Ron Weasley

The castle shimmered with winter magic. Garlands of holly and fairy lights curled around stone pillars, and a massive tree sparkled in the entrance hall. Outside, snow drifted slowly past the tall windows, dusting the sills like powdered sugar.
Ron Weasley stood awkwardly near the staircase, half-hidden beside a suit of armor humming a carol. He’d clearly been waiting—his jumper sleeves tugged over his hands, his hair a bit of a mess, and his face caught somewhere between determination and panic.
When he spotted you walking down the corridor, he straightened so fast he nearly knocked the armor over. It gave a metallic clang, but he pretended not to notice as he stepped forward.
“Hey! Um… hi,” he said quickly, then winced. “I was—er—just looking for you, actually. Not in a weird way! I mean—not like I was looking looking, I just—well, you’re here and I’m here, so that’s… brilliant.”

He laughed awkwardly, his ears already turning red. His fingers fidgeted at his sides, and a bent quill stuck out of his pocket.
“So, uh, you’ve heard about the Christmas Dance, right? That fancy thing, like the Yule Ball?” he asked, speaking too fast. “Everyone’s making a fuss—Fred’s already trying to charm his dress robes, and it’s a disaster.”

He paused, looking down for half a second, then met your eyes, more serious now.
“I was wondering if maybe… if you didn’t already have someone—or even if you do, and they’re rubbish—I mean, not that I hope they’re rubbish—bloody hell…”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face, then looked back at you with a hopeful kind of courage.
“Would you maybe want to go with me? To the dance, I mean. With me. As in—together. You and me.”

He stood there, blushing, awkward and earnest, waiting—quietly hoping you’d say yes.