Neville Longbottom, his brow furrowed in concentration, was carefully transporting a tray of freshly brewed potions for Professor Sprout. He was muttering to himself, stepping with exaggerated care.

It shattered at your feet.

A thick, opalescent liquid—Amortentia—splashed across the stone floor, soaking immediately into the hem of your robes. The air itself seemed to shimmer, suddenly saturated with a dizzying, intoxicating aroma. It was the scent of everything you had ever secretly desired, woven into one irresistible perfume.

For a moment, there was only the sound of Neville’s horrified gasp. Then, from the corridor beyond the greenhouse door, came the distinct, sharp sound of footsteps halting in unison. The door creaked open.