle back later. Not a single Cupid burst into a classroom or delivered a letter to the wrong person.
It should've been pure romance—adorable ssengers handing your heart to the person you liked.
But of course soone had to ruin the vibe.
Enter the Weasley twins.
They'd written each other the most ridiculous, over-the-top "love letters" imaginable and asked the Cupids to read them out loud in full. The entire corridor had gone dead silent for three full seconds before exploding into laughter so loud it rattled the armor.
That single prank cracked the floodgates.
Why stop at real confessions?
Why not troll your friends? Publicly humiliate your enemies?
"Hey, what if I write one to myself? No letters at all would be embarrassing."
"Brilliant! I'll do the sa—'from your secret admirer.'"
…
Out in the corridor, Lucien was walking with Harry and Ron when a cluster of Cupids flew straight toward them.
They figured the little guys would just pass by like before.
They didn't.
The lead Cupid pulled out a pink envelope, cleared its tiny throat, and struck a pose. The others fanned out—one with a harp, one with a trumpet, one already sprinkling petals.
Then, in a clear, piping voice, it announced:
"To Harry Potter—"
Harry's smile froze.
Ron's eyes went wide. He'd already seen this show a few tis that morning, but never aid at his best friend.
Was this so shy girl confessing to the Boy Who Lived… or another twin-led prank?
The Cupid kept going, voice sweet as sugar:
"Every ti I look into your erald-green eyes, I feel like I'm staring into two bottomless lakes… and I'd happily drown in them."
"Your hair's always a ss, but that's exactly what I love—it reminds of our house-elf right after waking up."
"You're so special, so uniquely you—there's literally no one else in Hogwarts quite like—"
Beautiful music. Drifting petals. Angelic little voice.
It should've been magical.
Instead the words were so cheesy and backhanded that the whole corridor cringed in secondhand embarrassnt.
Harry turned scarlet, then white, then scarlet again. His mouth opened and closed, but nothing ca out. He looked ready to either bolt or lt into the floor.
Ron stood beside him in silent mourning for his friend's dignity… while secretly thanking every star that no one had sent him anything like that.
Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose.
These Cupids were his alchemy creations—smart enough to wait outside classrooms, dodge obstacles, match music to the mood. But asking them to tell sincere love letters from savage roasts? That was apparently asking too much of a magical toddler drone.
He glanced around. Half the corridor had stopped to watch, necks craned, faces screaming "this is gonna be good." A few kids were already whispering, "Who wrote that?" and "That's brutal."
At least it was lively.
And tonight was the real main event—Valentine's needed fireworks and dramatic declarations, right?
Lucien was about to look away when he spotted a familiar blond head lurking at the corridor corner.
Malfoy.
Arms crossed, trying way too hard to look like he was just "passing by." But the corner of his mouth kept twitching downward, eyes sparkling with barely-contained glee, face screaming I must not laugh yet.
Lucien's lips twitched. Yeah… pretty sure I know who sent that letter.
The Cupid finally finished the painfully long "confession."
Harry let out a shaky breath, already planning his escape—when another Cupid swooped in, pulled out a second envelope, and cleared its throat.
"Dearest Draco—"
Malfoy's mouth was still open. The words died in his throat.
"Every ti your platinum hair catches the sunlight, I think rlin himself must have blessed ."
"Your grey eyes are deeper than the finest wine in the dungeon, and your sneer is more noble than any gem."
"If I could, I'd turn into the Slytherin badge on your chest… so I could rest against your heart forever…"
Music. Petals. Angelic voice.
Perfect harmony.
The corridor went dead silent.
Then—
"Pfft!"
Ron lost it first. That single snort lit the fuse. Laughter erupted like a Bludger to the face.
Malfoy's expression was a masterpiece—white to red to an interesting shade of green, finally settling on sothing between fury, mortification, and desperate attempts to stay elegantly above it all.
He shot a glare at Harry.
Potter's doing?
But Harry was too busy choking back his own laughter to look smug. No triumphant grin—just pure, delighted payback.
Not him, then.
Then who the hell—?!
Down the corridor, half-hidden behind a pillar, a girl with a face like a grumpy pug peeked out, watching Malfoy's reaction with sparkling, lovesick eyes.
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