Weeks blurred into parchment and cauldrons. Arya had sworn to bury the Fred situation under essays and spell diagrams.
It wasn't working.
Gryffindor Tower was a minefield. Common room? There he was, sprawled on the sofa inventing exploding snap variants. Great Hall? Laughing too loud at the table. Corridors? She'd duck into alcoves like a fugitive.
At least we don't share classes.

That morning she lingered in the dormitory mirror, wrestling waves into submission.
Hermione tapped her foot.
"We haven't eaten. We'll be late for Potions. Snape will flay us—and Gryffindor can't afford another point hemorrhage."
Arya stuck out her tongue. "He likes me. I'm top of the class."
"Probably sees his greasy teenage self in you," Hermione muttered. "That's not the point. You're stalling because Fred might be downstairs."
Arya's eyes lit up. "Solution: wake at dawn. Breakfast at sunrise. Problem solved."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "You're ridiculous. He's noticing you dodging him, you know. You're hurting his feelings."
Arya scoffed, already halfway out the door. "Please. Between girls, pranks, and Quidditch, I'm background noise."
Love makes you blind and stupid, Hermione thought.

Great Hall – Breakfast.
Arya scanned the benches like a Beater scouting Bludgers, then slid in beside Harry and Ron.
"Finally," Ron grumbled through toast. "Starving here."
"Tell her," Hermione said, pouring juice. "She took forever."
"Where're the twins?" Arya asked, too casual.
Harry grinned. "McGonagall dragged them off. Something about last week's pixie-dust avalanche."
Everyone chuckled. The memory of floating potion bottles still made Snape twitch.
Arya glanced at the clock. "Holy! Potions—now!"
She grabbed Hermione's arm, toast clamped in teeth, and bolted.

Meanwhile, in the Staff Room – Same Time...
Fred sniffed the air as they entered.
"Thought Arya was in here. Same perfume."
George raised an eyebrow. "Mate, you are mixing up, that's Snape with vials for his lesson."
In fact, it wasn't Aria who passed by. Snape swept past, arms full of vials.
"Your pixie-dust stunt was mediocre. Fifty points from each of you. Try harder—or don't try at all."
George saluted. "Flying potion bottles were art, Professor."
Snape's lip twitched—almost a smile—as he glided out.

...

The dungeon air hung thick with anticipation, the faint hiss of cauldrons bubbling like whispered secrets. Amortentia shimmered in the demonstration pot at the front—liquid moonlight swirling in spirals of mother-of-pearl, steam curling upward in hypnotic loops.
Professor Snape glided between the desks, black robes billowing like raven wings. His dark eyes swept the class, lingering just a fraction longer on the Gryffindor side.
"Heeler," he drawled, voice silk over steel. "Define."
Arya rose smoothly, spine straight, chin lifted. She'd long ago learned that with Snape, confidence was armor.
"Amortentia is the most powerful love potion in existence," she recited, words precise as a scalpel. "It doesn't create true love—only obsession. The potion has a distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen, and its steam rises in characteristic spirals. Most crucially, it smells different to each of us... according to what we're most attracted to."
A ghost of approval flickered across Snape's sallow face—the rarest currency in his classroom.
"Textbook," he murmured, almost to himself. "Though one might argue obsession is love's truest form." His gaze sharpened. "Ten points to Gryffindor. For once, a student who reads."
Hermione's hand twitched, but she lowered it. Even she knew Snape's favoritism toward Arya was ironclad—and utterly inexplicable. Whispers followed the girl like shadows: Teacher's pet. Potions prodigy. The one Slytherin who'd kill to have in their House.
"Pair up," Snape commanded. "Brew. I expect perfection."
Arya slid onto the bench beside Harry. Their cauldron waited, gleaming copper.
"Ingredients," she said briskly, already portioning ashwinder eggs.
Harry measured pearl dust. Their fingers brushed and static sparked. Both froze.
"Careful," Arya hissed, cheeks warming. "Moonstone after the eggs. Timing is everything."
"You're worse than Hermione," Harry muttered, but he was smiling.
"Precision, Potter," she shot back, eyes dancing. "Use your brain, not your fame."
They fell into rhythm—old habits from two years of dating, now comfortably platonic. Arya stirred counterclockwise, seven turns exactly. Harry added rose thorns with exaggerated care.
"Slow pour," she warned. "Too fast and it curdles."
"Yes, Professor Heeler."
Snape paused behind them, watching.
"Acceptable form, Miss Heeler," he said quietly—so quietly only they heard. "Though your partner could learn from your... discipline."
Harry rolled his eyes. Arya hid a grin.
The potion settled into flawless pearlescence. Steam spiraled upward, fragrant and insistent.
Harry leaned in first.
"Smells... muddled," he frowned. "Fresh parchment, broom polish, maybe treacle tart? And something floral—Cho?" He scratched his scar. "Too many things."
Arya arched a brow. "Indecisive as ever."
Snape's voice cut across the dungeon. "Miss Heeler—your assessment?"
She straightened. "It's perfect, Professor. The sheen, the spirals—textbook."
"Sniff," he ordered.
Arya bent over the cauldron. The steam enveloped her like a lover's breath.
Cedar wood - warm, sun-baked. Gunpowder—sharp, electric. Cinnamon—spicy, lingering.
Oh no.
Her heart slammed against her ribs. The dungeon tilted.
She jerked back, hands flying to her burning cheeks.
"We—we messed up," she stammered, voice cracking. "I must've added the moonstone too early. Or—or the thorns were crushed wrong. It's ruined."
Harry blinked. "Ary, it's identical to the demo—"
"Ruined," she repeated, louder. Desperate.
Snape's eyes narrowed. He inhaled once—subtle, clinical.
"Curious," he murmured. "The potion is... flawless." His gaze pinned her. "Yet you claim error. Why?"
Arya swallowed. "I—I don't know, sir. It just... smells off."
A beat of silence. Snape's lip curled—almost amusement.
"Ten points from Gryffindor," he said softly, "for lying to your professor."
He swept away.
Hermione stared from across the room, mouth open. Harry gaped.
Arya never lied about potions.
She never messed up.
And Snape—Snape—had just praised her work... then punished her for panic.
She sank onto the bench, pulse thundering.
Cedar. Gunpowder. Cinnamon.
The scent clung to her like a spell she couldn't break.

That afternoon was dedicated to library-bound, Arya rounded a corner—and walked straight into Fred Weasley.
"Oh. Hey."
"Ary!" His grin could power the Hogwarts Express. "Been ages. You okay? You've been... quiet."
She twisted her hair tie. "Just swamped with homework."
He tilted his head. "Looked like you were avoiding me."
"No! I just—don't want Gryffindor losing more points."
Fred slung an arm around her shoulders, warm and easy.
"Come on, you love our chaos." He flicked his wand; a daisy transfigured into a tiny bouquet. "For my favorite troublemaker."
Her pulse raced.
Then he spoke again and ruined it.
"So—Beauxbatons girls. Prank plans. You in?"
The bouquet suddenly felt heavy.
"Homework," she mumbled, stepping back.
Fred's smile faltered. "Right. Catch you later then?"
She fled to the library, heart in her throat.
He doesn't see me. Not like that.

Dinner – Great Hall

The Great Hall thrummed with the usual evening chaos: cutlery clinking, owls swooping with last-minute post, first-years arguing over pumpkin pasties. Candles floated overhead like golden fireflies, casting warm pools of light on the house tables.
Arya's seat—between Harry and Hermione—remained conspicuously empty.
Harry glanced at it for the third time, fork hovering mid-air.
"Where's Ary?" he asked, voice low enough not to carry.
Hermione speared a roast potato with unnecessary force.
"Dormitory. Curled up like a hedgehog. She's... upset. More than usual. Do you guys think it's because of today's class?"
Ron, mouth full, mumbled, "Skipped dinner? That's not like her."
Across the bench, Fred Weasley had gone unnaturally still. His usual grin—perpetual, mischievous—had slipped. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the collar of his robes.
"Might be my fault," he said, so quietly George had to lean in.
George's smirk was instant. "What. You told her today you mistook Snape for her? 'Cause that perfume mix-up was gold—"
Fred elbowed him hard. "Shut it, Georgie."
His eyes flicked to the empty space again. Arya's absence felt like a missing chord in a song he hadn't realized he was humming.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "What'd you do, Fred?"
Fred exhaled, shoulders slumping. "Courtyard. Earlier. Tried to rope her into Beauxbatons pranks. She... shut down. Said she had homework."
Hermione's gaze sharpened. "You invited her to flirt with French girls? Last time I checked she still liked boys."
Fred winced. "Not... exactly—"
George snorted. "You said, and I quote, 'Come charm them with me.' Smooth, brother."
Fred's ears went scarlet. He shoved a hand through his hair, making it stick up worse.
"I didn't! You weren't there! I'll talk to her," he muttered. "After dinner. Fix it."
Ron swallowed his mouthful. "Good luck. She's been dodging you like a Bludger for weeks."
Fred's jaw tightened. He stared at Arya's empty plate as if it might conjure her back.
Yeah, he thought. I noticed.
The candles flickered. Somewhere above, an owl hooted.
Fred pushed his barely touched shepherd's pie away.
Fix it, he repeated silently. Before she decides I'm not worth the dodge.

Girls' Dormitory – Night

The spiral staircase creaked under hurried feet. Hermione burst through the dormitory door like a spell on the verge of explosion.
"Sleepover. Now."
Ginny slipped in behind her, cheeks flushed from the climb, eyes bright with determination. She looked at Arya.
"She needs us."

The room was dim, lit only by the dying embers in the grate and a single candle on the windowsill. Arya sat cross-legged on the faded crimson rug, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around a pillow as if it were the only thing keeping her from floating apart. Her long wavy hair spilled over one shoulder like spilled ink; the hair tie on her wrist was twisted so tight it left pale marks.
Hermione kicked the door shut with her heel.
"Relationship talk." She planted her hands on her hips. "Go."
Arya's laugh came out brittle. "Ginny first, Harry crush update?"
Ginny's face ignited scarlet. She flopped onto the nearest bed, burying her face in a quilt.
"Shut up."
Hermione wasn't having it. She dropped to the rug beside Arya, voice softening to the tone she used when calming a skittish hippogriff.
"Your turn."
Arya exhaled, long and shaky. She picked at a loose thread on her sleeve.
"Harry was... everything. First love. First hand-holding in the corridors, first Hogsmeade date, first everything." Her voice cracked. "I feel guilty for wanting this again, but not with him. I feel like I'm not enough. Like if I let myself feel again, I'm betraying what we had."
Hermione's eyes flashed—fierce, protective.
"You're brilliant. Powerful. Gorgeous. Harry was lucky to have you for two years. And he let you go because he was too busy being the Chosen One to choose you."
Ginny peeked out from the quilt, nodding furiously.
"You deserve someone who sees you, Ary. Not someone who looks through you."
Arya's fingers stilled. She stared at the floorboards.
"What I want... isn't right."
Hermione's eyebrow arched like a drawn wand.
"Amortentia?"
"What?"
"What did you feel today at potion?"
Arya's whisper barely stirred the air.
"Cedar wood. Firecrackers. Cinnamon."
Ginny squealed—a sound so high it could've shattered glass. She launched off the bed, landing on her knees beside them.
"FRED!"
Arya's face flamed. "Could be George—"
Hermione lobbed a pillow with deadly accuracy. It bounced off Arya's head.
"George smells like burnt toast and regret. That was Fred."
Arya buried her face in the pillow, voice muffled.
"He's sweet—slips me meatballs, transfigures flowers, hugs me like I'm breakable—but then he's winking at Beauxbatons girls right in front of me. I'm just... the little-sister type. The safe one. The friend."
Hermione's expression softened to something almost maternal.
"He treats you differently, Ary. The way he looks for you in a room. The way he noticed you weren't at dinner. Maybe he's confused too—he's allergic to feelings, and terrified of ruining what you two have. But you deserve someone who chooses you. Every day. Not someone who keeps one foot in the door and one foot flirting with the world."
Arya lifted her head, eyes glassy.
Before she could speak—
THUD.
A heavy book slid from the top shelf and hit the floor with a whump. Dust motes danced in the candlelight.
The door creaked open an inch—then froze.
Hermione's voice cut through the hush like a Severing Charm.
"Ron?"
A sheepish, muffled voice from the crack:
"...Yeah."
The Invisibility Cloak slipped to the floor in a silvery puddle.
Ron stumbled in first, ears crimson, holding the Marauder's Map like a guilty secret.
Harry followed, rubbing the back of his neck, glasses askew.
George sauntered in with a grin that screamed busted.
And Fred—
Fred stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide as saucers.
In his hand: the same tiny transfigured bouquet from the courtyard, now slightly wilted.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
The girls stared.
The boys stared.
The bouquet trembled in Fred's grip like it might sprout legs and run.
Hermione broke the silence, voice dangerously calm.
"Explain."
Fred swallowed.
"...We were... uh... checking for... Nargles?"
Ginny face-palmed.
Arya's heart tried to exit through her throat.