Breakfast in the Great Hall

The Great Hall buzzed with the morning clamour—silverware clinking against plates, owls swooping low with bundled parchments, students yawning over stacks of toast and steaming porridge.

Sunlight streamed through the enchanted ceiling, painting the long tables in golden patches, while the house banners rippled lazily overhead.

Harry slid onto the bench beside Ron, the wooden seat creaking under his weight, his plate already half-filled with eggs and bacon that Hermione pushed toward him with a pointed look, her golden hair tied back in a loose braid that caught the light like spun thread.

Ron leaned in immediately, his fork abandoned mid-stab at a sausage, freckled face splitting into a conspiratorial grin as he dropped his voice to a harsh whisper, red hair flopping forward to shield their chat from nearby ears.

"Come on, mate—spill it,” Ron pleaded, "how'd you snag both Parkinson and Cassiopeia, right?"

Harry awkwardly smiled, knowing he couldn’t really tell Ro the truth.

"Blimey,” the red head continued, “that's like taming a pair of dragons with a wink."

If only he knew exactly how close to the truth that was.

"Did you slip 'em a love potion?” Ron question causing Harry to almost **** on his pumpkin juice.

Since well that was a very, very plausible means of enchanting others. Not something Harry or the old Harry or even the new Harry would do, then again Harry did note that he technically was something something worse,

Nah, that's not your style," Ron waved off, "some charm you picked up from that old book?”

Harry doubted it, that seemed to be well the students handbook to potions, fixing the actually ministry approved version.

“Or was it just your famous Potter luck?"

Perhaps it was, Harry mused.

Ron’s eyes danced with genuine excitement, elbow nudging Harry's ribs under the table, the thrill of it all bubbling up like butterbeer foam, oblivious to the Slytherin table across the hall where Pansy shot a sly glance their way.

Harry kept his gaze on his plate, spearing a bit of egg with deliberate slowness, the words bubbling in his throat but held back like a dammed spell. He couldn't risk a slip—not here, surrounded by hundreds, where a casual ‘I just...’ could warp the air into something irreversible, blonde strands or worse rippling out like unintended curses.

"Not the place," he muttered back, voice low and even, dodging the question with a shrug that pulled his shoulders tight. The power thrummed faint in his chest, a reminder to measure each syllable, turning his evasion into a game of shadows—glancing at Ron with a half-smirk that promised details later, maybe, but gave nothing now.

Hermione watched them both from across the bench, her book propped open but unread, concern flickering in her eyes as she sipped pumpkin juice.