The words slipped out before Ron could stop them. He stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, his Potions textbook slipping from his grip and landing with a heavy thud on the stone floor.

It was sixth year. He was supposed to be over this sort of thing. He'd survived trolls, basilisks, Death Eaters, and a war that nearly tore the whole wizarding world apart. But somehow, in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday, he'd been completely and utterly blindsided.

The cause? A Slytherin girl he'd seen a hundred times before. But today, she'd turned her head, and the light from the dungeon windows had caught her eyes just so. And Ron Weasley, Gryffindor Keeper, war hero, and general disgrace to his own reputation, had forgotten how to breathe.

A group of first-years giggled as they passed. Ron shot them a half-hearted glare. Brilliant. Just brilliant. He was standing there like a stunned graphorn, and she was right there, probably thinking he'd lost his mind.

He straightened up, clutching the textbook to his chest like a shield. His brain was screaming at him to say something—anything—that didn't make him sound like a complete prat.

He took a step backward, tripped over the strap of his own bag, and nearly went sprawling into a suit of armor.