s t a i r s
...and then she fell, head over heels...in more ways than one...
She hated moving staircases.
They always moved just when she was about to get off them, making her perpetually late. And it only happened to her. No one else had to explain to McGonagall that it was the moving staircases' fault she was late to class. No one else had to explain to Wood that she couldn't make it to Quidditch practice because she had gotten bruised on the moving staircases. And most of all, no one had embarrassing encounters with the person they fancied. Which is exactly what happened.
She had been innocently climbing the stairs, on her way back from the kitchens, lost in thoughts about a certain Weasley twin, when, naturally, the staircases started moving. Now she had been prepared for this. After all, when this happens multiple times, every day, for who-knows-how-many years, you tend to find it a bit predictable. And so she had caught the railing, just in time. But she had forgotten just how oily her hands were, after eating all that bacon. And she had not expect the railing to be that slippery. She teetered backwards, arms windmilling wildly, eyes screwed tight against the inevitable pain.
And suddenly, she was steady. Her feet were dangling on a step, level with her head. And her head, neck, and back were being supported by something hard, yet warm and soft. And most importantly, there was something around her waist, something that was keeping her warm, something that was steadying her. Looking down, she realized that it was a pair of arms. Which led her to the conclusion that it was a someone who had caught her. Which led her to a very important question. Who?
Slowly, carefully, she tilted her head backwards, looking straight into the eyes of her rescuer. Only to see that she was in the arms of the guy she had been daydreaming about. George Weasley.
She loved moving staircases.