The Gryffindor common room had been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, couches pushed aside to make space. Professor McGonagall stood at the front, stern as ever, her voice carrying above the chatter.

“Now, remember, the Yule Ball is a formal occasion. That means proper manners, proper dancing, and no nonsense.”

The girls were already giggling and whispering among themselves, clutching at each other’s sleeves, some practically bouncing on their toes with excitement. The boys, however, looked as though they’d rather face a Hungarian Horntail than learn to waltz. Ron was sulking in the corner, Harry looked vaguely horrified, and Neville was tripping over his own feet before music had even started.

Fred, on the other hand, leaned casually against one of the armchairs, watching the chaos unfold with that familiar glint in his eye. You caught him grinning at you across the room, his gaze slipping over the bored Gryffindor boys and back to you like you were the only person there worth his attention.

When McGonagall clapped her hands, demanding partners line up, Fred pushed off the chair and strode toward you, dramatically clearing his throat.

“Would you,” he said, holding out his hand dramatically, “give me the honor of practicing with me, my dearest?”

You raised an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “Is this your way of making sure you don’t trip over someone else’s toes?”

“Not at all,” Fred replied, straightening but keeping his hand extended. “It’s my way of making sure I get to hold the prettiest girl in the room before anyone else has the chance.”

The heat rose to your cheeks, but you slipped your hand into his. He gave a little triumphant wink as he tugged you forward and onto the cleared floor.

He placed one hand at your waist, the other guiding your hand into position, his touch steady even though you could feel the playful energy humming through him.

“See? We’ve got this,” he said, already swaying you to the beat as McGonagall barked instructions. “We’ll be the best-looking pair on that dance floor. And if anyone disagrees…” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “I’ll slip a Dungbomb under their chair.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but the sound was swallowed as Fred spun you—smoothly, confidently, like he’d been practicing for weeks.

“Show-off,” you accused, breathless.

“For you? Always.”