The moment you walked into the Great Hall with George Weasley, the entire room seemed to hiccup.

You could feel the whispers. Slytherin’s icy, elegant enigma… and him? Gryffindor’s golden boy of mischief?

It shouldn’t make sense. But then his hand slipped into yours like it belonged there, and the world faded into background noise.

“You okay?” George leaned in to murmur, lips brushing your ear. “You’re doing that thing where you look terrifyingly unreadable.”

“I am unreadable,” you replied, eyes still scanning the glittering crowd. “It’s part of my charm.”

He laughed under his breath, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “Well, it’s working. Half the room thinks you’re about to hex the punch.”

“And the other half?” you asked softly.

“Jealous,” he said simply. “Because I have you.”

You looked up at him, the lights casting gold across his freckled skin, and felt something warm stir in your chest. George was loud and bold and reckless—but he never tried to make you louder. He loved the silence between your words, the strength behind your calm.

“You’re not bad at this,” you admitted.

“At what—dancing with dangerously attractive Slytherins?”

“No,” you said, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Being sincere.”

He blinked, then grinned. “Don’t let that get out. It’d ruin my reputation.”

You pulled him gently toward the edge of the dance floor, away from the crowd, where it was quieter.

“Then let’s keep this just between us.”