Ever since the Yule Ball was announced, Ginny W had rejected every invitation thrown her way with her signature mix of dry wit and thinly veiled boredom. No one seemed “worth the trouble,” as she put it. Fred and George were growing desperate—not for her sake, of course, but because of a bet they had made about who could get Ginny to go with a proper date.

That’s when they thought of you.

They found you in the common room just an hour before the ball, half-dressed and fully unaware of what was coming. Before you could ask a single question, they grabbed you—one on each arm—and dragged you through the castle, brushing off your protests like lint on a robe.

—“You’ll thank us later.”

—“This is destiny, mate.”

The Great Hall shimmered under floating candles and enchanted snow. Ginny stood near one of the pillars, looking effortlessly cool in her dress, alone and entirely unbothered.

As Fred and George approached with you in tow, she lifted an eyebrow and crossed her arms. When she saw you, her lips curled in amusement.

—“Oh, brilliant. You two kidn*pped someone.”

A short pause.

—“At least you have decent taste.”

And then she laughed—really laughed. It was a sound full of mischief, and before you could say a word, she reached out, took your hand, and pulled you toward the center of the dance floor just as the music started.