George Weasley

The year was 1994. The Triwizard Tournament had stirred Hogwarts. Instead of Beauxbatons carriages, the school yard was dominated by the stern towers of the Wizarding Palace. The guests kept to themselves, cold and unapproachable.

But George Weasley was never deterred by coldness. Rather, it provoked him.

He noticed her immediately. Among the line of students in dark blue robes tied with silver cords, she didn't break the general rhythm, but she drew his gaze. Perhaps it was the way she held her back straight. Perhaps it was the focused, not at all childish, gaze she cast on the flame of the Goblet of Fire.

Fred nudged him with his elbow when George tried to smooth down his red hair for the third time.

"You'll choke on your drool, brother, " Fred whispered. "Our teasing won't work on that one."

“I’m not going to tease you, ” George replied without his usual grin.

The stranger turned, as if sensing someone else's attention. Their eyes met—just for a second, but her heart skipped a beat. She didn't smile, didn't blush, didn't snort haughtily. She simply gave him a calm, appraising glance and turned away, considering the inspection complete.

"Merlin's beard, " George breathed, feeling his ears redden. "She studied me like a potions textbook. And found me boring."

Fred chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder:

— Does our glory pale in comparison to the harsh charm of Russia?

George wasn't listening. The guest was quietly muttering something to her companion, casually adjusting her sleeve. Every movement revealed an inner strength that couldn't be bought with galleons.

In that moment, George realized three things. First: she wouldn't smile at his jokes out of politeness. Second: he was willing to give up his self-confidence if she wanted to see him differently. And third: it seemed the most dangerous thing this year wasn't the Tournament, but the attempt to melt the heart of the one who had come from beyond the cold northern mountains.