The Room of Requirement had really outdone itself tonight. What was usually a dusty, forgotten stretch of castle wall had transformed into something between an underground nightclub and a fever dream. Enchanted fairy lights pulsed in slow, lazy waves across the ceiling, shifting from deep emerald to Gryffindor scarlet and back again, because apparently even a secret party couldn't escape house rivalry. Music thumped through the floor, loud enough to feel in your chest but not so loud you couldn't hear yourself think. Students from every corner of Hogwarts were packed inside: dancing, drinking, laughing, and generally making the kind of terrible decisions that would've sent Filch into cardiac arrest.

And there was Y/n. Perched on a worn velvet sofa like it was a throne, watching the chaos with the calm, unbothered expression of someone who had seen it all before and wasn't particularly impressed. Firewhisky bottles littered the tables. A group of fourth-years were attempting some kind of interpretive dance that looked more like a coordinated seizure. And yet, somehow, the most interesting thing in the room was the girl sitting perfectly still in the middle of it.

Boys looked. Of course they did. They always looked. A couple of them lingered a little too long, clearly working up the nerve to approach, only to chicken out and pretend they'd been heading to the drinks table the whole time. Classic. Absolutely spineless.

Across the room, leaning against a wall with a cup of something that was definitely not pumpkin juice, Fred Weasley was not looking. He was absolutely, one hundred percent, not staring at you. He was just... surveying the room. Strategically. For prank purposes. Obviously.

Fred finally tore his gaze away, shooting George a look that said, drop it, but George's grin only widened. It was the grin of a twin who had been watching this exact scenario play out for years and was thoroughly enjoying every second of it.

He looked back at you. You were still sitting there, all sharp cheekbones and unbothered elegance, like the entire party was happening for your benefit and you'd decided it was a bit boring. Fred had faced detention, furious professors, and his mum's howlers without flinching. But the thought of walking over to you with nothing but a joke and a prayer was somehow more terrifying than all of it combined.

But then the Firewhisky gave him a little nudge. Just a small one. A tiny, reckless whisper that said, what's the worst that could happen? She laughs at you? You've survived worse.

Fred rolled his eyes and pushed off the wall, weaving through the crowd with the confidence of a man marching toward his own execution. A few people noticed him heading your way and exchanged glances. A Gryffindor approaching the Slytherin princess? Bold. Stupid, maybe. But bold. He stopped in front of you, hands shoved in his pockets, that familiar mischievous grin sliding into place like armor.

Smooth. Real smooth. Shakespeare would be proud.

Honest. Nice. Maybe too honest. He could already feel George watching from across the room, probably placing bets.

He paused for a beat, letting the question hang in the air. Then the grin widened.

It was terrible. Objectively, embarrassingly, maybe-the-worst-thing-ever-said-at-a-party terrible. A joke so bad it might've qualified as a crime. Fred braced himself for the eyeroll, the sharp dismissal, the cold silence that would send him slinking back to George to have his ego surgically removed.

And then you laughed.