Author's Note: My dad requested this story as part of a fifteen-minute writing challenge. He chose Crowley and Bridget Jones (from her first movie), and gave me a number. His number corresponded with "alternate universe," so I put them at Hogwarts ("Harry Potter") as kids, along with my girl Becky.

Bridget fidgeted in her seat, trying to smooth down the front of her black dress and patting at her updone hair worriedly.

"I don't think anyone's going to ask us to dance," her friend Becky said dejectedly.

Bridget looked at the full dance floor with narrowed eyes, then grabbed Becky's hand. "Then let's quit giving them the satisfaction. Come on!"

Becky yelped with laughter as she was dragged out of her seat, quickly falling into dance with her friend.

"Who needs these immature boys?" Bridget yelled over the music, jubilantly shaking her hips and throwing her arms over her head.

"Yeah!" Becky cried, tossing her hair. "Who needs 'em?!"

Sure, it would have been nice to have a partner, but Bridget and Becky were more than used to being ignored by the male half of the school. They just didn't appreciate them, they told themselves - and mostly believed it. They were smart, bold, funny and more than a little quirky and clumsy. In truth, the boys were probably terrified.

In a blink, Bridget felt a solid body bump into her back, knocking her into Becky and causing the girls to sprawl in a heap of blonde hair and crushed velvet onto the dance floor.

"Shit!" Bridget cried, trying desperately to ignore the flurry of giggles and hoots that surrounded them. Her cheeks flamed as she rolled off of Becky and they both tried to scramble up.

A small, dark-haired boy held a hand out to her, which she gratefully took. He was stronger than he looked, and he pulled them both up without a problem.

"Ignore that lot, they have no sense of fun," he informed her lowly, a smirk on his lips. She recognized him as the new transfer student, the Slytherin one. "I'm a big fan of female wrestling, myself."

Bridget giggled, instantly relaxing. She spared barely a glance to Becky, who had hobbled back to the table to fix her shoe. She was, after all, a thirteen-year-old girl who was actually being talked to by a mysterious bad boy.

"Are you, um, going to dance?" she asked hesitantly, shifting from foot to foot on her new shiny low heels.

The boy (Crowley, she thought his surname was), made a snorting sound of disdain. "Dance? I'm only here because it's hellishly boring in the empty dormitory." He looked back at the punch table. "Want to go with me for a drink? Might be able to turn it spiked." He grinned.

"I could use a drink," Bridget said breathlessly, giggling even more. "You can't turn it spiked. That's an advanced spell." She matched his step as they walked toward the table, wobbling just a tad. Anything above flats was a challenge for her.

"I know lots of advanced spells. Curses, transfigurations, you name it," the boy bragged, standing up as tall as he could. His tie was perfectly straight, Bridget noticed. He even had a well-folded handkerchief in his front pocket. Did his parents stop by to dress him for the ball?

"You're full of malarkey," Bridget grinned, picking up a plastic cup and holding it out for the floating ladle to fill.

The boy smiled back, a glint of mischief in his eye. "It's possible."