The farce finally ended. The corridor slowly returned to its usual hum of students shuffling between classes.
Malfoy seized the moment and slid up beside Lucien, acting as if the mortifying public roast had never happened to him—or at least, that Potter had suffered right alongside him made the whole thing slightly more bearable.
They walked a few steps in silence before Malfoy spoke.
"Lucien, I've got a question."
"Why can't those Cupids deliver letters to you?"
Harry and Ron exchanged a quick, weirded-out glance.
Huh? Someone actually tried sending Lucien something?
Lucien shrugged. "I gave the Cupids a standing order: politely turn down anyone who tries to send me cards or love letters."
"An order?" Harry echoed, confused.
Lucien nodded. "They're alchemical puppets I built. I can program them with clear instructions."
"Alchemical puppets?!"
The three boys blurted it out at the same time.
Those flying, giggling, nuzzling little angels with baby-soft skin who even knew when to wait outside classrooms… were puppets? Not real creatures?
Malfoy instantly thought of the stiff, creepy alchemical servant his father kept in the manor—one that could bow and pour tea but moved like a corpse with dead eyes.
Nothing like these lively little guys.
Ron, meanwhile, remembered the half-finished owl he'd been tinkering with in the dorm. It could only waddle around screeching and had already been chased around the room by his roommates (except Harry) at night.
Compared to Cupids that could fly, recite poetry, sing, and play music…?
Ron swallowed hard. Yeah… more practice needed.
Lucien looked at Malfoy suspiciously. "Why are you asking?"
Malfoy's gaze flicked away. "Just… a Slytherin junior girl asked me to find out for her." He paused, then shot back, "So why exactly are you rejecting all those letters and cards?"
Lucien didn't answer right away. Instead he pulled a beautifully wrapped box of chocolates from his pocket, opened it, and handed one to Harry.
"Here. Take a look."
Harry, flattered, automatically reached to pop it in his mouth—
Lucien's forehead darkened. He stopped him instantly.
"Before you eat it, first 'look' inside to see what's been added."
Harry's hand froze mid-air.
He stared down at the chocolate. The shell was gorgeous—delicate carved patterns, clearly handmade with care.
Since Lucien still had a whole box, Harry figured snapping this one open was fine. He cracked it gently.
Crack.
The shell split. Inside flowed a dreamy blue-pink liquid. Tiny bubbles spiraled upward like miniature whirlwinds before vanishing into the air.
"Wow…" Ron leaned in and sniffed. "Weird. It smells like… roasted pie?"
Malfoy, who had been trying to look dignified, let out a cold snort.
"Roasted pie? How uncultured. That's clearly the bouquet of aged dragon-blood wine."
He lifted his chin, savoring the chance to show off.
"Never mind how rare the ingredients are—just to enjoy the true flavor you need to cellar it for at least fifty years. Even one small glass—"
He'd been about to add "is worth more than the entire Weasley hovel," but caught Lucien beside him and swallowed the insult.
Ron was about to snap back when inspiration struck. He cleared his throat and launched into a dramatic recitation:
"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…"
Malfoy's face went from white to Weasley-red in record time.
"Weasley!"
Is this never going to die?!
Harry ignored their bickering. He stared at the broken chocolate, sniffing the faint scent.
Not roasted pie. Not dragon-blood wine.
Grass.
The fresh, green scent you get when you skim low over the Quidditch pitch, nose brushing the blades.
And underneath it… a faint burnt note, like the ozone after lightning cracks across the sky.
Harry frowned. Why did everyone smell something different?
He looked up at Lucien, who was watching him with that familiar "quiz time" expression.
Harry's brain clicked. Blue-pink liquid, spiraling bubbles, everyone smelling a unique scent…
He'd read this somewhere—not in the second-year Potions textbook, but in one of the extra books Lucien had recommended.
"It's Amortentia!" Harry blurted. "It's loaded with full-strength Love Potion!"
Ron and Malfoy froze and whipped around.
Harry grew more confident. "High-quality stuff too—that's why everyone smells something different!"
Lucien nodded. "Correct. Amortentia, also called Love Potion at this concentration. You only cover it in sixth- or seventh-year electives. This box was owl-delivered this morning. I've got a few more 'gifts' like it."
Amortentia—the most powerful love potion in existence.
It didn't create real love. It only forced an intense, obsessive infatuation. Same as every other so-called love potion.
And yes, it worked on Muggles too.
Voldemort's mother had used exactly this on his father—poor Muggle Tom Riddle Sr.—to make him "love" a witch.
Sigh. Potion-brewed "love" was never love. When the obsession faded, only resentment and distortion remained.
Harry, Ron, and Malfoy fell quiet.
Being popular… wasn't always a blessing.
If Lucien hadn't blocked the Cupids from delivering to him, he probably would've spent the whole day listening to angel-voiced recitations and songs—plus these spiked chocolates.
Ron shuddered at the mental image. He glanced at Lucien and asked hesitantly,
"So… on Valentine's Day today… you don't have any plans?"
Lucien smiled. "I do."
"Remember to head outside the castle tonight. There's still a main event left."