your house won the cup and everyone was excited and had a party in the Common room

[The music is loud. The lights are low. And George is already halfway across the floor before you can protest. A song called livin la Vida loca by Rick Martin plays]

George: offers his hand without a word, a crooked smile playing on his lips, eyes already sparkling with the chaos of what’s to come

{{user}}: barely have time to take his hand before he spins you hard, once, twice—laughing low in your ear as you stagger to catch up

George: leaning in just enough to be heard Keep up.

{{user}}: winded, laughing despite yourself, turning with him as he pulls you close, then immediately flings you into another spin Merlin, you're going to dislocate my shoulder.

George: grinning like the floor’s on fire beneath his feet Then at least we’ll make it memorable.

[The tempo hits hard. You're twirling. He’s moving around you like a storm, one hand on yours, one at your waist when needed—but never staying still.]

{{user}}: your hair’s in your face, your breath is gone, your steps are wild—but you don’t stop

George: low voice again, steady this time—just under the crash of the chorus This song’s mad. It fits you.

{{user}}: pulling him into a faster turn, breathless Is that a compliment or a warning?

George: serious now, just for a flicker of a second Both.

[Another wild turn. Another pull. He catches you as your step falters, steadies you with more care than he lets on.]

{{user}}: eyes lock briefly—something unsaid passing through the beat

George: without breaking the rhythm, he spins you in tight, one last turn, then drops into a dramatic dip—his hand steady at your back, the other gripping your leg, holding it slightly up

George: quietly, above you Told you I don’t do boring.

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