Cherubs
The morning of Valentine’s Day dawned bright and crisp, a pale golden sunlight streaming through the enchanted windows of Hogwarts, casting soft reflections across the frost-covered grounds. The air inside the castle was thick with the scent of chocolate, enchanted roses, and something distinctly sugary—likely the work of Honeydukes’ latest Valentine’s-themed confections.
Everywhere Hermione turned, students were exchanging gifts, parchment cards sealed with enchanted wax stamps, and miniature boxes of sweets that giggled when opened. Soft pink and red streamers curled along the walls, floating and twisting in the air as if carried by an invisible breeze, no doubt the work of Professor Flitwick’s festive charm work. The tiny cherubs that flitted through the corridors, reciting overly sentimental poetry in warbling, sing-song voices, were the final straw for Hermione’s rapidly fraying patience. She had spent the entire morning dodging them, pretending to be engrossed in whatever book she happened to be carrying, just to avoid the embarrassment of having one latch onto her.
She wanted absolutely no part of it.
For the past two days, Hermione had made it her mission to avoid Fred and George Weasley at all costs. It had been no small feat, considering the twins had an uncanny ability to pop up when she least expected it, but she had managed. A carefully planned series of strategic exits, abrupt changes in her usual routines, and, on one particularly desperate occasion, a hasty retreat through the Restricted Section of the library had all ensured that they hadn’t been able to corner her again.
But even as she congratulated herself on her success, Hermione had the distinct, sinking feeling that they weren’t the type to give up easily.
Still, she had work to do—important work. While other students might be swooning over the idea of romantic strolls and candlelit dinners, Hermione had a much more productive evening planned: a quiet night with a stack of books, a fresh roll of parchment, and an extensive essay on the magical properties of runes in ancient wizarding societies. A blissful, uninterrupted night of studying. No distractions. No nonsense.
That was, until breakfast.
The moment Hermione stepped into the Great Hall, she knew something was wrong. The atmosphere felt... charged, and not in the usual morning buzz of half-awake students gulping down pumpkin juice. A ripple of movement spread across the room as heads turned in her direction. Students were already watching her—whispering, nudging each other, and giggling behind their hands in a way that made her stomach twist uncomfortably.
Frowning, Hermione straightened her shoulders and made her way toward the Gryffindor table, determined to ignore whatever ridiculous spectacle had caused this particular reaction. But as she neared her usual spot, she came to an abrupt halt, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
The space where she normally sat had been transformed.
A luxurious red silk napkin was draped elegantly over the table, a golden plate stacked with perfectly arranged pastries sitting atop it. A goblet filled with what appeared to be freshly squeezed pumpkin juice gleamed invitingly in the soft morning light, as though it had been charmed to sparkle just for effect. A small candle—an actual, flickering candle—hovered gently above the setup, as if she had just stumbled into a private dining experience rather than her usual breakfast routine.
And then she saw them.
Fred and George were seated across from her designated spot, identical grins plastered across their mischievous faces. They looked entirely too pleased with themselves, lounging comfortably as if they had all the time in the world. Fred, ever the showman, lifted a single red rose, twirling it idly between his fingers before setting it down with a flourish.
“Ah,” he announced grandly, his voice carrying across the table. “Our lovely Hermione has finally arrived.”
George, looking entirely too pleased with himself, waved his hand toward the empty seat across from him. “Come, sit. Enjoy the ambiance,” he coaxed with a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes.
Hermione remained standing, arms tightly crossed in front of her, her posture rigid with annoyance. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, a frown deepening across her face. She stared at the elaborate setup in front of her, the absurdity of it all settling like a weight in her chest. “What. Is. This?” she demanded, her voice flat, though underneath it, there was the unmistakable edge of barely contained frustration.
Fred let out a dramatic sigh, as if deeply wounded by her disbelief. “Granger, must you always ruin the surprise?” he lamented, his voice pitched to sound overly dramatic, though his eyes twinkled with amusement. “It’s Valentine’s Day, and as your very thoughtful and selfless suitors, we simply had to ensure that you were properly romanced.”
George nodded with an exaggerated solemnity, his face the picture of mock seriousness. “We’ve gone to great lengths, Granger. We pulled many strings, we used every ounce of our charm and wit to arrange this exclusive dining experience just for you.”
Hermione couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow, her patience already fraying. “Right here, in the Great Hall?” she deadpanned, gesturing around at the now-silenced room, where students were still watching, wide-eyed and eager for the spectacle to unfold.
Fred’s grin only widened. “Oh, this is just the beginning,” he said, almost theatrically. He leaned back in his seat as if daring her to challenge him further, his eyes glinting with mischief.
Before Hermione could open her mouth to retort, a sudden flurry of motion interrupted her thoughts. She glanced up, her heart sinking, as the tiny enchanted cherubs, previously flitting about in the background of the hall, began to swoop down toward their table. They were small, chubby little creatures, their wings flapping furiously as they twirled in the air like overly enthusiastic doves. Their presence alone was enough to make Hermione's stomach churn.
One cherub—particularly plump, with a golden toga that barely stayed in place—hovered just above the table and cleared its throat with an exaggerated sound that echoed across the hall. With all the grace of a Broadway performer, the cherub unfurled a scroll with a dramatic flourish, its tiny face brimming with purpose.
“In honour of this most romantic occasion,” the cherub's sing-song voice rang out, carrying with it a note of what could only be described as overly sincere theatrics, “a special poem, composed by none other than Fred and George Weasley, for the most brilliant, stubborn, and breathtaking Hermione Granger.”
Hermione’s stomach dropped. No. No, they had not. She felt her face flush with a mix of disbelief and embarrassment. Her eyes darted to Fred and George, who were now watching her with proud, smug expressions. “You did not—” she began, her voice tinged with a growing sense of dread.
“Oh, we did,” George confirmed, his voice carrying the unmistakable tone of someone far too pleased with their own scheme. He practically glowed with pride, his grin never faltering.
The cherub, clearly satisfied with its audience, straightened its back with a flourish. It puffed out its chest, took a deep breath, and began to recite the poem in a voice that was louder now, almost booming in the vast, silent hall. It echoed off the stone walls, and the students in the Great Hall fell into an awed silence.
“In honor of this most romantic occasion,” the cherub sang out, its tiny voice carrying the carefully crafted words, “a special poem, composed by none other than Fred and George Weasley, for the most brilliant, stubborn, and breathtaking Hermione Granger.”
Hermione’s stomach plummeted, and she couldn’t quite stifle the horrified gasp that escaped her lips. She glanced around the room, her eyes wide in disbelief, but it was already too late. She could feel all eyes on her, and the absolute dread of knowing what was coming next seeped deep into her bones.
The cherub’s voice rang out again, its words dramatic and exaggerated, as if savoring every syllable.
“Her hair is wild, her temper’s fire,
Her wit is sharp, her books stack higher.
She glares at us with fury bright,
Yet somehow, that just feels so right.”
A few students from Slytherin—looking entirely too smug—snickered behind their hands, the sounds of their laughter slicing through the tense atmosphere. Draco Malfoy leaned over to Blaise Zabini, whispering something, and they both exchanged a knowing glance. The twins, in their usual style, had turned the day into an event of their own making, and, it seemed, no one was letting Hermione off easy.
However, the girls at the Gryffindor table—along with a few from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff—couldn’t help but let out a few sympathetic ‘awws.’ A few of them giggled, charmed by the exaggerated poem despite the humiliating circumstances. Hermione could feel the blood rushing to her face, the heat of it spreading from the tips of her ears down to the very core of her being. This was so not what she had signed up for.
The cherub carried on, undeterred, its tone growing even more ridiculous with every passing line.
“Her mind’s a maze, a brilliant storm,
Yet she insists on keeping warm
In rules and order, lists so neat—
But Merlin’s beard, she’s still so sweet.”
Hermione fought to keep her composure, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from shouting. Her eyes flitted from Fred and George to the students watching her. The Slytherins were practically choking with laughter, their faces twisted into malicious grins. But across the hall, Hermione noticed the girls in Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff exchanging amused smiles, their expressions a mixture of admiration and slight embarrassment on her behalf. A small part of her wished she could join in the fun and laugh at herself—if only Fred and George weren’t behind it all.
The cherub was utterly oblivious to her discomfort, completely lost in its performance.
“She fights and fumes, she shouts and scolds,
Yet in our hearts, she takes a hold.
So, dear Hermione, don’t delay—
Join us for one spectacular day!”
As the last line echoed through the hall, the cherub gave an impossibly over-the-top bow, flapping its wings furiously. With a delighted trill, it flung sparkling pink confetti into the air. The glittering specks of magic twirled down around them, catching the light in the most obnoxious, glittering display Hermione had ever witnessed. The cherub finished its show by vanishing in a shower of golden light, leaving the air still ringing with its absurdity.
The entire Great Hall erupted into applause. The students of Slytherin snickered and hooted, some even clapping with a malicious edge, while the girls at the other tables—particularly Ravenclaw and Gryffindor—shared amused, sympathetic glances. A few whispered amongst themselves, their expressions a mixture of embarrassment for Hermione and admiration for the sheer boldness of the Weasley twins.
Ron, sitting at the far end of the Gryffindor table, nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. His face was an odd shade of red, somewhere between horror and sheer mortification as he wiped his mouth with his napkin. He muttered something under his breath, but Hermione couldn’t quite make out the words over the sound of the crowd’s laughter.
Fred, utterly unfazed by the spectacle they had just unleashed upon Hermione, leaned forward across the table, propping his chin up in his hand. “So, Granger,” he drawled, his voice oozing with mock sweetness, “how about that date?”
Hermione stared at him, utterly mortified, her heart pounding in her chest. She wanted to scream, to hex them, to get up and leave the hall before she died from embarrassment. But there was Fred, grinning ear to ear, completely shameless in his teasing. She didn’t know if it was the ridiculousness of the whole situation or the way he was so unapologetically confident, but something else flickered deep inside her, despite the swirling mix of fury and humiliation.
George leaned in next to Fred, his face the picture of unrepentant mischief. He winked at her, his eyes practically sparkling with amusement. “We really did put in quite the effort,” he said smoothly, giving her a pointed look.
Hermione clenched her fists beneath the table, exhaling sharply through her nose. Her cheeks were burning, a combination of mortification and something else she couldn’t quite place. She should say no. She wanted to say no. But the more she stared at them, the more she realized there was no escape. They’d won. Again.
Her voice was a low growl as she levelled them both with a glare that could have melted steel. “One date,” she said finally, her words clipped. “And if either of you so much as think about another public spectacle like this, I will hex you into next week.”
Fred’s grin only widened at her response, clearly delighted by her concession. “Oh, Granger,” he said, almost fondly, “we wouldn’t dream of it.”
George, leaning back in his seat with a mock sigh, added, “Not today, at least.”
Hermione groaned, dropping her head into her hands in sheer resignation. Her fingers pressed against her temples as she wondered how she’d managed to fall into their trap yet again. Of all the idiotic, embarrassing things she had endured in her life, this—this moment—was going to be impossible to forget.
The Great Hall erupted into even louder cheers, and somewhere in the back, she could have sworn she heard Ron muttering something about “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
And somewhere, deep in the pit of her stomach, Hermione felt the strangest sensation of dread and—was it excitement?—all jumbled up together.