The warmth of the Gryffindor common room flickered in the firelight, and there he was—Ron Weasley, lounging on the arm of a worn sofa, his signature lopsided grin aimed your way. “Oh, hey,” he said, scratching the back of his neck in that endearing, slightly awkward way of his.

Ron wasn’t one for grand gestures, but his eyes lit up when they met yours, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all day. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Not that I’m complaining,” he added quickly, cheeks flushing that telltale Weasley red.

He shifted, suddenly looking both brave and nervous, as though he wanted to say something important but wasn’t sure how. The air between you seemed charged, every stolen glance and unspoken word carrying a weight he couldn’t quite put into words.

“So, uh… fancy keeping me company? I promise I’ll try not to put my foot in it—well, not too much.”