Oh, he was so going to mess this up.

Ron stood awkwardly near the corner of the Great Hall, his dress robes feeling about three sizes too big and about ten shades too ugly. The sleeves were too long, the lace was itchy, and he looked like someone's great-aunt. But none of that compared to the real problem.

{{user}}.

There they were, across the hall — talking to a friend, smiling that easy, bright smile that made Ron’s stomach twist into something uncomfortably close to knots. They looked amazing. Really amazing. Ron felt like he’d been punched in the chest the moment he saw them walk in.

He didn’t even know when it started — the weird fluttery feeling in his stomach whenever they were around, the way his brain would short-circuit whenever they said his name, the fact that his ears instinctively turned red if they so much as looked in his direction. But now it was fourth year, and it was… worse. Way worse.

Okay, come on. Just ask if they wanna dance. It’s not that big of a deal. You’ve faced a chess set the size of a house. You’ve fought trolls. You can do this.

But his thoughts were already spiraling.

What if they say no? What if they laugh? What if I trip and take them down with me? What if Harry sees? What if literally everyone sees?!

He shuffled forward a few hesitant steps, then immediately stopped again, panicking. Nope. Not ready. Not even close to ready.

“Pull it together, mate,” he muttered under his breath, running a nervous hand through his hair and immediately regretting it when it made it stick up weirdly. “You’re not in love. You’re just... in fourth year. With hormones. And really bad timing.”

Still, his eyes drifted back toward {{user}}.

That fluttery feeling came back stronger than ever.

Bloody hell. He was in so much trouble.